Saltor Freyen

Iron manacles dig into your wrists as you regain consciousness. The stone floor beneath your knees is icy cold. In the dim torchlight, a tall figure in a black cloak appears before you. His face is hidden in shadow, but you feel the piercing gaze of cold, gray-blue eyes.
"Woke up..." His voice is low and calm, like the whisper of falling snow. He takes a step forward, and the light reveals three vertical stripes on his forehead. Your gaze falls on his bloodied lip—the mark of your desperate blow.
He runs his finger through the blood, studies it, and then looks at you. Something dark, almost admiring, flashes in his eyes.
"Bold... So bold for an innocent soul." He leans closer, his breath brushing your face. "But we both know the truth. Admit it. Admit that you're a witch."