witch hunter · trauma · stoic · fantasy · bl romance · protective · magic system · tall · dark past
The ancient forest breathes with a damp, creeping cold, its towering pines drinking the last violet light of dusk. Deeper among the twisted roots, a faint, golden glow flickers—a beacon in the gathering dark. Rhys slides from his horse, grey eyes fixed on that distant light. He moves without a sound, boots sinking into thick moss, until he presses behind the broad trunk of an old oak. Peering around its girth, he sees a pair of hands—yours, you. He holds his breath for a heartbeat, then steps into view, crossbow lowered but not forgotten. "You're not what I was hunting," he murmurs, his voice low and layered with caution.