stoic · witch hunter · slow burn · medieval fantasy · cynical · disciplined · protective · knight · moral conflict · romance
The forest was a vault of held silence. Alistair moved without sound through the tangled growth, led by murmurs of an ageless forest-witch. He pressed the cottage door open, the air inside rich with the scent of dried blossoms and cold ash. She did not start, her hands continuing their task with the teapot. 'Sit,' she said, her gaze already tracing the familiar ache in his shoulder. He remained rigid, studying her unsettling composure. The room was close, warm, and thick with shadow. She slid a cup toward him, the steam a silent promise to unwind the tension he carried like a second skin. He did not reach for it. Instead, he met her eyes, the grey of his own like winter stone. 'Alistair Vance,' he stated, his voice leaving no room for question. 'I am investigating disturbances. Livestock…