Chapter 16: The Witch Hunters

Caelfen, Vesmere 25th, AE 1928, Oxpost, Kingdom of Wester

The morning sun casted long shadows across the cobblestones of Oxpost as Elyra adjusted the leather straps of her newly-issued witch hunter’s gear. The silver medallion bearing the God-King’s seal felt heavy against her chest, heavier than she’d expected when their father had placed it there just hours before. Besides her, Elowen was methodically checking her crossbow for the third time, her movements precise and deliberate in that infuriating way she had of making everything look effortless.

“You’re going to wear out the mechanism if you keep fiddling with it,” Elyra muttered, shouldering her pack with more force than necessary. The weight of their supplies—holy water, iron bolts, binding chains blessed by the temple priests—reminded her of the gravity of what they were about to undertake.

Elowen didn’t look up from her weapon. “Better to be prepared than sorry. Though I suppose preparation was never your strong suit.” Her voice carried that particular tone of sisterly condescension that had grated on Elyra’s nerves since childhood.

“My strong suit is getting things done while you’re still tediously planning them to death, dear sister,” Elyra shot back, though there was less venom in it than usual. The truth was, they were both nervous. Nine years had passed since that terrible night when the sky had lit up orange over the valley, when the bells had tolled and the search parties had found nothing but ash and ruin where Alden’s home had stood. Nine years since they’d lost their dearest friend to whatever monstrous warlock had torn through his home and ended his and his mother’s lives.

Their father, Lord Garrett of Millhaven, had been reluctant to grant their request. Witch hunting was dangerous work, typically left to seasoned men with iron nerves and steady hands. But Elyra and Elowen had been relentless in their petition, and perhaps he’d seen something in their eyes—the same cold determination that he had had multiple times during his career as the Lord of these lands. In the end, he’d agreed, but with conditions. They would hunt this one warlock, the one responsible for Alden’s death, and when they brought the creature to justice, they would hang up their silver medallions and return to the safer pursuits expected of noble daughters.

It was more than either sister had dared hope for.

The ride to Alden’s old village took most of the morning, their horses picking their way along the familiar mountain paths they’d traveled so often as children. But where once these journeys had been filled with laughter and anticipation, now there was only grim purpose. The landscape itself seemed changed, as if the very stones remembered the violence that had been done. Even the birds seemed quieter, their songs muted and wary.

“Do you remember the last game we played?” Elowen asked suddenly, breaking the silence that had stretched between them for the better part of an hour. “Before… before it happened?”

Elyra nodded, though she kept her eyes fixed on the path ahead. “Warlocks and witch hunters. He was always the warlock.” How many times had they chased poor Alden through these very woods, shrieking with mock fury as he fled their imaginary justice? How many times had they cornered him against some tree or boulder, declaring victory over the forces of darkness while he laughed and protested his innocence?

“He never liked being the warlock,” Elowen said softly. “He always wanted to be the hero.”

“Well, now we get to be the heroes for real,” Elyra replied, but the word tasted bitter in her mouth. There was nothing heroic about what they were riding toward–only duty, and grief, and the cold satisfaction of vengeance long delayed.

They reached the outskirts of Alden’s village just as the sun reached its zenith. The place looked smaller than Elyra remembered, more weathered and worn. Many of the houses stood empty now, their windows dark and their gardens overgrown. Those who remained had done their best to keep things together, but with a warlock lurking about, such a task had become tedious. They gave the sisters a wide berth, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. Word of their arrival had clearly preceded them–two young women in witch hunter’s garb were not easily overlooked, especially not here, where the very mention of magic still sent children scurrying to their mothers’ skirts.

“Just as friendly as I remember,” Elowen observed dryly as an old woman crossed herself and hurried into her cottage at the sight of them.

“Can you blame them?” Elyra dismounted near the village well, tying her horse’s reins to the weathered post. “They’ve seen what magic can do. They know why we’re here.”

The sisters made their way through the village’s narrow streets, following the path they’d walked so many times before. But where once that path had led to warmth and welcome, to Alden’s bright smile and his mother’s kind words now it led only to ruin.

The clearing where Alden’s house had stood was almost unrecognizable. Nine years of wind and rain had softened the harsh edges of destruction, and nature had begun its slow work of reclamation. Ivy crept over the blackened stones that had once been foundation walls, and wildflowers pushed up through cracks in what remained of the hearth. Saplings had taken root in the crater’s center, their young leaves bright green against the dark soil.

But for all nature’s efforts to heal the wound, something fundamental remained broken about this place. The very air seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for some terrible echo to fade. Elyra felt it immediately–a wrongness that made her skin crawl and her hand drift instinctively to the iron dagger at her belt.

“Can you feel it?” she whispered.

Elowen nodded, her face pale. “It’s like… like the air itself is sick.” She knelt beside what had once been the front door, running her fingers over a piece of charred wood. “The magic that did this—it wasn’t controlled. It was wild, chaotic. Destructive.”

“Typical warlock behavior,” Elyra said, though something about her sister’s assessment troubled her. She’d studied the reports from other witch hunter expeditions, read the testimonies of survivors and witnesses. Warlock attacks were usually calculated, purposeful. They struck at specific targets for specific reasons—revenge, territory, the acquisition of power.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

This felt different.

Not only was this the only warlock attack to ever be reported in this region of the kingdom, it showed the characteristics of a sudden and spontaneous explosion. Devastating and without direction.

They spent the better part of an hour examining the ruins, looking for any runes that might point them toward their quarry. Elowen sketched the blast pattern in her notebook, measuring distances and angles with the methodical precision that had always been her way. Elyra searched through the overgrowth, looking for anything that might have survived the destruction—a piece of jewelry, a scrap of cloth, anything that might tell them more about what had happened here.

It was while she was crouched beside the old well, pulling aside a tangle of brambles, that she first felt the sensation of being watched.

The feeling crept up her spine like cold fingers, raising the hair on the back of her neck. She straightened slowly, her hand moving to her weapon as she scanned the tree line that bordered the clearing. Nothing moved among the shadows, but the sensation persisted—a weight of attention that made her skin prickle with unease.

“Elowen,” she called softly, not taking her eyes off the forest. “I don’t believe that we’re alone.”

Her sister looked up from her sketching, immediately alert. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Everywhere. Nowhere.” Elyra turned in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the source of her discomfort. “It’s like the whole forest is watching us.”

Elowen rose to her feet, crossbow already in her hands. “Warlock?”

“Maybe. Or maybe just the locals, wondering what we’re doing here.” But even as she said it, Elyra didn’t believe it. This felt different from Aundairian curiosity. This felt order, wilder, touched with something that made her witch hunter’s training scream warnings in the back of her mind.

They continued their investigation, but the feeling of being observed never left them. If anything, it grew stronger as the afternoon wore on, until even Elowen—usually unflappable in the face of danger—began glancing nervously over her shoulder. The shadows seemed to shift and dance at the corners of their vision, and more than once Elyra could have sworn she saw movement among the trees, only to find nothing when she looked directly.

“This is pointless,” Elowen said finally, closing her notebook with a sharp snap. “Whatever happened here, it happened nine years ago. The trail is cold, the evidence is gone, and we’re jumping at shadows like green recruits on their first hunt.”

Elyra wanted to argue, but she knew her sister was right. They’d found nothing useful in the ruins—no sign of the warlock’s identity, no clue as to where it might have gone after destroying Alden’s home. The creature could be anywhere by now, in any of the dozen territories that bordered Wester, living under any name or guise it chose.

“So what do you suggest?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“We start with the villagers. Someone must have seen something that night—a stranger in town, unusual behavior, anything that might point us in the right direction.” Elowen shouldered her pack, but her eyes remained fixed on the forest. “And we get out of this clearing. I don’t like the way it feels here.”

They were halfway back to the village when the attack came.

It happened so suddenly that neither sister had time to react. One moment they were walking along the familiar path, discussing their next move in low voices, and the next they were suspended in midair, invisible forces wrapping around their limbs like iron chains. Elyra’s feet kicked uselessly at empty air as she was lifted higher, her weapons falling from nerveless fingers to clatter on the stones below.

“What—” Elowen’s words were cut off as the magical grip tightened around her throat, not enough to strangle but enough to make speech difficult.

From the shadows of the forest stepped a figure that made both sisters’ blood run cold. It was Aundairian in shape but barely recognizable as such—tall and lean to the point of gauntness, with wild hair that hung in matted tangles around a face that might once have been handsome but was now marked by years of hardship and isolation. His clothes were little more than rags, patched and repatched until the original fabric was barely visible. But it was his eyes that truly frightened them—bright with an inner fire that spoke of power barely contained, of magic that had grown wild and dangerous in the absence of any guiding hand.

This was their warlock. This was the monster that had killed their friend.

“Witch hunters,” the figure said, and his voice was rough with disuse, as if he rarely had cause to speak aloud. “I can smell the iron on you, the blessed silver. You’ve come for me at last.”

Elyra struggled against the magical bonds, fury giving her strength. “You murdered him,” she snarled. “You killed my Alden, and now you’ll pay for it.”

Something flickered across the warlock’s face—surprise, perhaps, or confusion. “Alden?” he repeated, and for a moment his voice sounded different, younger somehow. “You knew Alden?”

“We were his friends,” Elowen managed to gasp out. “His best friends. And you—you monster—you destroyed everything he loved.”

The warlock stepped closer, and in the afternoon light filtering through the canopy, his features became clearer. There was something familiar about the shape of his jaw, the set of his shoulders, the way he tilted his head when he was thinking. Something that made Elyra’s heart skip a beat and her mind race with impossible possibilities.

“His friends,” the warlock murmured, studying their faces with an intensity that was almost painful. “Elowen and Elyra. The lord’s daughters. You used to play together, didn’t you? In the woods, by the stream. Warlocks and witch hunters.”

The blood drained from Elyra’s face. How could he know that? How could he possibly know the games they’d played, the places they’d explored, the private jokes they’d shared? Unless…

“No,” she whispered, the word torn from her throat like a physical thing. “No, it’s not possible.”

But even as she denied it, she could see the truth written in every line of his face, in every familiar gesture. The boy who stood before them, wild and dangerous and crackling with barely-contained power, was not their enemy.

He was their friend.

“Hello, Elyra,” Alden said, and his smile was exactly as she remembered, bright and warm and utterly heartbreaking, just dirtier. “Hello, Elowen. I’ve missed you both so very much.”

The magical bonds holding them aloft flickered and wavered as emotion overwhelmed his control, but neither sister fell. They simply hung there, suspended between ground and sky, staring at the impossible truth of what their friend had become.

The warlock they had come to hunt was Alden himself.