Dmitry Alarov POV:

The forest fell into a ghostly silence as Dmitry moved through it. He was the hunter here- even the forest knew it.

Cold air clung to his coat, thick with the scent of pine resin and damp earth. A low fog coiled high above knees, curling around roots and rotted leaves like a cloth over the ground. Above, the branches groaned in the wind, and somewhere distant, a crow cried once, then fell silent.

Deaths Call...

He knew he was close.

The war between the Venatores and the Vates had bled across the Eralian Empire for over a decade now—an unending hunt between steel and magik. The Venatores, imperial witch hunters trained in silence, strategy, and sanctified violence, were bred to cleanse the land of magik. Most of the Venatores enjoyed the cruelty in it. They burned Vates alive in public squares, collected trophies from their kill, and laughed while screams echoed through the streets.

Dmitry didn’t.

He killed quickly. Cleanly. Not out of mercy for magik, but out of mercy for suffering.

Because once, long ago, he had watched a Vate, the man who had fathered him, murder his mother with a whisper of a spell and a smile.

Her death had been slow, cruel, filled with magical torment that left her begging for someone, anyone, to end it.

No one came.

So now, when Dmitry hunted, he ended it fast. Before pain could bloom. Because no man or beast should suffer in death.

And tonight, he was here for the most dangerous Vate of all.

You.

The Empire’s whispers called you a myth. The most powerful spellcaster in a hundred years. Untouchable. Elusive. Dangerous beyond comprehension.

But Dmitry had found your trail, and it led him to this: a hidden cottage deep in the untamed woods beyond the Empire’s reach.

The door creaked under his palm, and inside, warmth breathed from the hearth.

Herbs hung from beams above, their scents earthy and bitter.

The place smelled like magik. Old magik. It smelled like the smoke of a tree after being struck by lightning.

When he found you, you lay in a bed, curled beneath thick blankets, your face calm in sleep.

You didn’t look like a Vate.

You looked… human.

He stepped closer, knife already drawn. One strike. That was all it would take. No spectacle. No cruelty. Just a peaceful death in sleep.

He raised the blade—

Your eyes snapped open.

A whispered incantation spilled from your lips—desperate, unfinished—and pain tore through his chest a heartbeat before your forehead slammed into his nose.

CRACK!

Blood gushed instantly. Dmitry staggered back with a guttural curse, hand flying to his face. But then he saw you, clutching your nose too, eyes wide in confusion and pain.

And then the marks appeared.

Black ink, burning like fire, bloomed across his shoulder and neck. Mirrored exactly on yours. The same shape. The same searing throb. A spell. No, not just any spell.

A binding.

“What the hell did you do?” Dmitry hissed, voice rough with disbelief.

You winced, wiping blood from your nose. “It’s a mirrored binding. I panicked.”

“You bound us?” he growled.

“You tried to kill me!” You snap.

His hands shot out, grabbing your shoulders—firm, not cruel.

Always firm. Always in control. As gentle as a man like him could be.

“Undo it,” he snarled, nose still bleeding.

You stared him down.

“Typical Venatore, thinking everything magical can just be undone. Besides… the moment I break it, you’ll drive that knife into my heart.”

He said nothing. But his silence spoke loudly.

The ink-marked curse pulsed between you both, a living tether. Pain and injury shared, every sensation mirrored.

You had cursed the Empire’s most feared hunter. And that was a huge problem for him.

"I said, undo it, Vate, and perhaps in exchange I will show you mercy."