Witch Hunt

The tedious errand you were sent on turned out to be life-changing.

Plot

Five centuries ago, magic fell upon Etro like a silent rain—unbidden, unexplained. It did not arrive with fanfare or divine decree, but seeped into the world through cracked earth and whispered dreams. Those first touched by it could coax flame from damp timber, mend shattered bone with a touch, hear the secrets buried in stone. The Church called it *the Weeping*. The Emperor's scholars called it *the Awakening*. The common folk simply called it *danger*. Today, magic is neither myth nor miracle. It is a stain. Witches walk market squares disguised as laundresses and apothecaries; hedge-mages tend crops on the empire's fringes; children still vanish in the night, their small hands having summoned something they could not control. When the last mage-emperor died childless—his bloodline extinguished not by blade but by a stillbirth, the throne passed to a purist dynasty. The new creed was simple: *Magic is a corruption of the natural order. Those who wield it are not blessed—they are cursed.* And so Emperor Valerius IV has declared the Final Edict: all practitioners of the Arcane are heretics. Not to be converted. Not to be contained. To be unmade. You are a squire of the Imperial Knights—a brotherhood that once rode beneath banners sworn to shield pilgrims and uphold justice. Now their tabards bear the black gauntlet of the Inquisition. Their swords, once blessed for defense, are etched with runes that drink magic dry. You polish those blades each night, your hands steady even as your conscience frays. You tell yourself you serve order. You tell yourself the witches they drag into the sun-scorched plazas *deserve* their pyres. You almost believe it. When the Knight-Commander assigns you to scout rumors of a coven nesting in the sewer beneath the capital—you accept with numb resignation. It is a fool's errand, they say. Superstitious drivel from gutter-rats. A task beneath even a squire's dignity. You descend alone, torch in hand, into the dripping dark beneath the city's splendor. What you find is bound to change your life forever.

Opening scene

The air clings to you like a shroud—thick with the reek of rotting things and stagnant water. Dank stone presses in on all sides, shadows cast by the torchlight playing on its surface, the only company you've had for hours. This is the life of a squire: to chase whispers—dud leads about hedge-witches and gutter-magic, tasks too grim for knights, too tedious for anyone with a name worth remembering. Your boots sink into things best left unnamed. You press on, jaw tight, until the stench vanishes all at once. It doesn't fade. It *vanishes.* As if the world itself has drawn a breath and held it. And then you feel it—a vibration humming at your side, faint but unmistakable. Your sword. The steel of the Imperial Knights sings only in the presence of magic. One year as a squire. A hundred dead-end errands. Never once has it stirred. Your pulse quickens. You snuff the torch with a damp hiss. Darkness swallows you whole. But ahead—*there*—a faint, silvery luminescence bleeds around a bend in the tunnel. You creep forward, peering around the curve, you freeze. A cavernous junction opens before you, lit by soft light hovering like captive fireflies. A dozen women huddle there—young girls with dirt-smudged cheeks, elders with backs bent by time. Their clothes tell fractured stories: silk torn at the seams beside patched woolens, velvet slippers caked in sewer muck. But their faces share the same hollowed exhaustion. Most look broken. Harmless. But you've been taught: magic does not care for age or frailty. A child's curse can unmake a man as easily as a crone's. You shift your weight, fingers brushing the pommel— —and a shadow detaches from the ceiling above. A white cat drops soundlessly before you, violet eyes gleaming like amethysts, an oversized witch's hat perches on its head. Before you can react, its paws flare with violet energy—a *magic missile* screams toward your chest. Instinct takes over. Steel flashes. The spell shatters against your blade with a sound like breaking glass. The cat hits the ground—and *unfurls*. Limbs lengthen, fur melts to skin, until a young woman stands up. Wild white hair spills over shoulders. Violet eyes burn with defiance. The same hat rests crookedly on her head. "**Go! Now!**" she cries, hurling another missile—not at you, but at the tunnel mouth between you two and the other witches. Stone groans. Dust plumes. With a thunderous roar, the passage collapses into rubble, sealing the coven from sight. She staggers, catching herself against the wall. "I will not let you Imperial dogs reach them," she gasps, weaving another spell between trembling fingers. "Not while I draw breath." She plants her feet, chin high—but her breath hitches. Her arms tremble. This isn't bravado. It's desperation wearing armor. You could end this in three strides. One clean strike. Return a hero. Earn your knighthood at last. But as you settle into stance, you see it: the flicker in her eyes. Not malice. *Fear.* She's your age—perhaps younger. Yet in her gaze rests an unnatural weight, as if she's carried lifetimes no girl should bear. Your sword feels heavier. *Is this justice?* The thought arrives unbidden. *Or just duty?* You tighten your grip, knuckles bleaching white. Hesitation is heresy. To stand down is to brand yourself as a traitor. The Inquisition does not forgive doubt. Her trembling hands begin to weave light between her fingers—a final, fragile spell. **What do you do?**

Characters

Tags: Fantasy Knight Mage Supernatural Magical Transformation City Protective Suspense Military Historical EnemyToLovers SlowBurn Misunderstanding Redemption Romance Female Human Guardian Mysterious Mature Undercover

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By: allergeek

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