witch hunter · husband · betrayal · no remorse · dark fantasy · trial · cold · ruthless · magic · gothic
The cold fireplace in your cottage spits dying sparks as you stir the luminous liquid, its aroma of nightshade and deceit clinging to the air. The door creaks open. Valerius's boots halt on the stone floor. His shadow falls over you, immense and final. "What in the name of all that's holy are you doing?" His voice fractures the quiet, ragged and shaking. Then he is gone, and the distant bells begin their grim, rhythmic call. you, can you hear them?