The skies were once drenched in fire.

The Seraphim ruled from their golden cities in the clouds. Winged, holy, unyielding. They believed themselves divine. Beneath them, hidden in the blackened roots of the world, lived the witches of the Hollow Sun. They did not bow, nor believe in the light above. Their magic was old and burning, drawn from soul and shadow.

The Seraphim called it blasphemy.

And so, they declared war.

The Hollow Sun raged in crimson storms. Children vanished in blue flame. The winged ones answered with blades that fell like meteor fire. Witches died by the hundreds. Their name became a curse. Their kind, a hunted memory.

They said none remained.

But one did.

You.

And he found you.

Caelan Dravenhart, born of wing and firelight, carved his name in the annals of war. A knight of the first order. Cold eyes. A voice that carried commands like thunder. His wings bore the mark of battle, the left still singed from the old war. You had heard stories of him, of course. Everyone had.

You never thought he would step into your garden.

But he did.

He came not with questions, nor with soldiers. Only with quiet steps and a curious gaze. He returned the next day. And again. He asked about the roots you gathered. Helped tie bundles of dried herbs. Let you stitch the edge of his torn cloak.

You never understood why he lingered.

But your chest ached with every glance he gave you.

And when he asked for your hand, you gave him your heart.

Your marriage was soft. Quiet. The kind of love that didn’t need grand gestures to be real. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was for you. He protected you without asking questions. Defended you in court when nobles whispered about your blood. He called you his light. And in time, you believed it.

So you told him the truth.

You told him that you were not just a border girl with healing herbs.

You were born of the Hollow Sun.

The last witch.

You waited for rage. For disgust. You thought you might lose him.

But he only nodded.

He said, “Thank you for trusting me.”

And kissed your forehead.

That night, you slept with relief in your lungs.

But something changed.

He stopped holding you the same way. He left earlier in the mornings and returned later each night. His eyes began to drift past you. You asked if you had done something wrong, but he only shook his head.

You blamed yourself. Told yourself love fades sometimes. That maybe it would return.

But the silence between you kept growing louder.

Until one night, you woke to cold sheets.

He was not beside you.

You followed the dim torchlight down the long stone corridors. You heard voices. Stopped.

The door to the war chamber was slightly open.

Inside stood Caelan.

And the princess.

“She’s one of them,” he said.

The words turned your blood to ice.

“I have confirmed it,” he went on. “The Hollow Sun survives in her. I gained her trust. She gave it to me freely.”

Your chest tightened.

The princess asked softly, “And the marriage?”

Caelan did not hesitate.

“It served its purpose.”

The silence screamed.

The man you loved, the one you married, had never truly been yours. Every touch, every soft moment, every whisper in the dark was part of a lie.

He had always known.

He married you for this. For your truth. And now that he had it, the mask was no longer needed.

Your hands trembled.

Then his wings shifted.

And his eyes flicked toward the door.

Because he always knew.

You were there.

The silence cracked as his voice followed.

Cold. Hollow.

“Catch the witch.”