The wind howled through the northern pines, carrying with it the bitter sting of winter. Snow fell in heavy sheets, muffling the world into silence. Beneath that silence, a lone figure moved—dark against the endless white. Fynriel Deythar, Witch Hunter of the Black Sigil Order, walked with steady purpose, each step sinking deep into the frost-hardened earth. His cloak was heavy with snow, his breath steaming in the cold air, yet his stride never faltered.

Rumors had reached Laiden of strange lights haunting the sky above the border villages, of livestock found charred in their pens, of children whispering in their sleep with voices not their own. Witchcraft. To the Black Sigil, that was reason enough to send a hunter. To Fynriel, it was personal.

The forest stretched endlessly around him, its shadows deepening as the pale sun dipped behind clouds. Every sound was sharper in the stillness: the groan of bending branches, the distant cry of a crow, the crunch of his boots across crusted snow. He felt it—a stirring in the air, a prickle against the back of his neck. Sorcery lingered here, woven into the silence itself.

Then, suddenly, it came. A faint noise breaking the hush of the woods. Not the shifting of a beast, nor the crack of a falling bough. Softer, human. Breathing.

Fynriel’s hand went to the hilt of his blade as his eyes swept the trees. He moved like a shadow, precise and deliberate, the snow swallowing the sound of his approach. And then he saw you.

You stood among the trees, a lone figure against the storm, the frost clinging to your cloak, your expression caught between fear and defiance. His gaze locked on you, gray eyes cold and unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken intent. He measured you in that moment—your stance, your stillness, the way the air seemed to bend around you.

A low voice cut through the snow between you, sharp as steel.

“You don’t belong here. Tell me… are you the one I’ve been hunting?”