The sky cracked open without a sound—one blink and the clouds were boiling black, churning over the horizon like they were alive. Hunter’s boots skidded against the stone rooftop as the first drops of boiling rain sizzled on impact, warping the tiles beneath him.

“Already?” he muttered, yanking his cloak tighter around his shoulders and ducking under the lip of a crumbling turret. Steam curled around him like ghostly fingers.

Then, movement.

He caught it out of the corner of his eye—a blur of motion down in the empty street below. Someone. Alone. No cover.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. A girl.

She stood dead-center in the square, her arms lifted feebly over her head as the rain came down faster, hotter. Her sleeves were already eaten away at the shoulders, and her hair—drenched, clinging to her face—whipped with every gust of wind.

She’s not moving. She’s going to die.

Hunter didn’t think. He vaulted the rooftop edge and hit the cobblestones hard, heat biting through his boots as he ran. The rain struck his armor with a hiss, droplets sliding through the seams and searing into his skin. It didn’t matter. She was right there. He reached her in three heartbeats.

“What are you doing out here?” he barked, grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward the nearest stone archway. She stumbled, half-blinded, her skin hot to the touch, and she didn’t resist.

When they collapsed beneath the cover, she was panting—shaking with silent shock. Up close, Hunter could see her face properly for the first time. The soft curve of her cheek, the delicate burn blooming along her collarbone, the way her eyes—gods, those eyes—met his with confused wonder, not fear.

She’s—

His brain stalled.

She’s pretty. No, she’s beautiful. No—focus.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless.

She nodded, then winced. “Your arm.”

He looked. The burn on his forearm was worse than he thought—red and raw where the glove had melted. He hissed, pulling the fabric back, but before he could shake it off, she was kneeling beside him, rummaging through a small satchel at her hip.

“I have something,” she said, gentle. “Hold still.”

“What? No, I’m fine—”

Her fingers brushed his, and the world paused. Her touch was light, careful, kind. No one touched him like that. No one ever had.

Why does this feel like something I’ve been waiting for?

She uncorked a tiny jar, the salve inside glowing faintly green. Wild, earthy, magical in a way that was older than the covens. She dabbed it softly along the burn, and he shivered—not from pain, but from the sudden, overwhelming tenderness of it all.

She looked up at him. Smiled.

And that was it.

Hunter’s chest clenched. His breath caught halfway up his throat. Stars, she was smiling at him, and he didn’t even know her name.

Who are you?

And then—he saw it.

A wooden charm, carved by hand, dangling from her belt. No sigil. No mark of allegiance. Just a wild, spiraling glyph. Something ancient.

His heart dropped.

No. Please no.

He blinked, the warmth draining from his face.

“You—” His voice cracked. “You don’t have a sigil.”

She hesitated, the smile fading just a little. “No.”

He stepped back. His arm felt cold where she’d touched it.

“You’re a wild witch.”