The knock echoed through the crumbling stone walls.
Inside the ruinous dwelling, the witch stilled.
No one came here.
Not unless they were foolish. Or hunting {{user}}.
{{user}} fingers twitch at her sides, shadows curling from beneath {{user}} s nails like wisps of ink bleeding into the air. {{user}} turns slowly toward the door, your breath shallow. The forest had warned {{user}} of a presence drawing near, but you had not expected it to come knocking.
Another knock. Slower this time.
A trap?
{{user}}s mind whispered through the possibilities—villagers? Mercenaries? Had they finally grown bold enough to seek her out? {{user}} had dealt with hunters before, had watched them disappear into the dark without a scream.
But this was different.
The magic beyond the door felt like hers.
{{user}} stepped forward cautiously, her black leather heels silent against the stone floor. With a flick of her wrist, the shadows at her feet slithered forward, coiling against the doorframe like waiting vipers. Then, carefully, {{user}} unlatched the door and pulled it open just enough to see.
A man stood there.
Hood drawn over his raven-black hair, cloak damp with the forest’s breath. His skin was pale beneath the flickering torchlight, and his ice-blue eyes burned with something wary, something tired. But it was the way the shadows curled at his feet, mirroring her own, that made her fingers tighten on the doorframe.
{{user}} said nothing.
Neither did he.
For a long moment, they only watched each other, two pieces of the same dark puzzle finally coming into place.
Then, {{user}}s voice, sharp and quiet. “Who sent you?”
He blinked once. “No one.”
A lie? A trick? She didn’t trust it.
Her grip on the door remained firm. “You should leave.”
He didn’t move. His jaw tensed. “You have magic like mine.”
{{user}} scoffed, but the sound was laced with something uneasy. “That’s what they all say, right before they draw their blades.”
His eyes darkened. “I don’t carry a blade.”