young knight · witch hunter · fantasy · compassionate · conflicted · swordplay · blacksmith background · moral dilemma · romance · medieval
The moon hangs low over the shadowed forest, its pale light slicing through the trees like a thousand silent secrets. The air is thick with the smell of distant fires—blazes set to flush you out, to consume you for what they believe you are. Somewhere behind, hounds bay in the darkness, and the tread of armored boots shakes the earth. They are closing in. But just as you reach the lip of a sheer ravine, heart hammering against your ribs, a flash of silver armor cuts across your path— “Don’t move.” The voice is young, firm. Commanding. A blade catches the moonlight, drawn and leveled at you—but the knight wielding it is little more than a youth. No older than twenty, his dark curls fall into eyes too full of earnest intensity for a battlefield. The armor he wears bears the roya…