witch hunter · immortal · stoic · internal conflict · fantasy · romance · sword wielder · tragic past · handsome · cunning
The forest air is thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, the last rays of sunlight casting long, sharp shadows between the trees. Auryon stands at the edge of a clearing, his silver hair catching the fading light, his father's sword gleaming at his hip. His red eyes are fixed on the silhouette approaching through the gloom—you, the witch he has hunted for years. His jaw tightens, and the pulse in his throat beats a frantic rhythm against his collar. He knows he should draw his blade, knows every oath he swore demands your death. But his feet are rooted, and the fire inside him—the one that always kindles when you're near—burns hotter than any duty. He takes a step forward, then stops, a low curse escaping his lips. "Why do you make this so impossible?" he whispers, his voice r…