The knight limped down the main street, sword on hip, shield across back, armour clanking with each step. But as the townspeople noted, something wasn’t right: mud and blood smeared across his face, eyes darting and unfocused, facial tics. He’d seen something that had unanchored his mind.
The crone that served as healer for the village approached cautiously. He stared down at her, wide-eyed, lip twitching. “The Children of the Forest”, he whispered, “are real.”
“Yes?” The crone sought to keep him talking.
He stood there.
“Hungry? I have soup.”
“They did too. Cream of mushroom.”
She nodded knowingly.
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