The enchanted weight that normally bore down on Rachel felt almost comfortable now. It was no less heavy - if anything, exhaustion made the weight only more noticeable. But now, instead feeling unwieldy and oppressive, like a giant stone slab, it felt like a form fitting suit of armor.

It felt like a mark of pride.

Even the stinging bruises and scrapes all over her body felt like badges. It occurred to her now that this was the first time people had ever applauded her - that beating that split lipped boy was the first time she had ever felt like a hero.

But as she made her way down the side of the hill, people did not react to her the way she had hoped. While to her the blood and dirt splashed all over her shirt was a badge of honor, to those she passed it was - well, it was blood and dirt and possibly pig shit. The pig pen they had used as a wrestling ring was not as clean as it could have been.

And so, quite understandably, everyone she passed gave her the uncomfortable smiles and quick waves. The only one to not even attempt eye contact was a mother ushering her child away, telling him to “look away sweetheart.”

Rachel considered explaining that she was not some crazy person, and that she had, infact, just finished beating the crap out of a young man, but she figured that would not help her case.

Not that she minded.

Being cheered on as a hero or being avoided like a plague of rats - both were fine by her. Either way, it was far better than the norm. Back on the farm everyone regarded her as they would a tree, something by the side of the road they would pass each day, indistinguishable from the dozens if not hundreds of other trees they would pass.

The only difference between her and a tree was that she would walk around sometimes. Maybe one day she was on the left side of the road as you passed, maybe the right. Maybe she was in the middle of the road some days.

And the only difference between her and a walking tree was that the walking tree would actually get some attention.

A casual “By lord, it’s a walking tree,” at the very least.

Eventually Rachel found a few townsfolk willing to give her directions, albeit at a safe distance. She mentioned she was looking for John, and they seemed to immediately forget about her bloodstained clothes and the smell of pig shit. Now their nervous looks were directed at the forest. They told Rachel that’s where she could find John, in a cabin surrounded by trees and sitting next to a small lake. That was as specific as they could be, as no one had actually visited him there.

But they were much clearer on their feelings about the forest. “Don’t go beyond the outer trees,” they warned her. “The forest is not safe….” She could tell they wanted to add an “especially not for a young girl such as yourself.” She got that a lot, so she knew when it was coming. But then they regarded her bloodstained clothes and bruised knuckles, and they thought better of it.

“The forest is not safe,” they repeated. “Even for you.”

How odd, thought Rachel, as the group of townsfolk went their separate way. Everyone she had met was perfectly fine with something as unusual and threatening as a vampire living just up the hill, but they were somehow terrified of something as common as a forest?

It couldn’t be that dangerous, could it?

After all, the nameless old man who had been so kind to her had directed her to find John. He couldn’t possibly be sending her somewhere dangerous, could he? Not without a proper warning.

Then again, thinking about the facts objectively, he was a mysterious old man who invited a total stranger into his home, refused to share his name, and stabbed himself with a kitchen knife. Maybe she should be a little more wary.

But Rachel decided she was thinking too much. She trudged into the forest, moving in the general direction the townsfolk had pointed. She realized that, having never visited or even seen John’s cabin, they had no way of actually knowing which direction it was. But their clueless guess was as good as any lead she had, so on she went, as the forest grew deeper and darker.

After wandering through the woods for a solid hour, she started to notice a sound. Yes, the forest was full of sounds, blending together unintelligibly. But that was just it - this sound was not random like the other, but evenly paced - a crunching sound that stopped soon after she started listening.

Something was following her.

Sure, it could have been one of the harmless kinds of animals, but those tended to run away when confronted by an unknown human. Whatever was following her, it liked its chances against the blood covered girl with the crazed look in her eyes.

Rachel retrieved a large stick and held it out like a sword, hoping to look a little more intimidating.

Or at the very least, crazy.

“Come on out,” she said, banging her stick-sword against a tree. For a while there was no response, the thicket before her relatively still. Then the foliage started to rustle, and a shadow approached. Rachel could make out bits of red poking out from between the leaves. She readied her makeshift weapon, pretending like she still had the energy to fight.

For she certainly did not have the energy to run.

At first she could make out a pair of eyes, cold and dark like luxury chocolates, staring out of her. For a moment she imagined a giant beast, but then she noticed that the eyes were way too low to the ground for that. Was the beast crouching down, ready to lunge out at her?

No, that wasn’t right.

As the eyes came closer, she realized they belonged to a little girl with tidy black hair, long and tied back, dangling over her left shoulder. She wore a red dress embroidered with a flower pattern. The flowers blurred as she somersaulted into the clearing, landing a few feet in front of Rachel. She could be no older than ten, but her eyes felt so out of place - so cold and menacing, hardley a match for her dumbfounded expression.

“Uh, hello there,” said Rachel. She should have lowered her stick, considering her stalker was just a child. But she could not help but feel threatened.

Those eyes were so unnerving.

“Hey, what do you think you're doing, aiming a weapon at a kid?” A man emerged from the woods. He was a giant, every inch of his long frame packed with muscle. It suddenly occurred to Rachel - this man must have been following her through the woods as well, but she only heard one set of footprints- those of the little girl. He must have tracked her without making a sound.

But how? He was huge. He would snap even the thickest of sticks under his shoes, break just about any branch he ran into. At the very least, he must have rustled a few leaves.

“I asked you a question,” he said, raising a crossbow at Rachel. This got her out of her head just long enough to answer.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But is it alright if I raise my weapon at the large man aiming a crossbow at my head?”

“It is,” he said gruffly. “Though I should inform you of two things. First, that stick will not do you much good….”

“It will if you miss,” she said.

“Well sure, he conceded. “But I never miss. And two, I’m not aiming for your head. I’m aiming for your shoulder. It won’t kill you, but it will hurt.”

“I’m sure.”

“Hurt a lot.”

“I believe you,” she said, lowering the stick to the ground, slowly so as to not give him the wrong impression. While being unarmed was not ideal, most weapons were a liability - just threatening enough to provoke someone, but not threatening enough to stop them.

The man clearly did not feel threatened by the stick - hell, she doubted if he’d find her intimidating riding atop a fire breathing bear. But she could tell he was worried for the little girl in the red dress. He hid his worry well, but she could just tell.

“Alright, I’ve lost the stick,” she said.

She noticed the crossbow bolt shift slightly, so that the tip was aimed just above her shoulder.

“Very good,” he said. “Now tell me, what do you want?”

“Are you John?” she asked.

“Who wants to know?” he said, now aiming the crossbow at her heart.

“I came to be trained,” she said. “I brought a letter. May I take it out?” John nodded.

Rachel reached into her pocket and pulled out the letter she had been given. She was about to unfold it when she heard the clank of the crossbow and felt the parchment pulled from her grip. The letter landed on the tree behind her, pierced by the bolt.

The little girl ran up and retrieved the note from the tree, then went and delivered it to John. He carefuly infolded the note and read it, his eyebrows closing in on each other as they did. He glanced at Rachel, then down at the note, then back at Rachel.

He crumpled up the note and sighed, slinging the crossbow over his back.

“Well,” he said, walking past Rachel, the little girl close behind him. “I guess it’s time to get to training.”