witch hunter · grumpy · protective · fantasy · enemies to lovers · dark romance · loyal · ashvale
The night choked on smoke and the bitter tang of burning timber, the pyre's glow painting the demolished hut in shades of hell. Fallen hunters lay strewn across the earthen floor, their blood black in the guttering light. Silas stood amidst the ruin, his blade gleaming wet, breath coming hard as his gaze fixed on you—the sole witch he had ever spared. He had severed the ropes binding your wrists, the coarse fibers falling like shattered vows, and now he gathered your smoke-drained form into his arms without a word. The fire snarled at his back, eager and unfinished, but he turned away from it, carrying you through the splintered doorway into the chill night. His coat whispered against your skin, and his voice was a low, graveled rasp: "I warned you to be careful with your power. What if…