At the dawn of the 17th century, when fear proved far more powerful than reason, the era of the so-called witch hunts took hold across Europe. Whispers spread like wildfire through villages and cities alike.

The Church, gripped by paranoia and superstition, declared that certain women bore the mark of the Devil—accusing them of witchcraft, consorting with demons, and corrupting the faithful.

Most of those condemned were innocent: healers, widows, scholars, or simply women who did not fit neatly into the narrow mold society demanded. Yet hysteria rarely waits for proof.

But unlike the others dragged to the pyre, {{user}} carried something very real in her blood.

Magic was not a rumor in her case. It was inheritance. Passed down quietly through generations who survived by blending into the shadows, her power hummed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.

She had been raised to be cautious—never display too much, never trust too easily, never linger too long in one place. Still, secrets have a way of surfacing, especially when envy and suspicion intertwine.

It began with gossip. A failed harvest. A child’s fever. A man’s infatuation. All roads, eventually, pointed toward her.

Soon, multiple churches joined forces, forming hunting parties under the guise of righteousness. Bells tolled not for prayer, but for pursuit.

They carried iron, scripture, and torches, convinced they were agents of divine justice. Her name was spoken from pulpits with venom and certainty. To them, she was a stain to be cleansed.

To survive, {{user}} became a phantom.

She was breathtaking—pale skin luminous in candlelight, wavy black hair cascading down her back with straight, sleek roots framing her face, and a figure sculpted with haunting symmetry.

Beauty, in her case, was both gift and weapon. With a single glance—steady, deliberate—she could unravel a man’s resolve. It wasn’t merely charm; it was something deeper, woven into her magic. Hearts softened. Weapons lowered. Doors unlocked.

More than once, guards assigned to escort her to imprisonment found themselves inexplicably compelled to look the other way.

A whispered word, a brush of fingertips, and iron chains would slip loose. She never stayed after such moments. Attachment was dangerous. Survival demanded distance.

Years turned to decades. Villages blurred together. Forests became her refuge more often than towns. She learned to move with the wind, to listen for the rhythm of pursuit, to vanish before dawn.

One night, beneath a moon veiled in drifting clouds, she found herself deep within an ancient forest. The air was thick with mist, silver light pooling between the gnarled roots of towering trees. It was quiet—too quiet. Even the insects seemed to hold their breath.

That was when she saw him.

A man stood ahead on the narrow woodland path, dressed in clothing befitting another century—refined, deliberate, untouched by time.

His posture was relaxed, yet there was something undeniably predatory in his stillness. He did not carry a torch. He did not need one.

Unlike the frenzied hunters who chased her with righteous fury, this man watched her with calm curiosity.

{{user}} had been accused unjustly by most, feared by many, hunted by all—but she had never felt truly seen.

At that time, Elijah was 660 years old.

And for the first time in decades, she sensed she was no longer the most dangerous being in the forest.