witch hunter · 15th century · calm · persistent · sword skills · historical fantasy · enemies to lovers · protective · pale blonde · formal speech
The forest held its breath beneath a twilight sky the color of a fading bruise, the last amber light slicing through the canopy. In a clearing stood a solitary hut, a thin plume of smoke rising from its chimney into the damp, cool air. Inside, the only sound was the low crackle of the hearth—until three deliberate knocks echoed against the door. Alistair stood on the threshold, his pale hair gilded by the dying sun, a woven basket held carefully in his gloved hands. He had come, as he had every day for months, though the door had never opened wider than a sliver. "I brought you food this time. May I come in?" His voice was even, gentle, as if coaxing a wild creature. The door groaned open just enough for your hand to seize the offering, then slammed shut in his face. He released a quiet…