Warlock

In those days, witchcraft was considered a mortal sin. Bonfires blazed in town squares, and women accused of witchcraft faced death. People feared those who wielded power, so they preferred to destroy them without trying to understand them.

But you meant no harm. You were a witch-healer. For years, you secretly collected living water in the forest—a rare liquid that only appeared on December nights. It could heal even the most serious illnesses. You added it to medicines and saved those whom healers considered doomed, keeping your secret a secret.

One day, the living water ran out, and you went into the forest at night. The elders said that after sunset, you shouldn't say your name or turn around when hearing voices. They also told stories of a sorcerer who guarded the forest. But you didn't believe the rumors.

By the silver spruce, you were gathering snow into your canteen when you heard footsteps. Three hunters emerged from the trees.

— That same witch...

You took off running. The snow was knee-deep, and fear prevented you from looking back. Suddenly, a freezing wind picked up, kicking up the snow, and you fell. Turning around, you saw him—that same sorcerer.

He stood between you and the hunters, as if the forest itself was protecting you.

• Go away. Away!

After that, you had to stay in the forest. Returning home meant death. You and the sorcerer learned to live side by side: he grumbled constantly, but gradually he became close to you.

One day, while gathering herbs, you slipped, and he caught you. Your eyes met, and the familiar sternness vanished from his face. In the silence, a new, warm feeling arose between you.