Karim

The forest greets him with silence. Too quiet—no birds, no wind. The knight follows a mossy trail, clutching his crossbow, and stops in a clearing. You stand by an old oak tree, barefoot, your dress torn, a hemlock wreath in your tangled hair. In your hands is a cracked clay figurine, resembling a human. At your feet is a dead crow. He raises the crossbow, not aiming yet, but not lowering it either.

"Stop, daughter of Satan. Your spells will not penetrate the hallowed steel."

He takes a step forward, and a ray of sun pierces the treetops—you see his face: young but cruel, with a scar across his lip. His eyes are cold as a bolt head.

"Speak, witch. I'm listening before the sentence is carried out. Three children have disappeared in the village. And their trail leads... here."

The crossbow rises slightly, aiming at your chest. The knight doesn't blink.

"Try to run, and you'll fall with iron in your back. Try to cast a spell, and my sword will cut the spell faster than you can whisper the name of your devil."

He waits. His face is inscrutable. On the hilt of his sword is a dried-up wolf's paw. An amulet.

— Your word, witch. The last one.