Chapter Text
“By the power vested in this Sacred Coven, and protected by the Book of Shadows, we bestow you the name Jane. The world has been made by our fingers, feminine craft seeping into the divine Earth. We, the women, are the sole protectors of our girls. You must never trust men, for they are liars, who wish to eradicate us. A Stardust Woman shall never associate with man.”
On the very top of a lonely hill, sat a group of 30 women - old and young, infants, toddlers, grown and the elderly. A large finishing school named Whiddershins House, surrounded by acres of woods that had been growing for thousands of years. The establishment had been on Pandelle Hill for centuries, housing a long-lasting bloodline that only grew larger with every rotation around the sun. From the outside to the naked eye, it looked simply to be an asymmetrical black mansion, with steep trimmed roofing and hanging gables. It was adorned with pointed arches, window frames bordered by white planks of wood, resembling that of a dollhouse. When the heavy front door creaked itself open, what awaited inside was a sisterhood of witches, a building full of pentacles and the smell of sage. Real witches, blessed with innate powers from the universe, living in a safe haven for each individual girl to have their own personal ability. The girls inside dedicated their time to connecting with Mother Earth, taught by the High Priestess, who had been running the coven for almost 60 years after she took over from the last witch who had returned to the ground she was born from. Each witch was required to document their learnings, and hide their scriptures in a various amount of spelled bookshelves. This was a sacred rule that had been carried from generation to generation. After all, no world was safe with Man in.
The Witch’s Hill was situated in the north of a nation named Hawk’s End. It was a fierce conqueror of the seas, its army well known for taking out pirates on the shore. The soldiers were ruthless, full of bloodthirsty venom, ruled by a King who had lost his wife many years ago to a murder that was never solved. With nobody else to blame other than the accused witches upon the hill, the king became a tyrant, a dictator, haunted by the loss of his wife. He was left a widower with a young son, who was forced into the Royal Arm from the age of 14. Training was intense and brutal on this young boy, who wished to have a normal life. He heard tales from palace handmaidens and other Arm’s who spoke about the Witch’s Hill, his curiosity growing rampant and more apparent every day. Unbeknownst to him, his very father would put a plan in motion for the rest of his life that would change his outlook on the world and would drastically lead his morality astray.
“Michael. You need to listen to me.” His booming voice left goosebumps on his arms.
“You cannot let yourself be a victim of these ungodly beings. Do you understand me? They are born with darkness, and they will die with darkness. They would not hesitate in snapping your neck. Just like their kind murdered your mother.” His fathers fingers were digging into his soft arms, leaving bright red indentations. The young boy was soft, malleable, his view on life easy to shape into one of hatred.
“We must hunt them down, and we must exterminate them.”
That fateful day, the Royal Arm’s hunters, and the King and Prince, marched up to the top of the hill. The day was a Sabbat and one of the Eight, specifically Samhain. The women inside were celebrating and jesting as the veil between the worlds had once again thinned for their annual reunification with passed witches from hundreds of generations. Offerings were left in ritual circles, candles lit and sage bundles burning to clean out any bad spirits, but no sage was enough to stop the growing threat approaching their safe haven. Their High Priestess had forgotten to cast a protection spell on their house. She had hoped that the main city had ignored their presence, and had no suspicion of witchcraft. But word travels like wildfire and you must not be caught unprepared. The High Priestess had left them defenseless, and it had dire consequences. As written in the Malleus Maleficarum, you had to provide three points of proof to accuse a woman of being a witch - the evil intentions of the witch, the help of the Devil, and the permission of God. In the eyes of the King, he needed no proof. The door to the front door was kicked down by two of the Arms, witnessing some of the witches sat in ritual circles, objects were floating in thin air as younger, bright faced witches were practising their divine abilities. All eyes fell onto the men at the door, as the order was given by the King, and the bloodshed began.
The soldiers had no mercy. They had been instructed to kill, and kill they shall. 14 year old Prince Michael was forced to watch.
The youngest witches were first to die. Kill the offspring, said the King. Their powers aren’t strong enough to fight back yet. Their blood splattered, floating objects clattering to the floor with loud thuds and glass smashing.The elder witches put up more of a struggle in a brave attempt to protect each other. A few of the Arms deceased, their eyes rolling back into their heads, their hearts stopping. Banshee screams louder than thunder making their eardrums burst and their necks being twisted clean. But it was not enough. For every one witch, there were 5 men.
Swords were swung cleanly, screams were leaking out of every crease in the building. 10 of the Witches were in the house, the other 20 women outside. Deep in the forest creating more offerings, they heard the cries of their fallen sisters, fear falling over all of them. The High Priestess was in the forest, she hadn’t placed a protection spell for them this Samhain. She had failed. Her eyes turned onto the group of 20, a calm expression on her face.
“Children. My beautiful daughters. I am so incredibly sorry, I have failed to protect our beautiful sisters. Please forgive me.” She knelt in front of the group of girls, her hair covering the tears on her face.
“Please, you must hide and stay alive. We cannot let our kind die out on this night. Go forth and seek refuge from these infidels. The coven will be left in the hands of the esbat when the violence dies down. Let the darkness lead you to bed, and the stars give you your answers. So mote it be. ” The coven responded in affirmation.
“So mote it be.”
She gave each of her witches a kiss on the cheek, a morbid atmosphere falling upon their shoulders as they looked at the oldest witch in the coven. They all knew the rules of leading. It was the heaviest weight to bear, being responsible for your witches and overseeing their studies. You fail as head of your coven, failing to protect them from harm, you succumb to your fate with your fallen sisters. Eyes falling upon their mansion of magick, she disappeared down the spiralled pathway to give up her title and her life for the biggest Sacred Sin in the scripture - Protection Incompetence. Never underestimate the danger around your family. Be prepared for the worst. The rest of the living witches hid under the blanket of night as they watched their beloved coven leader fall to the ground, her throat slashed by the King. Nobody cried, too horrified by the sights that had occurred. Except one young witch. 13 year old Jane. The most empathetic, loving witch of the coven was crying. Thick, snotty tears. She had seen this happen in her scrying practise. She knew something evil, bigger than any other threat, was coming for her family. And she knew the bitter truth of the future, too.
The King’s revenge would not ease, for his son would take the torch of tracking down witches and removing them from this plane of existence.
Michael hated witches - and thus began the Great Witch Hunt.
The Autumn season had fallen with crisp leaves on the cobbled stones, and a slight cold chill in the air. The breeze was satisfying, a contrast from the scorching sun during the summer season. Crops were thriving, a bountiful harvest for the citizens of the quaint land. The colours of orange and red had started sprouting on the oak trees spread through the gardens, covering the floor in hues similar to fire. It had been 4 years since the start of the Great Witch Hunt, troops were heading out every two weeks to search all outerlands past the moors around centre city. This included patrolling Pandelle Hill with a heavy presence of Arms, the swamp marshes over the fields where smaller settlement villages were, and even as far out as the coastline of Hawk’s End. The Arms were told to detain any woman suspected of being a witch and take her to the secured prison underneath the castle gates. Every single girl in the nation knew that the trials were rigged, and if you were thought to be a witch, it was a sentence worse than death. There was no justice, the Malleus Maleficarum becoming practically unused in court law which meant you were either guilty and dead, or not guilty and still dead. The king had a deep rooted, festering vendetta against any person associating with witchcraft, instilling fear into all young girls and mothers, who would then avoid any interaction with anyone who put a foot out of the teachings of God. In the king’s eyes, his nation was perfect. No witches, and no rebellion.
The witches had never left, of course. After the massacre of Whiddershin’s House, the remaining 20 had escaped over the grassy hill into a cave inside the top of Pandelle Hill. The rain was hammering on the ground, a telltale sign of unhappy balance in the afterlife. They did exactly as they were told, waiting out the violence at the house and monitoring any activity upon the hill to not blow their cover. The King had been assured that all of the witches had been eradicated, ordering the troops to retreat down the mountain back into the castle grounds. The coven returned to their home, and the mourning started. It was from that moment on, that the witches launched their full fledged undercover operation upon the hill. An illusion spell, cast by one of the youngest witches, making it look like the building was unoccupied from the outside. Covered in ivy, windows with holes in the glass, weeds crawling up all sides of the building. It was enough to deter anyone from visiting the hill. Whiddershin’s House for Exceptional Young Ladies was renamed the House of Ghosts by the king, warning all citizens to never travel up to the gothic structure, for fear that demonic possession would occur by malevolent spirits of witches far gone. He had spun the story, narrating himself as the good king who had gone to respectfully witness the rituals of the students inside - and the cunning, no good witches inside had launched an attack on him and his son. The Arms had to intervene, he had announced, for the safety of the nation, and his young and precious son. In the eyes of the citizens of the once united nation, the ladies of the house were possessed by the Devil, evil flowing through their veins. He was not far from the truth, when it came to malevolent spirits full of anger and malice. The massacre had commenced on a holy day, the day of Samhain. The sleek worldly veil opened for all past witches to return to this world for that night, expecting to receive gifts and presents from their beloved siblings. Instead, 10 more crossed the veil with the gift of spilled blood. The spirits were indeed angry, bestowing an abundance of ancient, multiworld power and essence into the sisters they loved so dearly, and their coven for their fight ahead. It was uncontrollable, electrifying power, shooting through the twenty remaining girls. They returned to their studies in the house, never venturing out past the wall of disguise. For safety, they used different names, all numbers - one to twenty. In order of age, a perfect disguise for their real, moonblessed names. They were hidden, and so it shall stay.
Jane, now 18 years of age and flourishing as an incredibly talented mage, was bestowed with the most extraordinary gifts, and incredible at divination. She studied incredibly hard, and was the most loving and caring witch in the coven. When it came to her sisters, she never hesitated to protect them with her life, and this dedication led the spirits in the old Therebefore decide to give her the core of ancient powers to protect the rest of her coven. She was far too young to be High Priestess, the responsibility falling onto number One of the coven, a woman in her late 50s named Athen. She knew Jane was priceless, and the next heiress to lead the coven. But her power was incredibly unpredictable and unstable. She followed the guidance of the spirits beyond the veil and helped Jane to harness them in weekly one to one sessions where they practiced rituals in the house to strengthen the bond between ancient deities and Jane’s innate ability. Jane also had to do individual practice to keep her emotions under control, the powers she held anchoring onto her humanity like a hook. When she was upset, or angry, the outcome of the bestowed powers were disastrous, and they had to be calmed before causing destruction. So, Jane studied, and practiced, until late at night when her powers were strongest. And so far, it was going incredibly well for her.
The city was full of bustle. People in the city centre were spending their day walking in the market stalls, bargaining with shop keepers for cheaper fabrics, or gold, or even chocolate sweets for their little ones. The nation was prospering, life bursting out of the seams. Citizens were happy - To a certain point. Taxes were high, and food and jobs were becoming scarce. It was unavoidable, and “necessary”, to the dismay of the poorer individuals living in further out settlements who had to travel for their food and clothing but pay the same amount of taxes as city dwellers. The King was greedy, using the extra funding from the taxing of his citizens to fund wider, broader Witch Hunts, and also sending funds across the sea to neighbouring nations to keep allies in preparation of a potential conflict in the future. The squeeze was tight on communities, men working longer hours in the mines and the fields, women taking up smaller jobs such as sewing and creating outfits for the castle or baking and selling at markets. There was no budging from the king on lowering taxes. The King was fueled by his hate for witchcraft. He would make his weekly announcement to the citizens, promising their extra money was for a great cause, for their protection. Why wouldn't they trust their good king? He was keeping them all safe from the Demons on The Hill after all.
Prince Michael was now 19, and had grown into a handsome young man with desirable features.Much to the disappointment of his father, he was not interested in romance, or courting princesses from neighboring countries for the sake of war allies. Michael was haunted by the loss of his mother, oil on the fire of a raging fury in his soul that never eased. His mother was his best friend, she understood him, and was always present for him. Unlike his father, who only started to speak to him properly when she had passed on. Even then, his father was only interested in Michael becoming a leader, and a man prepared to be King someday. Following the murder of the ladies on the hill when he was only 14 years old., Michael had trained to become the leader of the Witch Hunters, running all operations on behalf of his father. Intense battle preparation, interrogation tactics, torture methods - He knew it all. However, he rarely went on hunts with his men, but recently, they had been returning with nothing. No proof of witchcraft, no witches. The Prince was convinced they weren’t looking hard enough, not using their sources and tips resourcefully, and had decided it was his time to start hunting them down himself. In honor of his mother, the ungodly women would not survive his wrath. He was ready to search high and low for them.
Michael awoke on a bright morning, the sun blinding through his window as his own personal wake up call. The goose feather pillows under his head were soft like heaven, and he could not bring himself to lift his head off them at first. If he had no responsibility, no duties to attend to, this is where he would stay - In his king sized, four poster bed, sinking into the sheets like a warm river of comfort. But, as per his birth, he could not do that. Sitting up, and giving his eyes a weak rub, he realised that today was the day of his first Witch Hunt with the troops in almost a year. The fire in his stomach sparked at the thought of leaving the castle walls, away from the handmaidens and away from the postboys giving him more letters of courtship. With that thought, he jumped out of the bed, pulling on the clothes he had been waiting to wear for almost a year, lacing up the black leather boots. His tunic was as black as his hair, black as coal, which fell in short curls down his face. He knew he was handsome, and was part of his charm. He knew he was lusted for, but he just couldn’t bring himself to court, out of fear she would also be targeted by the witches praying for the collapse of his family. He took a brisk walk down to the weaponry, taking his sword off of the metal rack, briefly studying the blade. It was made of sharpened, tinted metal, with a trim of obsidian along the handle. The royal coat of arms was branded onto the pommel. It was a beautiful weapon, and he was handy with it too. The training dummies in the weaponry said so. Sliding it into his sheath on his back, he entered into the War Room, where the plan for the patrol of the day was for. His father was sitting at the head of the table, advisors stood around him, all chatting with each other. He gave his father a brief bow.
“Father.” His voice caught the attention of the advisors and the Arms, who all bowed at his arrival.
“My son! Good morning to you!” The king gave a chesty laugh, peeling himself out of his seat and walking over to his son that towered above him. He playfully slapped Michael’s cheeks with both hands, making his son recoil with an embarrassed look on his face.
“You must be elated to go out today, seeing as you’re up so early!” The King smirked, taking a sip of the wine in his chalice.
“You’re drinking at dawn, father? That’s not good for you at all. You’re going to stop your own heart. Saves the witches a big job, I suppose.” Mike retorted back, and proceeded to hang his cape over the chair of the table, studying the plan ahead of him. His eyes scanned the route of the patrol. He nodded to himself, tapping the lines with his finger. Out to the settlements, through the marshes, then to the hill. Seemed like a consistent plan.
“Michael, son, did Page give you those letters from the-”
“From the princesses. Yes, Father, I got them, yet again.” He rolled his eyes as he spoke, leaning against the arm of the chair on the table.
“Can you tell them to stop trying to get me to court their daughters? I’m not interested right now. We have no war to prepare for, there’s no need for me to bring in a woman to be my wife, Father.”
“There is always a war to prepare for, Michael. Just because we haven’t had any witch sightings doesn’t mean they’re gone for good. You know this, son. There is no harm in speaking to one or two of them.” The king broke his own sentence with a long slurp of his wine, making Michael’s face twist with disgust.
“You’re a pig, Father. Besides, why do they all have to be princesses? What if I want to settle with a girl from the city, or from the outer settlements? They’re all women.” He picked up the scroll that detailed his route, tucking it into his pocket of the cape.
“You know why, son.” His father’s eyes glinted with disgust, “If they are royal, we can guarantee they aren’t an Ungodly Woman. You do not want your offspring growing up with the devil in their soul.” He put his chalice down heavily, before grabbing his son by the collar with a drunken hand.
“Never forget what happened to your Mother, Mike. My queen. We must reduce all risk of them ruining our lineage. They are filth.” The grip was tight, the material of Mike’s tunic digging into his own neck like a dog collar. It was almost reminiscent of who was in charge. He shrugged his father off, once again unimpressed by his father’s drinking habits.
“For god’s sake, Father, you need to stop drinking. I’m going to start getting the kitchen staff to lock the liquor cabinets.” Mike ran a hand through his hair, before adjusting his collar. He had never understood his father’s love for wine, and why he drank it so early in the morning. It was rotting his body from the inside, and intoxicating his mind every morning for at least two years. It had become routine, his father drinking and going to bed at midday, while Mike took his place in correspondence. It was almost like he lived alone, and he didn’t mind it much.
“Don’t you dare, Mike. Now be gone, will you? I have handmaidens waiting to bathe me.” His father gave a disgustingly loud laugh, his big belly moving with every guffaw. Mike mumbled “cretin” under his breath, before putting his cape over his shoulders and walking to the stables to retrieve his horse, Ceridwen, from the hut. The Arms were already saddled up and waiting for him by the gates. He hoisted himself up onto his horse, adjusting the reins, before heading to the front of the troop.
“Gentleman. Let us commence today’s hunt.”
Jane was laid upon the peak of Pandelle Hill, in a bed of dandelions and tulips. She was staring up, straight into the bright blue sky which had not even a speck of cloud. It was serendipitous, quiet, and terribly wrong of her. She was not allowed outside of the walls of the charmed building, the coven afraid that somebody would spot her using magic and see through the disguise. Jane had been sneaking out every week for the last year, and had never been seen, so she assumed it to be safe on top of the hill. She used to lay on the grass with Kali, her sister, but she was far too tired nowadays. Kali was the master of illusions, and she was the witch keeping up the disguise protecting their home. Twenty four hours a day, every day. Her incantation lasted for 12 hours, so she was doing her ritual twice a day to keep the disguise up. It was heavily draining on her soul, so she spent most of the day in her bed, recovering in the time between spells. Jane wouldn’t say she felt lonely, but she missed having company beside her under the sun and the moon. Nowadays, everyone was incredibly paranoid about the hunts that happened each week, hoping they would never be threatened by the King’s Guard again. That day repeated in her head over and over, the blood inside their once safe home, the bodies laid out on the floor. She could remember it all, feel it all in her touch, smell the metallic in the air. If she could go back and change the outcome, she would. But as the High Priestess says, everything happens for a reason. She sat up, the emotion building in her veins, the power sparking between her fingers. She was still learning to keep her emotions under control, much to her own frustration. The powers that had been gifted to her by the ancestors was such a heavy load, it weighed her down most of the time. She held her hand out in front of her, staring at her palm, her fingertips glowing a pale red. She shut her eyes, the particles dissipating from her fingertips. Imagine a calm environment, restrain the anger. Think happy thoughts. She let out a deep sigh, bringing her knees to her chest. Her hair fell down her shoulders, a dark brown with light waves, framing her soft face. She sat there for a while, drifting off into the land of sleep. Napping under the protection of the trees was always a fun activity for her, running through her dreams and wreaking havoc. It was a simple way to have fun when you aren’t worrying about being caught by men who want to have you exterminated. She had never had any sympathy for men, knowing what they have done to witches in the past - Extracting their blood and injecting it into soldiers, turning them into halflings, half warlock and half human. It was a pathetic way of taking what doesn’t belong to them. They couldn’t handle the feminine power anyways, it wasn’t for them. They usually ended up dying in battle anyways. The thought brought a giggle to Jane’s lips. It wasn’t long before the sound of horse shoes upon the gravel path awoke her, instantly setting off every fight or flight reaction in her body.
Mike and his men had left the castle abruptly, starting their patrol across the settlements out of the city. He monitored his men as they questioned women and girls, making sure they were missing no answers, and only moved onto the next area when he was satisfied with the level of investigation they had done. He watched the mothers and girls quake with silent fear as they approached, and it confused him - Why be afraid if you have nothing to hide? He didn’t understand really, but he partially could see why a large group of royal Arms entering the small villages could be seen as intimidating. He gave the order to proceed onto the next area, the swamp marshes, where there was nobody to be seen.
“I want you all to search around the marshes. I’m going to get a head start at the top of the hill myself. If you find nothing, go back to the castle and create your reports.” He called out, the soldiers following his orders with no hesitation. He flicked the reins, his horse making her way up the winding path to the peak of Pandelle Hill. He wasn’t expecting to find anything there, in all honesty. He wanted an excuse to look at that damned house, and relive that day in his head. To remind him what he was fighting for, and why. He reached the top of the peak, hearing the grass rustling suddenly.
“Hello? Is there someone there?” He called out, eyebrows furrowed. He saw nothing appear, only the sound of the grass moving. Jane had heard him approaching, realising there was not enough time to recite an invisibility incantation. She was internally panicking, hiding behind a thick tree trunk. Every part of her body was stiff, in the hope she would not be seen. Mike had a keen eye, something he had learned from his mother. He saw the edge of a pink skirt stuck on a poking out piece of wood bark.
“I can see you. Show yourself.” His voice was deep, gruff, full of authority. If she ran now, she would seem suspicious, and it would get her in trouble. Taking a breath, she stepped out from the tree, making eye contact with him. His breath got caught in his throat, taken aback by how beautiful this forest dwelling girl was. He almost forgot why he was there for a moment, his cheeks a rosy pink. Jane was also staring, looking him up and down and scanning him for threats. Michael suddenly snapped out of his daze, realising that this woman, this beautiful woman, could be a threat to him. He turned his horse, staring down at the girl with an ice cold gaze.
“What are you doing up on this hill, maiden? Nobody ever comes up here.” He inquired, Jane rolling her eyes slightly in response.
“Exactly. It’s peaceful and quiet, or at least it was.” She sneered at him, her agitation growing at the presence of a man on her coven’s land. Mike raised an eyebrow in shock, taken aback by the pure audacity of this unknown woman he had run into. Did she not know who he was? Everyone in the nation knew who he was, it wasn’t possible to not recognise his face, or the coat of arms on the breastpocket which had been sewed in using precise stitching. Jane had no idea who he was, and the only thing she knew about this situation was that she was to always be cautious of men.
“Excuse me?” Mike scoffed in response, jumping down from his horse. This girl was short, a lot shorter than he was, and had a childlike face. He couldn’t stop looking into her eyes, pools of honey brown with thick lashes. He crossed his arms, shaking his head slightly with disbelief.
“You know you’re supposed to bow to me, right?” He smirked, a cocky smile appearing on his face. Jane looked none the wiser, eyebrows furrowed in a frown.
“Why would I bow to you? I bow to nobody.” She began walking, away from him, towards the downwards path of the hill. She was starting to make sense of who he was, probably some type of lord from the governing advisors. She heard him chuckle, a deep rumble, sending warning signs through her body. She had to get out of there, and quickly.
“You really don’t know who I am, huh?” Mike was trailing behind her, insistent on his interrogation of this girl.
“It’s more that I don’t care who you are. Now, good day.” She was walking faster now.
“I am your prince, girl. And you will answer me.” Mike had to catch up to her, instinctively reaching out and grabbing her arm with a grip like iron. Jane flinched at the contact, whipping her head to look at him. The boy from the massacre. This was the little prince that watched his father kill her sisters? Now hunting for them himself? Her blood was boiling under her skin, eyes narrowed unto his.
“Unhand me.” She snapped, trying to wiggle her way out of his hand. The situation was becoming more and more dangerous by the second. If she was found out by him, she was dead on the spot, and her sister’s at risk of being located too.
“I don’t take orders, I give them. Now, what’s your name?” Mike pressed, his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arm. He realised how tight his grip was, easing his grip and pulling her towards him.
“I don’t give my name to random men in the forest. You will not be the first.” She stood still, staring at him with a damning gaze. Mike smirked slightly, the situation becoming incredibly entertaining to him. Whoever this girl was, she was a hard shell to break. He hadn’t experienced pushback from someone in years, too used to hearing the castle staff respond to him with Yes, Sirs. Jane, on the other hand, was panicking internally. He was far too close to her, and she knew he was attempting to interrogate her for answers, to see if she was an enemy to him.
“Is that so? Then let me ask you another question. Why are you sitting at the top of a hill The King announced was haunted?” He whispered, seeing Jane’s eyes snap to meet his.
“I told you, it’s quiet up here. It helps me think.” She protested, still attempting to wiggle her way out of his grip. He didn’t release her arm, pushing her back against a tree. She had no way of escaping, but didn’t show an ounce of fear in her face.
“Do you know what happened on this hill? Murder happened here. In that abysmal building covered in ivy. Innocent men murdered, and devil worshippers exterminated inside.” He muttered, leaning his arm above her on the tree. Jane’s breath was caught in her throat at the mention of that godforsaken lie, her heart beating faster it felt as if it would jump out of her chest. He was so close to her, she could smell the scent of citrus on his clothing.
“So why would a pretty maiden like yourself spend time up here? Maybe you’re one of them?” He tested, watching out for a reaction from this girl. He noticed how she took a sharp inhale, trying to push him off of her.
“I said, get off of me, you fool.” She hissed at him, more desperate now. She felt the familiar buzz at her finger tips, her body electrifying with the interrogation from this painfully handsome man.
Mike had a feeling she was one of them, some sort of instinct and analysation of her behavior. He could tell that his face had twisted into a face of disgust, but he had to have solid proof that she was one of the witches he had been searching in the lands for, for so very long.
“You saw didn’t you? When we killed all of your sisters.” He spoke the sentence in such a teasing, playful way, it almost distracted Jane from the despicable words he had uttered. The last of her patience had disappeared, a freezing cold breeze suddenly blowing over the hill. Blood was trickling out of her nose, her forehead veins popping as she stared at Mike’s face. His hand suddenly released from her arm, before Jane threw her hand out in front of her, the prince’s body flying back into another tree. He groaned out, more in shock rather than in pain. He was stunned. There was an actual witch, right in front of him. A feeling of disgust and anger settled over his body, getting to his feet and drawing his sword. He gave a breathy laugh, wiping mud off his face with his sleeve.
“You want to fight me, girl? Let us fight then.” He ran towards her, sword swinging at her leg. Jane was faster than him, her arm moving to pause the sword mid swing, jerking her head upwards to make Mike stumble backwards. He swore under his breath, rolling backwards and perching on one knee. How was she predicting all of his movements? He only had seconds to realise his sword was floating, staring him directly in the face, before shooting towards him. He swiftly dodged it, grabbing the girl's ankle and pulling her to the floor with a tug. He physically overpowered her, placing his arm on her shoulder and pinning her to the floor. She was staring up at him, the blood from her nose smeared around her face. He smirked at her, watching how her hand twitched, trying to summon any power to push him off. His sword game rebounding, the blade nicking the edge of his cheek, the cut seeping with blood.
“You play a fair game, witch.” Jane spat in his face, the spit landing on his lip. He raised an eyebrow, running his tongue over where it landed. He was once again thrown by unseen forces, pinned up against a tree. He struggled, his eyes narrowing with a furious darkness. He had pushed too far, he thought, this is where he dies. Jane had risen to her feet, her hands outstretched in front of her.
“You will leave, and tell nobody about this. Understand?” She put her hands down, Mike falling onto his knees in front of her.
“Now who’s bowing?” She smirked, a malevolent smile creeping onto her face.
The prince rose to his feet, pulling his obsidian sword from the floor and walking towards Jane. His hand pushed her back against the tree, while the other hand brought the blade edge of his sword to the middle of her neck, pressing lightly. Jane didn’t dare move, her eyes darting between his eyes.
“You know, I only needed proof of you using magic to make sure you were what I thought you were. And you fell straight into my trap, little bird.” He pressed his blade harder, hard enough to leave a small dent in the soft skin of Jane's neck.
“Kill me then, Prince. Won’t you take my life in trade for your mothers?” The mention of his mother shot a pain through his chest, studying Jane’s face. She didn’t look afraid, smiling slightly. It infuriated him, pulling his blade away from her neck swiftly and resheathing it. He tutted, shaking his head and stepping away from Jane, who had taken a deep inhale, feeling the line on her neck.
“I will not kill you today. Run along to your sisters, and tell them what you’ve started, will you? As of this moment, you’re officially a dead witch walking.” He whispered, before walking back to his horse and saddling up. He clicked the reins, his horse galloping down the pathway away from the shell-shocked Jane. Why did she not feel afraid? She should be, seeing as that was a declaration of war against her family. Her fear was replaced by anticipation, of wondering when she would get to see him again. She sank to the floor of the tree, her fingers ghosting over the line where the sword lay. Her stomach was full of butterflies, as if she was longing for their dance of violence to commence again.
Mike left the hill feeling oddly giddy, but he could not place his fingers on exactly why. Maybe it was the fact he had finally found a witch after years of searching, or maybe the fight left lasting adrenaline and emotions for this random girl he had found? Excited to find her again, to fight her again, see what other damage she could deal to him. He brushed off these emotions swiftly, knowing that next time he saw her, he would be bringing her into the castle to keep her as a prisoner, and to set a precedent to other women like her - This is what will happen if you are found to be a witch.
But deep in his soul, he hoped that she would fight back against him, and engage in their flirtatious game of courting violence just a little longer.