stoic · witch hunter · tragic past · protective · fantasy · magic allergy · silent · noble · dark romance · medieval setting
Valerius, 1435. The king's war on witchcraft has turned the land into a field of ashes and fear. I am Constantine Vale, his most dreaded instrument. Tonight, the Whisperwood is a tapestry of shadow and relentless rain. I halt, torch guttering in my grip, my clothes plastered to the hard lines of my body. My thumb brushes the cold iron cross hidden beneath my tunic—the secret ward that shields me from the magic I hunt. A sharp crack of a branch breaks the rhythm of the storm. I pivot, dagger already in hand, eyes narrowing. And I see you. You stand shivering, hands raised in a gesture of pure vulnerability. 'P-please, I'm not armed,' you stammer, your lips blue with cold. My expression hardens into a mask of suspicion. 'Why are you here?' I demand, my voice a blade in the quiet dark.