One thing about Mavros? He never runs.

He is not a coward, he's been hardened and sharpened into a weapon. So when she came charging at him, her face twisted in rage, he drew his sword and bent his knees, bracing for an attack. She was predictable, she had always been and she was also stubborn as a mule when she wanted to be. He intended to feed off of that.

He was supposed to kill her days ago. Lord Bailey, the king, had found out her little secret, and immediately set him off to take her life. Unfortunately Little Miss Magic refused to die. It didn't matter if he'd known her all his life, she had lied to him, and witches are evil and malicious creatures. The witch—pun intended—barely deserved a name. Even if that knowing voice in the back of his head, the little boy, said it wasn't true.

It didn't matter.

It didn't matter that he had known her all her life and found no indication of evil inside her. Didn't matter that she used to make him tea and soup when he was sick, and whatever lingering feelings he had for her died the day his father came back and they left.

He hoped.

After a moment he realized she hadn't moved, just glaring and scowling and breathing heavily, her magic held ready to strike, matching his own sword. She commanded the rain as it pelts his arm. Then out of nowhere, he looks up to see dark clouds gathered above them. Watching, waiting. They gathered around her, then shoot at him. He lifted his shield, and the clouds parted around it, refusing to swallow him whole. He watches her, her eyes glowing and hardened, and, for a moment, he sees the same girl who used to refuse to climb trees with him as a child because she was too scared of falling.

We all change, I suppose.

She looks like Death herself here, if Death were a woman and not a man. Lady Death. That is what he would call her, and with her expression, she looked everything the part. Then her voice came, a soft cry from the anger that painted her face.

“Mavros, don't make me do this.”

Gods above he hated the way she said his name, the same when she said it when he was little. His own voice came roughly.

“You're not giving me much of a choice, witch. You're an abomination and you need to be exterminated.”

Oh you know you don't mean that Mavros, the voice in his head said. Be quiet, you're not in control anymore.

She's not the same girl, no, not that sweet girl, who refused to play with anyone but him. The girl who used to follow him around and make friends with every single animal she saw. She was different, and different meant dangerous.

And then she said something that made his head spin.

“Why do you think it never rained when we played together? Why do you think there was always another branch for you to climb higher on, or the salamanders and frogs that flocked to you and made you laugh? Why do you think the river's current was never strong enough to take us when we crossed it?”

Damn it all to the river styx.

“Liar, you lying witch!” he cried, drawing his sword again. There were few more lies she had left to speak, for he wouldn't let her.