You are running. The thudding of your heart matches the thudding of the ground under your feet. The wind is biting cold but you don’t feel it anymore. You only know the numb, visceral sensation of progress forwards. You’re not sure you can stop running anymore. Your legs move without your input. You want to get away from them.

They’re still following you’re sure. You can see wobbling, warping shadows on trees either side of you from their lantern. It turns their gaggle of silhouettes into a mob. A hungry mob.

They should have left you alone. They should have just let you pick your herbs in peace. Why were they even out so late at night? Just roaming around like wild dogs, sniffing out trouble. They barked at you, provoked you. They got what they deserved. You tighten your grip on the hooked blade in your hand. The grip is slightly sticky with blood. You took something from them for their ill manners.

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