The Fae Witch

I was deep in the forest, tracking a deer that had been eluding me for hours, when everything changed. The forest was quiet—the kind of quiet that comes just before a storm. It wasn't the usual hush of nature pausing to catch its breath but something deeper, heavier. The stillness pressed against my ears and made my pulse quicken, though I didn't know why. I thought nothing of it at the time, brushing off the unease as mere fatigue from the long hours of stalking my prey. How could I have known then that the storm brewing wasn't one that would tear through the sky, but one that would rip through my life?

While I moved silently between the trees, my bow at the ready and my knife strapped to my side, focused on bringing down the deer that had eluded me for hours, the royal knights came. Without mercy. Without reason. They stormed into my home, into the sanctuary my mother and I had fought so hard to create, and slaughtered her. They didn't see her as a person. To them, she was nothing more than a witch—a label, an accusation, and that was all they needed to justify their bloodlust. No trial, no questions, no chance to plead for her life. They simply decided, as they always do, that she didn't deserve to live.

When I finally returned home, tired but satisfied with the hunt, hoping to bring back enough meat to last us a week, the sight that greeted me shattered something inside me forever. My mother—my beautiful, loving mother—was lying lifeless on the ground, her body surrounded by a lake of blood that seemed too vast to be real. The dark soil of our home was soaked in crimson, as if the earth itself was mourning her, unable to contain its sorrow. My mind couldn't comprehend what I was seeing at first. I froze, the world tilting as my breath caught in my throat. I dropped everything—my bow, the deer I had carried on my shoulders, even my knife—and ran to her.

I screamed her name, my voice tearing through the suffocating silence that surrounded us, but there was no answer. There was no warmth in her body when I cradled her in my arms, no spark of life in her eyes. My mother, who had nursed me through sickness, who had held me close on nights when the world outside felt too big and cruel, who had laughed with a lightness that could dispel any shadow, was gone. Stolen from me by the same monsters who had already taken so much. My voice cracked as I begged her to wake up, but deep down, I knew it was useless. The warmth of her hands, the softness of her touch, the sound of her laughter—everything that made her who she was had been stolen from me in an instant.

And how did I know who was responsible? How did I know it was the royal knights who had committed this unforgivable act? They wanted me to know. They left their calling card—a dagger of solid gold plunged into her chest, its hilt intricately engraved with the royal insignia. It gleamed mockingly in the dim light, as if it were proud of its role in her death. They didn't just kill her; they marked her as if she were some kind of prize, a trophy to display their dominance. It wasn't enough to take her life—they wanted me to bow in submission, to see their power and accept it as inevitable. The same way they had done when they came for my father.

I was only eight years old when they took him. He was kind and strong, my father. He didn't have magic or any special gifts—he was just a man trying to protect his family. But that didn't matter to them. They dragged him away in chains, accusing him of harboring a witch, and executed him in the center of the village for all to see. I still remember the way the villagers stood by, too afraid to intervene, their faces a mixture of pity and terror. The commander of the knights smirked as he gave the order, his eyes glinting with sadistic satisfaction. I screamed until my throat was raw, but it didn't stop them. It didn't save him.

Those memories haunt me even now. The sound of the blade, the way his blood stained the cobblestones, the helplessness that swallowed me whole—all of it is etched into my mind like a scar that will never fade. My mother and I fled after that, leaving behind everything we knew. We moved from village to village, never staying in one place for long, always looking over our shoulders. But no matter how far we ran, we could never escape the shadow of the Albtraum Kingdom. The knights never forget, and they never forgive what they see as a stain on their perfect world. They hunted us relentlessly, determined to erase us completely.

And they succeeded. They found us. They took my mother, the last family I had, and left me alone in a world that seemed determined to destroy me.

What they didn't know—what they couldn't know—was that my parents had a secret. Me. My existence was hidden from them, a small act of defiance that saved my life. For how long, I don't know. But I survived. And when my mother's life was stolen from me, I made a choice. I wouldn't wait for them to find me and finish what they started. I gathered what little I could and fled, crossing the border into the Dusk Kingdom—a place where, hopefully, their reach wouldn't extend.

Now, I live in isolation, far from the eyes of men, in a small house tucked away in the heart of the forest. The trees are my walls, their branches my roof. It's quiet here, the kind of quiet that I can bear. I've made peace with solitude, though it's a fragile peace, always teetering on the edge of breaking. The forest is my sanctuary, a place where I can exist without fear of being found. But even here, the ghosts of my past linger, whispering reminders of everything I've lost.

I am not defenseless, though. Far from it. I possess something rare, something powerful—though I don't fully understand it yet. They call it the four wraths, a gift—or perhaps a curse—unique to me. The wrath of weather allows me to bend the skies to my will, summoning storms or calming winds with a thought. The wrath of fire lets me conjure flames that burn hotter than anything natural. The wrath of lightning strikes with blinding speed and devastating force. And the wrath of empathy—perhaps the most unsettling of all—allows me to feel the emotions and intentions of those around me. I can sense malice before it's spoken, feel kindness in its purest form, and know someone's heart before they reveal it.

These gifts, along with my sharpened senses, make me more than what I seem. I can hear the faintest rustle of leaves, see through the darkest shadows, and feel the presence of others even when they're hidden. It's as if the forest itself is an extension of me, a part of my being that warns me of danger before it arrives. I've been told these abilities come from my lineage, from the blood of my parents. My mother was of the witches' race, a rare and ancient people. Among them, men are nearly unheard of—perhaps only ten percent of their kind. Yet here I am, an anomaly in every sense of the word.

This is my life now—a life of survival, of vigilance, of solitude. I don't know what the future holds, but one thing is certain: the royal knights may have taken my family, but they haven't taken my spirit. I am still here. I am still standing. And I am far from finished.