Far west, in the small village of Gallico, a cloaked man moved through the lively crowd, his face shadowed beneath his hood. The tavern buzzed with voices, laughter, and music, but he avoided the noise, heading straight for the notice board plastered with wanted posters.
One caught his eye — a pale woman, more corpse than human, dressed in a black rose-like gown and holding a skeletal umbrella.
Wanted: Madam Gordness of the Gothic
Crime: Murder of five children near the Gatrin region
Suspected: Witch
Reward: 9,000 bards alive, 2,000 bards dead
Last Seen: Woods near Gallico
He tore the poster down and slipped away, unnoticed by the crowd.
Outside, children played, kicking a small ball. When it rolled toward him, he glanced down, expressionless.
"Hey, mister, can you kick it back?" a child called.
Without a word, he nudged the ball gently back. The kids smiled and resumed their game.
The man approached his black mare, patting her neck softly.
"Good news, Dash. We have a mark."
The horse neighed excitedly as he swung into the saddle, eyes fixed on the distant woods.
Five minutes later, he stopped at the forest's edge. The air here was thick with a chilling aura that prickled his skin.
He dismounted, tethering Dash to graze, and stepped beneath the dark canopy.
"Madam Gordness," he called quietly, voice steady but firm. "Surrender to the Crown or face death in the name of the Heavenly Father and Mother."
Silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of the wind — until a raspy, mocking laugh echoed around him.
"Oh, an inquisitor from Yorn. Aren't you far from home?"
"The law knows no borders, witch."
She stepped from the shadows, the gloom clinging to her like a cloak.
"You eat to survive, just as I do. Yet you judge me for it. Hypocrites all."
"We are nothing alike," he replied, hands slipping beneath his cloak. "Surrender now, or be destroyed."
She chuckled darkly. "There is a third option."
"What's that?"
"I'm starving. And I smell the children you've been near. Bring them to me, and I might—"
Before she could finish, pistols roared, bullets spraying wildly.
"YOU WILL REGRET THIS, LITTLE INQUISITOR!" she screamed, twisting as roots erupted from the earth to seize him.
He flung a small crystal into the air — it detonated in a blinding white light, causing the roots to recoil.
The witch shrieked, her skin blistering and burning under the radiant glow. She raised her skull umbrella in vain as bullets tore through it, letting light scorch her flesh.
Pinned beneath his knee, the man leveled his pistol at her pale head.
"You should be grateful," he murmured. "My kind doesn't suffer our kills."
Her breath ragged, skin healing rapidly in the shadows he cast, she glared at him.
He pulled a trigger, bullets ripping through her stomach. "You almost looked beautiful." He pressed the gun to her legs, then sighed. "I'd rather dissect what makes you tick."
The radiance flickered. She tried to flee, but his blows shattered her bones, green blood spilling from shattered ribs.
He emptied his pistols into her temple and face until silence fell.
As her bloodied, broken body relaxed, her last thought echoed:
Which of us is the real monster?
The man retrieved a vial filled with shimmering crystals, uncorked it with his teeth, and poured the contents into her mouth.
Her body glowed, convulsed, then began to dissolve into sparks and light.
"All will be over soon," he whispered, watching the darkness lift from the forest floor.
Removing his hood, he revealed thin, white, straw-like hair and a scar over his left eye.
"It was never about the reward or vengeance," he muttered, touching the scar, wincing.
A memory flashed: a young ebony boy, beating him with a burning log, the world aflame around them.
"Old toy," he laughed darkly. "You're still alive. We'll meet again before death comes knocking."
Alone in the quiet forest, he chuckled to himself — a hunter with no mercy and no regrets.
***
ENOCH'S POV:
A sudden chill ran down my spine, and I dropped the axe to the ground. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them again.Did I just get a chill instead of a sneeze from someone talking about me? That's... strange.
The sun hung high — nearly noon.
I shoved the thought aside, grabbed my axe, and set to work. The tree I'd felled a week ago awaited, its interior logs ready to be split into planks. Slowly, I peeled away the bark, the familiar rhythm grounding me once more.