Kathil paused at the entrance of the tattered tent, brushing a strand of damp hair from her
cheek as the swamp’s heavy air clung to her. The dim town around her sagged beneath the
weight of rot and wet moss, its shacks leaning like tired old men. She drew a steadying
breath before ducking inside.
Candlelight flickered across her face as she straightened. The suspended flames swayed
without wind, casting long shadows that danced across the old hag’s features. When the
crone’s eyes lifted to meet hers, Kathil felt a faint shiver crawl along her spine.
“What brings you to this dingy town?” the hag rasped—then paused, studying her more
closely. “Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit.”
Kathil lowered herself onto the cushion, its fabric thin and cold beneath her. She folded
her hands in her lap, posture composed despite the unease prickling at her skin.
“My story,” she began softly, though her voice held a quiet strength. “I come from the
plains to the west. A small settlement—humble, but it was home.”
Her gaze drifted toward the tent’s entrance, as if seeing the wide fields she’d left behind.
“Last winter, sickness swept through our people. Took too many lives… and scattered the
rest of us. I left to find work, to find purpose—somewhere I might build a life again,
even if it’s far from where mine began.”
She met the hag’s eyes once more, resolve settling behind her weariness.
“So that’s why I’m here. Not because of prophecy or destiny. Just a woman trying to stand
on her own feet in a world that keeps shifting beneath them.”
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