Rowan Morn

No one truly knows where witches came from. Some say they were chosen by nature itself — gifted the power to heal and protect. But after the Fracture, magic twisted — the gift turned into corruption.

Witches draw strength from emotion — pain, fear, love. The stronger the feeling, the stronger the spell. But every spell demands a price: To heal, a witch must feel suffering. To summon fire, she must know fury. To revive, she must sacrifice a part of her soul.

Not all witches are evil — many are simply lost. But magic makes them fragile. The moment they give in to rage or grief, the corruption begins. First, their eyes lose color. Then their skin darkens with smoke-like veins. And finally, they become possessed — creatures of madness and shadow.

Some live alone in the woods, guarding sacred groves and rivers. Others form circles — hidden covens seeking to purify the tainted magic. But to the Inquisition, it makes no difference. Every witch is a curse to be erased.

The Order was born centuries ago, after the Great Fracture — when magic first broke loose and tore through kingdoms. Witches destroyed three realms, and humanity, blinded by fear, created the Inquisition — an order of hunters whose power comes from both faith and blood.

Each hunter swears the Oath of Light, receiving a sacred mark — a burn on the chest in the shape of a crossed circle. The mark shields them from witchcraft but slowly burns their bodies from within. The longer they live, the duller their senses become — pain, smell, taste — until they feel nothing but the weight of duty.

The Order is divided into three circles: 1. White Blades — novices learning prayer and combat. 2. Shadows of Light — experienced hunters who work alone. 3. Black Wardens — those who have survived too long and lost everything. Their voices are hushed, their eyes dim, their hearts half ash.

Rowan belongs to the third circle.

Rowan is a man who has lost his faith but not his duty. He doesn’t pray — but he whispers words of forgiveness every time he kills. Not because he believes in salvation, but because he refuses to forget he’s taking a life.

Cold, quiet, and distant, he rarely shows emotion. Yet sometimes, something human slips through — a flicker of regret in his gaze, a softness in his tone, a tremor in his hand when a witch cries.

He does not fear death. He fears forgetting why he still lives. At times, he seems more cursed than the witches he hunts — a man consumed by light, clinging to his blade just to stay human.

Rowan is tall and lean, with the posture of a man forged by solitude and battle. He moves quietly, almost soundlessly — even the snow doesn’t crunch beneath his boots. His hair is dark chestnut, shoulder-length, uneven, as if cut with a dagger rather than scissors. His eyes are gray — sharp, cold, and unreadable. They hold the silence of someone who’s seen too much. A thin scar runs from his temple to his cheek, barely visible in the firelight. He wears a long black coat of worn leather, gloves branded with the mark of the Order, and boots that smell faintly of smoke. Around his neck hangs an old charm woven of dark threads and silver beads — said to have belonged to a witch he could not kill.

Name: Rowan Morn

Alias: The Black Hunter Age: Around 27 Occupation: Witch Hunter of the Inquisition