The village of Eltmere was quiet beneath a sky bruised with thunderclouds, the last light of dusk bleeding out over the hills like spilled wine. Smoke still hung in the air from the pyres they'd burned the night before—two women, both young, both innocent, their bodies offered to flame because a root soured or a cow birthed wrong. Superstition burned hotter than truth out here.
But she had drawn the line tonight.
Isolde crouched in the tree line, black cloak drawn tight around her like shadows made cloth. Her hair, dark as ravens' wings, was twisted into a braid to keep it from catching branches. Green eyes, sharp and unblinking, watched the torches moving between the houses—four men in armor, another in darker leather with a black clock covering his left side only. He moved differently. Like a wolf among hounds.
That one.
The Witch-Hunter.
Isolde's pulse thrummed low in her throat. She whispered a word into her palm, and the magic bloomed faintly—cool and violet, a shimmer that pulsed once before sinking into her skin. She wouldn't be heard now, not unless she wanted to be.
Her boots touched the grass without a sound as she moved down the slope, skirting the path. They were heading toward the glen—where the old stones stood. That place still hummed with power, even if the villagers pretended not to feel it anymore. If they defiled it tonight, she'd make them remember.
---
"Spread out, secure the perimeter. Ensure no one gets close." the Witch-Hunter ordered, his voice sharp and clean. He was tall, lean but coiled with strength, his long half coat whispering with every stride. Not chainmail—too loud. Hardened leather, tailored and worn from blood and fire. His hair was black, his eyes—when she saw them clearly—gray like the edge of a storm.
Handsome in the way of something dangerous. A dagger gleaming in moonlight.
He stopped by the largest standing stone, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "She's close."
One of the villagers—boyish, red-faced—shuffled nervously. "You sure, sir?"
"She's been circling us for an hour. Let her think we're careless."
Arrogant bastard. Isolde smiled to herself. Let's see how careless you are.
She raised her fingers and whispered again.
The wind stirred, then rose into a sudden shriek—whipping through the clearing, extinguishing torches in a blink. Panic erupted. Shouts, the clatter of steel, men stumbling in darkness. Only he stayed still, head tilted, eyes narrowing like a wolf scenting blood.
Isolde moved fast, leapt from the edge of the wood with a knife in one hand, magic in the other. The first man she reached never saw her coming—he crumpled to the ground, limp, sleeping spell curling around him like fog.
The next swung a blade. She ducked, rolled, and drove her knife through his thigh. He screamed. She hissed an incantation under her breath, and the wound sealed itself over—no blood. No death. Just pain.
"I'm not here for you," she growled.
And then—steel rang against steel.
He was on her.
Their blades clashed in a shower of sparks, his strength meeting her speed. She twisted away, aiming for his side. He blocked. She spun, swept a leg at his feet—he stepped over it, grabbed her wrist. She snarled and hit him with a burst of magic, a raw pulse that crackled like lightning. He staggered back, smoking, eyes wide—but alive.
"You're stronger than they said," he muttered.
"You're slower than I expected."
He smiled.
And lunged.
She parried, but he was brutal now—driving her back with calculated force. She lost ground, her heel catching on a root. He knocked the knife from her hand, then slammed her against one of the standing stones, forearm pressing into her chest.
The runes behind her flared—reacting to her magic, her rage. He felt it, she knew he did. His eyes flicked to them, then back to her.
"You're a real witch, then."
"Want me to curse you and prove it?"
He didn't flinch.
"You won't," he said, voice low. "You've had a dozen chances. You didn't kill those men. You could've turned me to ash and didn't."
Her teeth clenched. His breath was hot on her face. She hated how close he was, how steady his grip felt—how easily he held her like she weighed nothing.
"You're not what I expected either," she muttered.
"And what did you expect?"
"A butcher. Another god-drunk fool with a torch."
"I'm not here for burning," he said.
He leaned in, and for a moment—just a flicker—she thought he might kiss her.
Instead, the world went black.
He'd whispered something. A hunter's trick, or maybe something older. The silence spell cracked like ice, and her head swam. Her knees buckled. The last thing she saw was his face, sharp with something that wasn't cruelty, but wasn't kindness either.
Then nothing.
---
She woke in a cell.
Stone walls, damp with moss. Iron bars. A low fire burned in a pit nearby, casting everything in flickering amber light. Her head ached, and her magic—gods, her magic was muffled. Not gone, but coiled tight under her skin, like a beast caged.
A charm. Around her neck. Cold iron.
She yanked at it. It burned.
"Don't," came a voice.
He stood at the far side of the room, leaning against a post, arms folded. Not smiling, not gloating—just watching her.
"You'll only blister your skin."
She sat slowly, wincing.
"You're a coward," she muttered. "Collars? Really?"
"I'm practical."
"And if I screamed?"
"No one would come. We're not in the village anymore."
He walked toward her. She pressed back against the stone, trying not to flinch. He crouched in front of the bars, eyes searching her face.
"You're different from the others. You didn't run. You didn't beg."
"Neither did the ones you burned."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't burn them. I wasn't here."
She blinked. "But you're the Witch-Hunter."
"I am a Witch-Hunter, one of my kind. While I was away another must've filled my place." He scoffed. "One of the least things on my list is the sight of a burning witch."
"Then what do you want?"
He was quiet a long time. Then: "I want the truth. About what really you are. About what this world really is."
She stared at him.
"You don't kill witches," she said slowly. "You study them."
"Some deserve death. Some don't. I'd get a bountiful reward If I kill you and present you to the duke, but…"
"But?"
"I want to know why the stones glow when you touch them. Why the ground still breathes with magic centuries after the old gods died."
Isolde swallowed. Her mouth was dry. "And if I don't tell you?"
He tilted his head.
"Then I'll keep you here. I'll learn what I can another way."
"And if I lie?"
"I'll know."
She leaned forward. The firelight caught her face—sharp cheekbones, soft mouth, a bruise blooming at her jaw from their fight.
"You think you can unravel me from the outside," she whispered. "You can't. You have to touch the magic. Let it in. You'll never understand me from the other side of the bars."
His breath caught just slightly.
"Then take it off," she said, eyes gleaming. "The collar. I'll show you what I am."
He didn't move.
"Do you think I'd kill you?" she asked.
"I think you could."
They stared at each other.
A storm was coming. She could feel it in her bones. Not in the sky—but in this room. In the space between them. A pressure. A heat.
"I won't beg," she said finally.
"I don't want you to."
He turned, walked away.
But she saw it—the way his fingers lingered on the iron key at his belt. The way he looked back once, just before stepping into the shadows.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
Desire, maybe.
And that was something she could use.
—
Isolde waited until his footsteps faded. Then she exhaled, slow and measured, and let her head tip back against the wall.
The iron burned around her neck—just enough to remind her of what he could do, and what she couldn't. For now.
But she hadn't lied. Her magic was still there, buried under the weight of the collar. Breathing. Watching. Waiting.
She didn't sleep that night. She listened. To the creak of the building, the wind threading through broken shutters, the distant whisper of owls. And to his footsteps—measured, patient, never hurried. He didn't pace. He moved like a man who made decisions only once, and lived with the consequences.
At dawn, he returned.
This time, he carried a bowl—metal, not clay. Inside: dark bread, and a bit of hard cheese. Nothing else.
"You're not feeding me enough to keep me alive," she said.
"I'm feeding you enough to keep you talking."
She arched an eyebrow. "Then ask something."
He crouched again, this time closer, hands resting casually on his knees. He studied her like a riddle—one he half-respected and half-wanted to destroy.
"Why didn't you run?" he asked.
"Why didn't you kill me?"
"Because you interest me."
"Same."
That brought a faint smirk to his lips. A shadow of amusement, quickly gone.
"You don't act like the others," he said. "The ones who beg, lie, spit prayers. You're not afraid of me."
"I know men like you."
"Men like me?"
"Witch-Hunters with guilt in their blood."
He blinked. "You think I feel guilty?"
"No," she said, watching him carefully. "I think you want to."
"Tell me all the secrets you witches know, what you use the livestock you steal for and why magic hasn't faded from this world yet." He asked, his eyes portraying sincerity.
She laughed, "Not so easy, you'd have to work hard for something as valuable as that, you know."
He sighed, closing his eyes.
Days passed. He fed her twice a day, never said much. Never got too close. Not again. He wanted to break her spirit.
He simply watched her.
And she knew it.
Isolde sat cross-legged on the stone floor, the iron collar returned, now secured to a long chain bolted to the far wall. She'd stopped pulling at it. Now she wore it like an accessory—part of her body, part of the game.
"I dreamed of you last night," she said one morning, breaking the silence.
He didn't look up from the small wooden table where he cleaned his knives.
"Dreams can be dangerous things," he said.
"They can be revealing."
A beat. Then: "What did you dream?"
Her smile was slow. "You were kneeling."
He glanced up. Just briefly. That was enough.
"And were you merciful?" he asked.
"I was kind," she said. "In my way."
He didn't respond, but his hand moved slower as he polished the blade.
She leaned back against the wall, stretching, letting the light catch the line of her neck, the slope of her collarbone. "You liked it. In the dream."
"I don't believe in dreams."
"But you believe in me." She tilted her head. "That's why you haven't brought me to the duke."
Silence.
She watched him closely, her voice softer now. "You don't want me broken. You want me… honest. You want to know what it looks like when I unravel myself. Not because you forced me, but because I wanted to."
He looked at her, eyes narrowed.
"I want answers," he said. "That's all."
"Lie better," she whispered.
---
That night, she sat by the bars, watching him sleep across the room. His bedroll was thin, laid out on wood beside the fire. He never removed his boots. Never let himself get comfortable.
She whispered a spell through her teeth—just enough to flicker the fire. Not dangerous. Just… noticeable.
He stirred.
She smiled.
Next night, she said nothing.
He broke first.
"You're quiet tonight."
She looked at him through the bars. "Thinking."
"About?"
"You," she said plainly.
He swallowed.
She stood, walked as far as the chain would allow, and curled her fingers around the bars. "I could love you," she said softly.
He stood abruptly. "Don't."
"You want to hear it."
"I don't."
She pressed her cheek to the bars, eyes half-lidded. "I'd lie to you beautifully."
He stepped forward. She felt the tension coil in him like a drawn bow.
"You're trying to get into my head."
"I'm already there."
She reached through the bars. Her fingers brushed his wrist. He didn't move. Didn't pull away.
"You think I don't see it?" she whispered. "You think I haven't noticed the way your hands shake when you bring the key near me?"
"I don't—"
"Your breathing changes. You can't look at my lips without imagining it wrapped around your's."
He closed his eyes.
"And you hate that I know," she added. "Because I'm the one chained. And you're the one who's not free."
He yanked his wrist from her hand and walked away rapidly.
---
The next day, he brought her outside.
Just for an hour. Just to breathe the air. The collar stayed on, but the chain was removed—only shackles now, her wrists cuffed loosely in front of her.
They didn't speak.
She knelt in the grass, eyes closed, face turned to the sun.
He watched her.
Later, as he locked her up again, she said quietly, "You trust me more than you should."
"No," he said. "I don't trust you at all."
But his hands lingered. His fingers brushed her skin a second too long.
She caught them in hers.
He froze.
"You could kiss me," she said.
"No."
"Why not?"
He looked away.
—
That night, she did nothing. Said nothing.
She sat on the cot, legs tucked beneath her, dark brown hair down, skin pale in the firelight. The collar around her throat gleamed like jewelry.
He tried not to look.
She smiled anyway.
"You want me docile," she said, voice calm, "but I don't do docile. You could beat it into me, but you won't. You could leave me here to rot, but you haven't."
She stood and walked to the bars.
"You want me changed," she said, resting her palms flat against the iron. "But this is who I am."
He stared at her, hands clenched at his sides.
"Open it," she whispered. "Just once."
"No."
"Coward."
He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed her by the collar. Not hurting—just holding. Their faces inches apart.
"You want me to break," he said, voice shaking. "You think seduction's a weapon."
"It is," she whispered. "And I'm better with it than you are with your sword."
They stared at each other, breath mingling.
He let go.
Left the room.
But he didn't sleep.
---
Two nights later.
She waited until the storm. Until the thunder rolled low across the hills, and the wind howled through the cracks in the wooden walls.
He came to her door, soaking wet, breathing hard with bruises all over, he had just battled a Fiend.
He said nothing.
The collar came off.
She stood, bare feet silent on the stone, and stepped into his arms.
They kissed—desperate, angry, months of tension snapping like twine pulled too tight.
Her hands were on his belt.
His were in her hair.
They didn't speak.
She led him to the cot.
He followed.
The night was long. Sweat. Skin. Power. Pleasure edged with violence, with trust, with loss of control.
And in the morning—
She was gone.
The door hung open.
The chain was empty.
The collar lay on his bedroll, warm from her skin.
And on the wall, scorched into the wood in black, curling script:
You wanted the truth. Now you'll have to chase it.