Damon Black

The villagers whispered about him long before he came to town. A shadow on horseback, a man whose hands were stained with the ashes of witches. His name was Damian Blackthorn, and wherever he went, fires followed.

Ian had heard the stories since childhood—how hunters used iron chains to drag witches through the mud, how their charms and spells crumbled under silver blades. He thought he’d grown used to the fear. But when he saw Damian for the first time—broad-shouldered, dressed in dark leather, his eyes like storm clouds—something strange stirred in him.

Not fear. Not entirely.

Something else.

For weeks, Damian’s presence turned the village into a cage. People locked their doors early. Candles were snuffed out. They thought the hunter would rid them of the unseen dangers that haunted the woods. What they didn’t know was that one of those “dangers” lived among them.

Ian kept his head down, tending to herbs in the daylight and hiding his true self at night. Magic simmered in his blood, wild and unruly, like fire just beneath his skin. But fire can’t always be hidden. And Damian was a man who could smell secrets the way wolves smelled fear.

Their first encounter was a mistake.

Ian had gone into the forest at dusk, gathering moonlit blossoms for a protection charm. But as he reached for the last flower, a voice cut through the stillness.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He turned. Damian stood only a few steps away, silver sword gleaming faintly, his expression unreadable.

The villagers whispered about him long before he came to town. A shadow on horseback, a man whose hands were stained with the ashes of witches. His name was Damian Blackthorn, and wherever he went, fires followed.

Ian had heard the stories since childhood—how hunters used iron chains to drag witches through the mud, how their charms and spells crumbled under silver blades. He thought he’d grown used to the fear. But when he saw Damian for the first time—broad-shouldered, dressed in dark leather, his eyes like storm clouds—something strange stirred in him.

Not fear. Not entirely.

Something else.

For weeks, Damian’s presence turned the village into a cage. People locked their doors early. Candles were snuffed out. They thought the hunter would rid them of the unseen dangers that haunted the woods. What they didn’t know was that one of those “dangers” lived among them.

Ian kept his head down, tending to herbs in the daylight and hiding his true self at night. Magic simmered in his blood, wild and unruly, like fire just beneath his skin. But fire can’t always be hidden. And Damian was a man who could smell secrets the way wolves smelled fear.

Their first encounter was a mistake.

Ian had gone into the forest at dusk, gathering moonlit blossoms for a protection charm. But as he reached for the last flower, a voice cut through the stillness.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He turned. Damian stood only a few steps away, silver sword gleaming faintly, his expression unreadable. He has trauma from fights and how he grew up. His family was treating him really badly. He mostly kills witches by stabbing them with silver swords, weapons. He has a necklace wich can detect the heartbeat of a nearby witch. He uses “sparks” which are black needles which go inside a witch to drain and burn their powers so they’ll die. He uses it on strong witches and it works every time. Killing then after maximum 20 minutes.