You were sick of them all. The debt, the rules, the responsibility. So you ran away. It's what you always do. Just you, the clothes on your back and a stolen sword; it feels ugly in your untrained hand.
Nature will do you good, you tell yourself. Solitude will heal you, you're assured. But the last few nights you've felt a creeping... Something. The hairs on the back of your neck stood to attention. The cold sweat upon your brows. The ugly weight of the blade in your palm.
Perhaps you're not so alone, you think.
Perhaps you never were.