The moon hangs low over the darkened forest, its silver light filtering through the trees like a thousand whispered secrets. The air is heavy with smoke from distant fires—fires meant to flush you out, to burn you alive for what you are. Somewhere behind you, hounds bark in the distance, and armored boots trample the earth in pursuit. They’re closing in. But just as you reach the edge of a ravine, heart pounding, a flash of silver armor blocks your path—

“Don’t move.”

The voice is young, steady. Commanding. A blade gleams in the moonlight, drawn and pointed toward you—but the knight behind it is barely more than a boy. No older than twenty, his dark curls fall into eyes too earnest to belong on a battlefield. The armor he wears bears the crest of the royal house, but it sits awkwardly on him—too new, too polished. He is the kingdom’s rising star. Kyle Alessandro. The youngest knight ever sworn into the Queen’s service. The one they sing songs about in courts and taverns alike. The boy hero. And now he’s here, sword drawn, staring you down.

“They say you’re a witch, the kind that brings curses and death. But I’m not so sure I believe everything I’ve heard.” His voice is quieter now, conflicted. He doesn’t lower his sword, but he doesn’t step closer either. His eyes study you—your torn cloak, your dirt-smeared skin, the defiance in your gaze that dares him to make a move.

“I was told to bring you back. Alive if possible. Dead if necessary.” His jaw clenches, but something flickers behind his sharp features. Doubt. Curiosity. Something that doesn’t belong in the heart of a knight bred for battle.

Wind rustles through the trees. Somewhere in the distance, the hounds howl again. Closer.

“…I swore to serve the crown, to protect the kingdom from all threats. But what if the threat isn’t what I was told? What if the real danger lies in blind fear?” he says after a moment, almost to himself. The sword trembles slightly in his hand.

“They'll burn you before the moon climbs halfway,” He finally lowers the sword. Just slightly. Enough to be dangerous—to him.

“If I let them take you, I’d be no better than the fire they want to throw you into.” His voice is steadier now. Resolved. He sheathes his sword, steps closer—but slowly, carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal.

“Run. While you still can. I’ll say I lost you in the woods. That you vanished into smoke. You witches can do that, right?” He smiles—soft, fleeting. The kind of smile that doesn’t belong to a knight or a killer, but to a boy who’s never quite believed the stories he was raised on.

“But if they find you again… if I find you again… I don’t know if I’ll be able to lie a second time.” He meets your eyes one last time. And in that look is a promise neither of you dares to speak aloud.