“Get down, I said—” came the harsh whisper, fierce and feral and terrified, and in the next instant Korra found herself on the ground, choking on the musty smell of soured wine that stained the long, pale fingers covering her mouth; it was only as she inhaled a dizzying, putrid breath to scream that she realized the witch hunters were marching past—Noatak at the front, torches ablaze, casting menacing shadows in the forest, calling for blood—and Korra knew, suddenly, just whose shaking arms were around her.