The Hunt

I spent most of my life at the orphanage, a place that, despite its official title, was more like a prison to me. It was here, behind the imposing stone walls, that I had been sent to live out the rest of my days at six years old after my mother, accused of witchcraft, was burned at the stake. That was nearly two decades ago. While ordinary girls were meant to depart at the age of eighteen, my situation was far from ordinary.

Being a witch is not illegal, only the act of practicing magic is, but the headmistress would never allow me to go free. Since my mother's conviction, I had no other place to call home anyway.

Nestled on the outskirts of one of the smallest towns on the continent, the massive stone structure rose defiantly against the horizon. It possessed three floors and four bunk rooms, offering space for up to forty girls. Yet, I was barred from joining the other girls and forced to find rest on the unforgiving stone floor of the kitchen. It was a stark reminder of my outcast status, a symbol of my isolation within these cold walls.

The headmistress, Miss Marks, held me captive for the last twenty years, allowing me to live at the orphanage as long as I did not practice witchcraft. She took great pleasure in reminding me that any discovery of my magic would result in a fate akin to my mother's. To her, I was nothing more than a disgrace, a constant embodiment of everything she hated and feared.

Each day, Miss Marks burdened me with an overwhelming workload, ensuring that my time was consumed by mountains of labor. I was kept perpetually busy, attending to the ceaseless flow of laundry, scrubbing the dilapidated building from top to bottom, and ensuring that the twenty-eight girls who called this place home were adequately fed. It was a grueling routine that left me little time to contemplate my desires or the world beyond the orphanage's walls.

Within these walls, I was an enigma—an object of both fascination and fear. No one dared to speak to me, driven by trepidation of the unknown powers that lay dormant within. Not that I possessed a complete understanding of my abilities. My mother had never had the chance to pass down her knowledge of witchcraft, and I had never witnessed her practicing her craft. Nonetheless, there were moments when my emotions ignited unintentional fires or caused windows to shatter, revealing the extent of my untapped magic.

I watched my mother being dragged out of our home to be passed a sentence for her crimes. My emotions became so uncontrollable– burning within me, our small cottage caught ablaze and burned to the ground just moments before she was killed.

Each time such incidents occurred; I faced severe punishments. Miss Marks relished in my suffering, withholding food, whippings, and occasional brutal beatings to assert her dominance and vent her anger, even if she wasn't angry at me. Today, my bruised cheek stood as a visible reminder of the headmistress's wrath, inflicted upon me for daring to sneak food after she told me I wasn’t allowed to eat this week.

The brisk autumn morning was cool on my skin, as I ventured outside to collect the dried laundry from the line, my face felt the nip of the chill in the air. My fingers, stiff from constant work and the cold, grasped the woven basket. I proceeded to gather the fresh bedding, my mind absorbed by the monotony of my duties and the icy breeze that rustled through my hair.

As I finished placing the dried laundry into the straw-woven basket, my eyes shifted, catching sight of a man making his way toward me, guiding his horse with purpose.

Rooted to the spot, I watched as he drew nearer. His piercing gaze bore into my very being, and I squirmed under his intense scrutiny. The man, without breaking eye contact, gracefully dismounted his horse, his dark brown hair piling in loose curls atop his head and shorter on the sides. His piercing blue eyes held mine captive, and memories of the bruise on my face flooded my thoughts, causing me to instinctively avert my gaze.

"Hello, Miss" he greeted me, a question in his words. His voice carried a gentle tone laced with curiosity. Panic welled within me, and I drew in a sharp breath, looking at him once more to give him my name. "Clara... my name is Clara." It was then that my gaze shifted down to his neck, noticing the intricate tattoo, unmistakably that of a hunter. A shiver skated down my spine as the weight of fear settled upon me, its icy tendrils seeping into the core of my being. How had this hunter, the very force that sought to eradicate creatures like myself, crossed paths with me? Panic threatened to engulf me, its jaws snapping hungrily at my composure.

But even as I willed myself to maintain a façade of composure, doubts gnawed at my resolve. Was it possible that this hunter possessed some uncanny insight, a sixth sense capable of piercing through me to see the truth?

His unwavering gaze seemed to search my soul as he continued the conversation, "Are you a ward of this orphanage?" His hand gestured toward the towering edifice behind me. Caught off guard, I struggled to find my words, stumbling through a response, "Yes, I mean no. I live here, but I am more of a servant." With each faltering word, I unconsciously retreated, creating a small barrier between us.

Just as our encounter began, the door to the orphanage swung open, and Miss Marks appeared, her eyes narrowing in on the scene before her. I instinctively stepped back from the man. "Clara, what are you doing? I thought I told you to finish the laundry" she began.

Without missing a beat, the man's attention shifted from me to the headmistress, and he interjected, "Hello, I am in search of a housekeeper." Miss Marks paused, seemingly taken aback by the man's directness. After a lingering moment, she responded with a dismissive laugh, "Well, sir, I have a couple of girls who might be of interest to you."

To my surprise, the man shook his head, his eyes returning to mine.

"No, I would like to hire Clara," he declared with an unwavering finality.

Miss Marks scoffed, "She is my housekeeper here."

Unveiling a hint of his simmering frustration, the man's face hardened, and he ground out his words, "Seems to me she is more of a slave, considering you don't typically beat housekeepers." The palpable tension lingered, but Miss Marks, after a brief pause, relented, turning on her heel, facing me.

"Clara, go inside." she jutted out a finger, pointing toward the kitchen door.

I adjusted my basket swiftly and hurried inside the side door into the kitchen, stopping just inside the door. "As I said, I’d like to hire Clara" the man's voice rang out, his tone polite but tinged with a hint of impatience as he addressed the headmistress. Miss Marks, for once, fell silent, seemingly considering her response. After a prolonged moment, she spoke, her words laced with hate, "You wouldn’t want her hunter, she’s a witch."

Tension crackled in the air as the man's gaze hardened, his eyes flickering to meet mine as I peeked around the corner, "Oh, I see. I will still take her." His words struck me like a blow, fear gripping me. Her laughter, tinged with bitterness, filled the air.

"No, the witch belongs to me, she is my servant," she retorted.

An invisible barrier seemed to form between the two, their wills clashing. The man's patience wore thin, and with a grinding tone, he uttered words that stung like a lash. "I will not say this again, I will have the witch." The remark hung heavy in the air.

Miss Marks, her face contorted with anger, retorted with a final challenge. "If you want her, you'll have to pay for her." I clutched the handle of my laundry basket tightly, my heart pounding in my chest, as the man's eyes found mine once again. A whirlwind of fear and worry about what this strange man will do once he has me in his clutches stirs within me. He’s going to kill me, I thought to myself. With an air of determination, he responded, "Fine, I'll give you three hundred for her."

Silence engulfed the courtyard as the headmistress hesitated, her gaze shifting between the man and the pouch of coins in his outstretched hand. Without uttering a single word, she snatched the pouch from his hand and turned abruptly, striding toward me. "Clara, pack your belongings. You are going with this man." My feet were rooted in place as I tried to process the thought of leaving with this strange man. Her gaze hardened, capturing mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. "Don't just stand there, go collect your things," she snapped.

I swiftly obeyed, making my way to the corner of the kitchen where my meager possessions lay. With careful haste, I packed the single spare dress I owned, left by one of the girls who left here years ago. I secured it alongside my cherished books, their worn pages holding a world of knowledge and escape within their covers.

Miss Marks departed the room swiftly, without a backward glance or a word of farewell. The sense of liberation mingled with trepidation surged through me.

Alone with the man who just bought me. I turned toward the door, feeling the weight of the man's gaze upon me as he stood in the doorway. His eyes, a vibrant shade of blue, seemed to hold a mix of curiosity and impatience. My heart quickened its pace, feeling the heat of his gaze.

"Come witch, we have a two-day ride ahead of us," he stepped forward, his outstretched hand reaching for the bag containing all my possessions. I reached out, placing the bag into his outstretched palm.

As I prepared to leave the confines of the small room that had been my home for so long, I cast one last glance at the barren walls and threadbare furniture. It had been a life–a small life, devoid of hope or freedom. Would my life with him be the same? Or would he kill me as soon as he had me in his clutches?

Draping a worn, grey wool cloak over my shoulders, I followed the man outside, ensuring to keep a close distance behind him. The world beyond the orphanage's walls felt both exhilarating and daunting. Many questions swirled within me, like a tempest waiting to be unleashed. Yet, a lifetime of silent obedience had been ingrained in my very being. I hesitated to voice even a single one of my questions, assuming that he, like everyone else in my past, expected my silence.

The cool autumn breeze kissed my cheeks as we walked toward his horse, its ebony coat gleaming in the fading sunlight. I marveled at the sheer grace with which he handled the animal, a symbiotic connection between man and beast. A surge of curiosity coursed through me, longing to understand the man before me.

I watched as he quickly stuffed my bag into one of the saddlebags, securing it tightly.

Suddenly, he turned toward me, breaking the silence that enveloped us. "My name is Alexander," he spoke softly, his words carrying a weight of significance. Though his tone was reassuring, I couldn't help but take a step back, instinctively retreating from his sudden movement.

Seeing my reaction, Alexander quickly shook his head, a flicker of understanding crossing his features. “I am not going to kill you, not just yet.”

Alexander extended his hand toward me, an unspoken invitation for assistance in mounting the beast that stood before us. His gaze remained fixed on my face. I reached out and clasped his hand firmly, allowing him to guide me onto the horse's back.

Of course, fighting him would be pointless and I have nowhere else to go even if I were able to escape. He follows shortly after, mounting the horse behind me.

As I repositioned myself to accommodate the proximity–I was acutely aware of his presence behind me, Alexander's arm encircled my waist, steadying me as he gripped the reins.

As we leave the familiar streets of the Crimourn behind, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone gives way to the rhythm of hooves against the earth. The landscape unfurled before us, an ever-changing scene of rolling hills, verdant meadows, and distant mountains. Alexander steers the horse northward, leading us on a path that would take us to my new prison, a feeling of dread washing over me.

She was a vision of ethereal beauty, a nymph graced by the hand of the divine. Long hair of wavy chestnut cascaded down her back, their untamed locks reaching past her waist in an alluring display of wildness. Brown eyes, soft yet tinged with nervousness, darted about, taking in her surroundings with an innocence unblemished by the cruelties of the world. Her sun-kissed complexion seemed to radiate a gentle glow, perhaps from countless hours spent laboring under the open sky, immersed in the duties that claimed her days.

It was nearly five days prior that I first laid eyes on her, my travels taking me south. There she was, on hands and knees, diligently scrubbing the stone steps leading to the front door of the orphanage. But I knew she was not an orphan. A mere glimpse of her suggested a woman in her mid-twenties, and I assumed that she must be employed within those walls.

As fate would have it, my path led me back to Crimourn, and I could not resist the urge to seek her out once more. My intentions, initially kindled by curiosity, intensified when I noticed the unsightly mark marring her flawless face. The bruise, an ugly blemish upon her face, stirred a fire within me—a fire that demanded action, that craved to protect her from the horrors she had suffered.

Drawing nearer, I observed the truth etched upon her skin, cruel scars and bruises standing as damning proof of her mistreatment. In her eyes, once soft and serene, danced a feral fear, born from a life fraught with torment. She's ignorant of the truth, as I closed the distance between us, that the only fear she would ever know again would be for me and me alone. I would become her savior and her damnation.

***

We departed from Crimourn more than two hours ago, and throughout our journey, a veil of silence enveloped us. Her gaze drifting across the sprawling landscape, absorbing its every detail. Soft, melodic hums escaped her lips from time to time, a song foreign to me and sad, filling the air with a haunting beauty. It was evident that a whirlwind of questions swirled within her, her eyes darting back to me at intervals, yet she hesitated to give voice to the thoughts that danced within her captivating mind.

As a hunter it's in my very being to hate witches, to hate her, but the thought of hurting her or anyone else hurting her shifted that hate I’m supposed to feel into something else.

Sensing her growing discomfort, I made the decision to shatter the silence that had enveloped us. "You must have questions for me," I murmured, my fingers gently brushing aside a lock of her long, flowing hair, revealing the graceful curve of her neck. The words escaped me, laden with a mixture of curiosity and yearning to touch her again.

She stammered, her gaze flickering to my face, uncertainty clouding her eyes as she finally spoke, "Ye--Yes." Her voice carried a tremor, a fragile timidity that only heightened her allure. And then, as if summoning the courage from the depths of her being, she turned to meet my gaze, a profound contemplation dwelling within those expressive eyes. "Did you...did you really need a housekeeper?" she questioned; her words infused with a fragile hope that tugged at my heart.

A gentle laughter spilled from my lips. "No," I replied, the truth ringing in my words. "I did not need a housekeeper." Her gaze faltered, “So then what do you want with me?” Her words came out breathless, laced with fear. “You are a witch, so I’ll be keeping an eye on you, but just because you’re a witch doesn’t mean that women at the orphanage is allowed to treat you badly. That is why I took you.” My gaze searched her brown eyes.

"Am I meant to...to live with you?" she murmured, as if grappling with the notion herself. A flicker of uncertainty wove through her words, mingling with a thread of curiosity. I met her gaze, holding her eyes with an intensity that mirrored the gravity of the situation.

"Yes," I affirmed. "But you must understand, my profession takes me away from home for periods of time. There will be stretches of time when you will find yourself alone. I expect you to remain at the keep when I am away or I will hunt you down and chain you to the wall." Her silence spoke volumes, her nod signaling an understanding.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that stretched across the land, the forest dividing the north and south in front of us. With each passing moment, the trees emerged from the haze, their dark silhouettes etching a boundary we would soon cross to get to Aeskrow Keep. Aware of the approaching darkness, a silent reminder to stop and make camp for the night, I reined in my horse, bringing us to a halt just off the edge of the forest.

Dismounting with practiced grace, I quickly look around, surveying the area. "We will make camp here," I declared, my voice only loud enough for Clara to hear. "A full day's ride is ahead of us, and we must gather our strength. The forest can be unpredictable." Extending my hand toward Clara, I offered her my support. Uncertainty flickered within her eyes, hesitation momentarily gripping her. Yet, summoning her resolve, she cautiously clasped my hand, her slender fingers overlapping mine, as I gently guided her down from the saddle.

Her legs trembled, an effect of riding for the last several hours, but I quickly moved to steady her. My hands settled on her softly curved waist. She clung to my wrist, finding balance in the touch, before slowly releasing her grasp, her delicate frame regaining stability.

Turning toward me, her gaze met mine in a silent exchange, the air thick with unspoken questions. "Should we be sleeping out in the open like this? Wouldn’t it be better to sleep under the trees?" Clara asked, her voice laced with genuine concern. Her worry mirrored in her furrowed brow, etching lines of doubt upon her features. I shook my head, a solemn expression painting my face, conveying both understanding and reassurance. "No," I responded, my voice gentle. "It would be far more dangerous to sleep within the depths of this forest. The creatures that plague Lekroa live within these ancient woods, they rarely venture into the open plains." With each word, I aimed to calm her fears. Recognition sparked within her eyes, telling me she had been told in the past not to go into the forest, as had everyone else living in Lekroa. She nodded in understanding, staying silent.

Retrieving the folded blankets from the depths of my saddlebag, I spread them out on the ground, a makeshift bed for both of us to sleep. I could feel her eyes on my back tracing my every step as I approached the tree line, intent on gathering firewood. Aware of her unwavering gaze, I made certain to keep her in my line of sight. I wasn’t certain that she wouldn’t try to run from me.

I sought out branches and twigs, mindful of their suitability for kindling. The damp earth yielded to my touch, releasing the scent of earth and moss.

Kindling the flames with practiced expertise, the fire came alive, casting dancing shadows on our surroundings. Delving into the recesses of my saddlebag once more, I retrieved food for both of us. Handing Clara an apple and a portion of dried meat, I observed her hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Yet, she accepted the food, devouring it all with a sense of urgency.

Concern etched itself upon my features, an unspoken question lingering in the air. "Would you like some water?" I asked gently, extending the waterskin toward her, its cool surface gleaming in the firelight. Grasping the container in her small, delicate hands, she raised it to her lips, taking deep, long gulps. Her gaze never strayed far from me, watching my every move. And when she deemed herself sated, she handed me the waterskin, her gaze cast downward, her words a soft murmur. "Thank you," she uttered, a whisper laden with gratitude.

As the flickering flames illuminated our campsite, I couldn't help but sense a lingering sadness within her. "Are you still hungry?" I ventured. A flicker of reluctance danced within her eyes before she replied.

"No," she uttered, her gaze cast downward as if seeking solace within the earth itself.

But the air between us was full of unanswered questions, a weight that demanded to be lifted. Summoning the courage that lay hidden within myself, I voiced the question that swirled within my thoughts, though unsure if she would grant me the truth. "How long were you at the orphanage?" I asked. Her eyes darted toward me, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability in her gaze, before swiftly retreating, her gaze fixating upon some distant point in the night. "Since I was six," she murmured above the crackling of the fire.

"About twenty years," she added, the weight of her words heavy in the air.

My heart ached for her, a sorrow that extended far beyond mere empathy. It was a sorrow born from witnessing the wounds inflicted upon her soul, the scars etched upon her spirit. Offering a semblance of solace amidst the vast expanse of her pain, I spoke softly, my words laced with a feeling of genuine sorrow. "I'm sorry," I offered the words carrying a weight that defied their conciseness. "About your parents, I mean."

Her gaze met mine, confusion etched upon her features, an array of emotions shone within her eyes. "Thank you," she responded. "I never knew my father, so I only lost my mother," she continued, her stare filled with unanswered questions, a yearning for understanding.

From what I witnessed at the orphanage, I realized the kindness I had shown her, however small, was a rarity in her world.

Sensing her desire for a reprieve from the weight of the conversation, I steered our conversation toward a different path, hoping to alleviate the burden that lingered within her gaze. "Tomorrow, we will make our way through the forest, and should arrive at Aeskrow Keep by evening." My words hung in the air for a long moment before she nodded. "You should get some sleep," I suggested as I lay down on my blanket.

In the stillness, Clara's voice, soft yet resolute, pierced the air, carrying her words across the flickering flames. "Thank you for taking me from the orphanage," she spoke, her gratitude etched within every syllable. "Even if I am to go to another sort of prison, I know it's better than where I was."

Her words hung in the air. A solemn nod escaped me, a gesture of recognition and empathy.

A gentle breeze whispered through the surrounding trees, their branches swaying. And then, as if guided by some unseen force, her voice—melodic and soft—began to fill the air, a gentle humming that reverberated through the night. Its delicate cadence brought me comfort and solace. Entranced by the melody that flowed from her lips, I allowed the gentle rhythm to envelop me, its soothing embrace lulling me to sleep.