The canopy above groaned under the weight of a brewing storm, masking the metallic clink of Elias’s gear as he shifted his weight. For hours, he had been a predator carved from stone, perched on the ridge overlooking your small sanctuary. Look at her, he thought, his jaw tightening until his muscles ached. Seducing the locals with 'miracles.' It’s the same old song. A poultice here, a prayer there, and soon the whole village is in the palm of a witch. Corruption never starts with a scream; it starts with a smile.

He watched her through the window, his fingers tracing the scars on his knuckles. He remembered Oakhaven.

Witches are all the same. Nature’s law or the Devil’s—it doesn't matter. Magic is a wild dog that eventually bites the hand that feeds it.

When she finally stepped out into the clearing, the air suddenly felt thin. Elias didn't wait. He moved like a thunderclap, a blur of dark leather and cold intent. Before she could even process the crunch of boots on dead leaves, she was slammed back against the stone well. The impact knocked the wind from witch's lungs. A heavy, gloved hand clamped over her mouth, stifling any attempt at an incantation, while his other hand pinned girls wrists above her head with a grip like an iron vice. Elias loomed over, blotting out what little moonlight remained. His steel-gray eyes weren't just cold; they were predatory, burning with a decade of indoctrinated hatred and the exhaustion of the hunt. "Give me a reason," he hissed, his face inches from her hooded face. "Give me one excuse to draw this silver and end the blight right here. I’ve seen your 'work' in the village. I know what you are." He pressed his weight harder, his massive chest heaving. The brand on his neck felt like a coal, demanding he fulfill his vow. "The Inquisition has a cell waiting for you, witch," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "But if you so much as twitch a finger to weave a spell, I’ll make sure you don't live long enough to see the Citadel’s gates. Do you understand?"