You wake up to the sound of knocking and leap out of bed onto the floor face-first.

You're startled, and your vision barely keeps up with you as you look up and shout "Oy! Who goes there?" Not waiting for an answer, you scramble to your feet and look out the window.

No one to the left, no one to the right, and no one at your front door. It isn't even fully light out. You stand in your night clothes, fighting off the urge to reach for Falchion. This isn't a big deal, you convince yourself, because you're used to convincing yourself. You shouldn't worry. You shouldn't worry. You shouldn't worry. You shouldn't-

Glass breaks from the other side of the cabin and you scream, but it turns into a growl of rage. You pull Falchion out of its sheath and run towards the door in the main room. You see shards of glass hit your furnace and lie on your chair from the nearest window. You run towards it, daring someone to get inside, sword drawn defensively.

Then you hear a thud as something hits your furnace from outside, jolting it and releasing its grip from the wall.

"What are you doing?" you yell, as if this mysterious creature will hear you. You run out the door, Falchion in hand, wearing nothing more than your nightclothes- not even a pair of shoes. You dash to the other side of the cabin to see what in the seven hells that pounding noise is.

A bandit climbs at your broken window, legs swinging from the high grapple, kicking at your wall to climb in, sword in a holster on their side. They see you and drop, facing you with a sheath over their mouth and eyes full of hate. They have their hand on their sword, not taking their eyes off Falchion. They're just a simple bandit, but something about them is more fearful than usual- as if you know you're facing someone who will inflict damage.

"St-st-stay back," you insist, but you're stuttering from lack of practice in striking fear into the hearts of your enemies. If only Owain were here… "I would hope to do no harm, but I can promise nothing."

They look at you, and drive their sword into Falchion.

You almost drop it from the shock, but manage to keep a grip. You try and outspeed the bandit, but wherever you swing, they beat you to it. They throw their sword into yours as if the goal is to disarm you. It isn't working, but you fear with enough effort it will, as your blade feels far heavier than it should. All you want to do is be rid of this dastard. You aren't sure whether to kill them or scare him, and the uncertainty is making the decisions for you.

The bandit lands a cut on your forearm.

You shout in pain from the sting, and see the laughing eyes of the bandit ahead of you. Your arm now feels heavier, weaker, and holding up Falchion is an arduous task. You stare them down, angry that a simple bandit could best you.

The bandit smirks. "Easy prey."

You narrow your eyes and scream as you drive Falchion through their ribs.

You sit outside of the house, stunned as the bandit stumbles away, a blood trail behind them that dissipates into the grass. Easy prey echoes and repeats through your head. How dare they. As if I've given too little an effort to the world to be any less than one of its best warriors. Such a brag is what you would like to believe that you think, but you can't help but think that the bandit knows you not, knows not of your adventures and deeds (Gods, they didn't even recognize you with Falchion) and can only see you as easy prey.

And gods, your arm hurts like the damned. You nurse it with your other, a hole cut through your flimsy night tunic exposing your wind to the cold. You close your eyes to keep from crying, and try to stand up, but you don't feel like doing anything. You could fall asleep right here-

"Fire!"

You hear the voice before you see who it's from. Powerful, booming, beyond human. You look around desperately, and see a plume of smoke behind you.

Damn me to hell.

You run inside the front door and into the main room. The furnace is toppled over, facing directly into the wooden floor. The entirety of the floor is on fire, and it's teasing at the chair and couch.

Your rage is more potent than your terror.

You scream from fury again and run in a panic towards something, anything. The heat from the fire is overwhelming, and it's too close to your skin to want to do anything but run from it, but you run into your washroom without feeling any pain. Yesterday's bathwater is still in the tub, and without thinking, you slowly pull it into the main room with all the adrenaline you can muster and spill it out.

At once, the smoke becomes so strong you swiftly lose consciousness, and all you can think is not now, not now, not after everything.