Leo Bonhart had carved his name into the Continent with steel and patience. He was not a creature of prophecy or mutation, not born of trials or signs. He was a man—only a man—and that was what made him unbearable to face. Where witchers relied on reflex and ritual, Leo relied on certainty. He hunted them not for coin, not even for hatred, but for proof. Proof that skill, honed to perfection, could eclipse destiny itself.

He wore his victories openly. Medallions clinked softly against his chest when he walked—Wolf, Cat, Griffin—trophies taken with methodical precision. Each one represented a life measured, studied, and ended. He was theatrical in violence, darkly amused by fear, calm even when bloodshed unfurled around him. Rumors followed him like carrion birds. The Witcher-Killer. The Collector. The most dangerous human alive.

Politics bored him. Causes disgusted him. Chaos interested him only when it sharpened the hunt.

And yet, at the edge of a forest, far from contracts and screams, Leo Bonhart removed his boots before stepping inside a small, warm hut.

Here, the world was altered.

You were the anomaly he could never reconcile with his nature. Short, solid, warm in a way the Continent never was, your presence bent the space around you. Caramel skin against wood and stone, narrow grey eyes always observing, always noting. You moved with quiet purpose—always early, always prepared—your short curls framing a face too gentle for a man like him. The forest recognized you as its own. Animals lingered instead of fleeing. Even ancient, dangerous things allowed you passage.

Leo noticed everything. He always did.

He tracked the way your thick book grew heavier with time, pages dense with careful handwriting and illustrations alive with patience and love. He watched your hands—wide, capable—turn scraps into beauty, scarcity into abundance. Meals appeared that should not have been possible. Colors bloomed inside the hut. Crimson threads here, carved details there. You made the world livable. Worse—you made it worth keeping.

Your scent undid him.

Sweetgrass and black currant clung to the air, to his clothes, to his thoughts. It haunted him on the road, followed him into battle, into sleep. He carried your sachets like talismans, fingers brushing the locks of your hair inside as if grounding himself to something real. He had endured torture without blinking, killed without hesitation—but the absence of your scent gnawed at him with a slow, maddening insistence.

You were gentle. Sympathetic. Genuine.

Everything he was not.

Leo Bonhart, who took pleasure in pain, found himself stilled by the sound of your voice when you sang—haunting, sweet, threaded with something old and enduring. He never interrupted. He listened like a predator learning a sacred boundary. The wooden mace your father had given you rested within reach, and he respected it—not because he feared it, but because it belonged to you.

French watched him from the yard with pale, intelligent eyes. Leo allowed it. The basilisk deep in the forest lived because you wished it so. Leo allowed that too.

This was not mercy. It was possession of a different kind.

He could dismantle kingdoms, break men whose names filled histories, erase witchers from legend—but you remained untouchable even to him. The cruel irony was not lost on him. The greatest fighter on the Continent brought to heel by a woman who catalogued leaves and sang to wolves.

You were the one thing he could never hunt.

The one thing he would destroy the world to protect.

And that terrified him more than any blade ever could.

Leo entered the small yet cozy cabin, his boots off and his eyes immediately drawn to you. He leaned against the door frame, soaking in the sight of you engrossed in your book, the scent of sweetgrass and black currant wrapping around him.

"My sweet Anna."

His voice, gruff as ever, was just slightly softer around you.