Witch Hunter [Chapters 1-11 Free]

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[Cogent Dream]

Author's foreword:
To my "fans", those of you who are still reading this:

Unfortunately, I'm going to stop posting chapters at ten and may remove this thread entirely. After finishing, I'll be looking for editors and beta readers before sending it to an agent. If you desperately want to keep reading after chapter ten, keep an eye out for when I start asking for editors/beta readers!



Blurb

There is a witch within the Seventh Circle. One that must be killed.

Thrust down the path of revenge by the murder of his parents, young Aion Thorne wanders a dark world of blood and magic to find the witch responsible. But it takes more than a mask of false
confidence and cold-heartedness to kill a real witch.

With the culprit hiding behind a fortress of deceit and manipulation, Aion will need to learn how to feel, love and distrust lest he be swept away by a world of lies.

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✠ Chapter One: The Innocence of Youth
✠ Chapter Two: The Old and the New
✠ Chapter Three: Two Hunters One Prey
✠ Chapter Four: A Giant Disappointment
✠ Chapter Five: Hope
✠ Chapter Six: Behind the Mask
✠ Chapter Seven: Before the Hunt
✠ Chapter Eight: Badlands
✠ Chapter Nine: All That is Left Behind
✠ Chapter Ten: Complications
✠ Chapter Eleven: Initiation

[Cogent Dream]

Chapter One: The Innocence of Youth

The target ran into the woods. Perfect.

Drawing a deep breath, he felt the thrill of the hunt awaken within him. Splinters fell from his cloak as he crashed through the house. Remnants of the door crunched beneath his feet as he launched himself after the fleeing woman.

Thud. Acutely, he felt his knees bend as he landed. He let his centre of gravity drop for a second longer, before kicking hard and propelling himself forwards. Never once did his eyes leave the target.

Sprinting with the powerful grace of a horse, he cut a parallel course. Adrenaline rushed through him, making him faster, making the breath come more easily to his lungs. Branches flashed past chaotically as he broke through the tree line, and caught telltale glimpses of a white robe flapping ahead.

Drawing his sword, he crashed sideways onto a different trail. There was a brief moment of respite, punctuated by the distant sound of foliage cracking underfoot. Swiftly, he reviewed the trap in his head.

It was simple really. Any living target would instinctively retreat from a source of danger. If he came in through the front door, the target would exit through the back. She would go straight into the nearby woods and instinctively follow the path of least resistance. Even if that path was one he had made especially for her.

The cracking sound grew louder. The two trails would soon intersect.
A white shape burst through the brush on his right. Immediately, he dropped low and slashed out. Fabric tore as the blade missed flesh.

Quickly, he twisted his wrist so the sword wouldn’t embed itself in a nearby tree. The target reached into her robes.

Off balance from his swing, he let the momentum bring him around and lowered his shoulder. Crunch. Driving his shoulder into the target’s chest, he brought her to the floor.

Leaping to his feet, he kicked her wrist before she could use whatever she had concealed in her clothing. A bag of coins skittered away, and for a brief moment, he was surprised – had she tried to purchase her life?

“Do you know anything about what happened four years ago at the Thorne residence?” he hissed malevolently, regaining his composure as he lowered the tip of his sword to her neck.

Terrified, she shook her head. Without any further comment, he buried his blade in the earth. Blood pooled around his feet.

* * *

Sigal, Capital of Lumir; it was a fairytale city of prosperity and peace. At least, that was what the Imperium wanted everyone to think. He thought that he made a rather fitting addition to the city’s image; walking down the main road carrying a severed head.

His fifteenth kill. By itself, that figure was impressive. Most averaged around nine kills before they were put into forced retirement. Death was an occupational hazard for a Witch Hunter. Kind of like a baker dropping a tray of cookies on his feet. Magic could savage, destroy, annihilate ... and any other equally pleasant synonym one could think of.

The other impressive thing about his fifteenth kill was his age. Fifteen summers old. The coincidence was mildly interesting. More remarkable was the sight of an eleven year old hauling the corpse of a full grown man through town. Eleven. His first kill.

How he had been brought into this world of death was quite the same as every other Hunter. Loved ones had been lost at the hands of witches and always, a helping hand had been there to guide them. The only difference was that he was the youngest to have chosen this path.

As always, the monotonous trek back to the Hunting Hall induced in him a reflective trance. Fifteen kills but not a single step closer to completing his vengeance. The witches knew nothing. They never knew. No one could tell him who had been at the Thorne residence that night ...

The usually spotless manila walls were painted dark red with blood. The corpses were beyond recognition. The victims had not been simply killed. If anything, they had exploded – the after effect of which was this nightmarish scene. And in the middle of it all, still dripping with the fresh blood of his parents, was a child.

“Do you hate them?” asked a voice, not unkindly. “Do you hate the ones who did this to you?”

The child nodded slowly. The stench was so strong he could almost taste it; a metallic tang that dried his tongue.

“In the kitchen is a gift to you, if you are strong enough of heart to use it. Outside is the new gardener your mother hired. He was the one who opened the gate for them. He is working with them. In his jealousy of your family’s wealth, he started this all.”

Limp and lifeless, the child shuffled towards the kitchen. The stranger was gone but as promised, there upon the table was a gift. A dagger, long but thin enough for a child to handle. He stared at it dumbly.

Click. Click. Click.

The gardener worked away, unaware of what had recently occurred inside the manor. To him, there was nothing at all wrong in the world today. Such ignorance was aggravating.

Seizing the blade with newfound vigour, the child affected a silent prowl and slid through the nearby door leading into the garden.

Click. Click. Click.

Busily working away, the gardener did not even turn his head. The child walked quickly until he was right behind the older man. Only then did the gardener turn, just in time to see a blood-soaked child thrust a dagger into his lower ribs. The blade slid through flesh easily, stopping only when it reached the rain guard.

Hours later the City Guard was roused. Apparently, there was a child of no more than eight, dragging a dead man at least twice his size into the Hunting Hall. Aion Thorne had killed his first witch.

He was brought out of his reverie by almost walking into a doorframe. Before him was a familiar scene. The Hunting Hall was, essentially, a large tavern or inn. The “Hall” must have come from the unusual fact that this particular building was far longer than it was wide. The “Hunting” must have come from the fact that it was here that Witch Hunters gathered to take on new missions and to receive bounties.

The Hunting Hall had two large feasting tables spanning the length of the premises. The wall to the left of the entrance was obscured by a veritable fortress of wine casks and barrels, and other nameless drinks that Aion had never developed a liking for. The right side led to the kitchens, with a high counter stopping people from wandering in. It was always from below this counter that the innkeeper produced the bounties, but no one had ever seriously considered thieving from the Hunting Hall. It was their sanctuary.

A staircase was perched hazardously over a few wine barrels, leading to the upstairs rooms – most of which had become permanent residencies for Hunters. The far wall boasted an assortment of weaponry, and most importantly the Board, upon which jobs or missions were posted.

Three large wooden support pillars rose up in a row from the middle of the Hall, upon which torches flickered in their brackets. The extensive presence of wood, combined with the torchlight, cast a permanent amber glow that permeated the Hall. The result was a not unpleasant smoky scent that wafted through the Hall; aided by the ubiquitous pipes that the older Hunters coveted.

Today it was rather empty. The usual din was now but a mellow ambiance, like a whisper you had to strain your ears to hear. A dozen or so Hunters were seated at varying distances from each other, most of whom were nursing a mug of spirits. Ale was the most popular here. Wine was too expensive.

“Come now, Aion, this is most unreasonable.”

“What’s wrong, Dortan? I thought this was what you wanted?”

Dortan Halls was the owner of the Hunting Hall and server of the best food in Sigal. Or so he claimed. The name “Halls” was just a nickname. No one could remember his real name and “Halls” had stuck.

“Obviously not! You seem to have missed the point entirely, lad.” The man sighed and waved him in. Aion ventured deeper into the Hall.

This whole conflict between Dortan and Aion had arisen when the innkeeper had grown tired of “cleaning up the mess” as he put it. Aion was not an unreasonable child. If dragging the entire corpse of his target into the Hall was an inconvenience, he would improvise.

“Just a head this time, Dortan. Much smaller, much less messy. I can’t exactly bring you a finger or something, you wouldn’t be able to identify who it came from.”

Dortan shook his head. “You’re still missing the point, lad. Can’t you dump the body outside the city and show it to me like everyone else does?”

“Then I’d have to walk more,” he replied simply, dropping the head on the counter and taking a seat. “Five hundred coins for this one, from what I remember.”

Sighing, the innkeeper reached below the counter and pulled out a small pouch of coins, which he handed quickly to Aion. He then proceeded to remove the head from his premises, gingerly picking it up by the hair and not even looking at the face. Dortan had no need to identify the target. In this profession, reputation counted almost as much as ability. Aion would never bring in the wrong head.

“You hungry, lad?”

Aion was toying with the pouch absently. He didn’t bother counting the coins either. Reputation.

“More tired. Is my room prepared?”

Dortan grinned. If in nothing else, he took pride in his work. “You were gone for a long time, but it’s still there. I took the liberty of cleaning up inside. You make a mess of the sheets and floorboards. Would it kill you to finish your jobs with a little less blood everywhere?”

“It might,” said Aion, rising from his seat. “And if anything’s been looted by any of your boys, I’ll kill them.”

That was not an idle threat. While any Witch Hunter would think twice about raising a hand against Dortan himself, the boys he employed were another matter. And Dortan knew that Aion was protective of his meagre possessions. Especially the locket. Whether or not this was some remnant of the kid’s childhood, he did not know. But in the end, that’s what Aion was. A kid.

“Hey kid.” Dortan called out, making Aion turn before the stairs. “Why don’t you quit? Have a more peaceful life. You’re still young, lad. Spend more time being a boy.”

Aion tensed. Immediately, he considered whether the comment was made out of pity. He would never accept pity.

“I killed my first witch before most kids even touch a weapon,” he said coldly. “If I am young, it is only in numbers.”

Turning sharply, he proceeded up the stairs, an awkward silence dogging his path. Dortan sighed.

“Shouldn’t have done that, old man,” said a nearby Hunter. “That kid’s one of us now.”

“Oh yeah, Lux?” retorted Dortan testily. “My daughter’s his age and she still goes to school to learn how to sew and dance and speak proper. She talks to me about flowers and dresses and boys her age. The only thing Aion’s ever talked to me about is how I’d like him to bring in his kills. And he still ends up bringing a bloody head into my Hall, curse that kid.”

Lux drained his mug and set it down with a satisfied grunt. For a moment there was silence. Dortan could feel the atmosphere darken.

“How do you want that kid to act? He’s killed more people than your daughter’s had infatuations. You want him to talk to you about girls? The only girls he’s ever paid attention to are the ones he’s planned to kill. He’s one of us now, old man. This is a one way path. There’s no going back for him.”

* * *

The first thing Aion went to in his room was not the promising bed, but to where he left the locket. It was a simple circle of silver on a chain, but when he opened it there were two pictures – his father on the left and his mother on the right. In the corner of each picture was the scribbled mark of the craftsman who had done the drawings.

It was a woefully inadequate memoir, but it was the only thing Aion had thought to take with him. He had torn it off some fleshy bundle on his way out of his home. It was the locket that his mother always wore. By the time he had even thought to return to his manor, soldiers had torched the place. It was customary, in case the site became a future source of taint.

That was how it all began; the Tainting. About ninety years ago, twins were born with the ability to bring words to life. They had the gift known as “Speech”. They had only to say “fire” and the characters of the word would flit down their arms, like a black serpent, and burst into flames at their fingertips.

At first, people saw it as a gift. What wonders these twins could do for the world! For starters, their parents would never need firewood again. And then of course there was the fear of mass destruction.

By the time this “magic”, for that was what it essentially was, developed bad connotations, the twins had already wedded. They were wealthy and in their large manors, they had raised children who had also proven to have the gift, or curse, of magic – although less proficient in the power of Speech, they could cast spells through intricate incantations and gestures. What was disturbing to everyone else was that the magic had spread to the wives, who were not of the twins’ blood. It became apparent that magic spread through exposure of magic – otherwise known as taint. Anything exposed to magic was tainted, and was a risk to anything that it came into contact with. This period of time, spanning roughly three decades, became known as the Tainting. It was when the most witches had emerged. In time, the twins became known as the Original Twins or simply, the Twins.

Jerked back to the present by a feeling of dull pain, he released unclenched his fingers and found that he had been gripping the locket with painful tightness.

All his other possessions were secondary to the locket. No matter that, without the bag of coins, he would not be able to eat, and without the spare sword, he would be defenceless should the one strapped to his back be broken.

Those two items aside, there were copious amounts of fresh white bandages. Aion liked the simplicity of it. He was essentially bound with bandages when he left for a mission, over which he wore his plain grey cloak and equally nondescript pants. After a mission, he would inevitably be covered in blood. All he had to do was remove the bandages and soak his cloak and pants. Bathing was a luxury he could not afford. Every once in a while he would take a quick dip into the nearby river before the soldiers came and chased him away.

His leather boots were wearing thin; he would require new ones soon. Recently, he had been able to feel the p***k of sharp stones as he trod on them. As a result, his feet were now heavily callused.

Kicking the offending footwear off and removing his makeshift clothing, Aion sank gratefully into the bed, already staining the new white sheets. For a moment, he dreaded the dreams that would come, but weariness soon won over.

Complaints had been raised, of course. Was it ethical to let an eleven year old become a Witch Hunter? Did anyone actually care about ethics? Friends of the Thorne family had offered, albeit half-heartedly, to raise the child. In truth, the upper class loved to show concern but hated to take on commitments. So when it was Aion who refused them all, there was a measure of relief amidst the surprise.

“Don’t do it, lad. This is a dark world you’re walking into, and once inside, you’ll be lost.”

It was Dortan Halls, perhaps the only one who showed any genuine concern for the boy’s plight. The youngest known Witch Hunter before now had begun at sixteen, the age of majority. Aion hadn’t even grown hair anywhere besides on the top of his head.

“I hate them,” was the one and only reply.

For the preceding weeks, Dortan refused to let Aion take any jobs from the Board. Stubbornly, the boy had sat in the Hall, staring at the pinned up papers, as if he could absorb the words into his brain. It was quite obvious that he could only read half the words.

Soon, the boy had become a fixture in the Hall. The Hunters let their guard down a bit when they were in the Hunting Hall. It was their sanctuary. It wasn’t long before some of the Hunters began to treat Aion with what could only be called brotherly affection. Perhaps they saw the ghost of a lost sibling in his stance, or in the way his eyes blazed with childish determination. And eventually, inevitably, they talked about him becoming one of them.

“How are you going to hunt, lad?” protested Dortan. “Anyone here could throw you across the room. You’re as skinny as a newborn calf, lad.”

The Hunters laughed, but Aion took the question seriously. He was serious, after all. He would avenge his parents. He would extinguish his hatred with the lives of those who had started it all.
“I will be smart. I won’t fight a man face to face, but I can trap him and ambush him.”

For a moment, the laughter faltered. Even the Hunters found it unnerving for this child to be so icy. It was as if he had embraced death, rather than fear it, run from it and shun it.

Dortan gritted his teeth and handed Aion a piece of paper. “Here. A Level One Gluttony. Been stealing food in the upper district.”

Without a word, the boy hopped off his chair, gripped the long dagger at his side, and marched out of the Hall.

[Cogent Dream]

Chapter Two: The Old and the New

The acrid scent of burnt flesh lingered in the air. The villagers, bless their ignorant, superstitious souls, called it the smell of dying taint. It was simply the smell of the burning dead.

Rain fell in uneven sheets, causing a cacophony of crescendos that almost drowned out all other sounds. The downpour did not bother him though. Nature was power. Thus, being close to nature was tantamount to being close to power.

Mesmerised by the sheer might of the rain, he barely heard it; a sound that did not belong. Refocusing his mind back to his physical senses, he stood with a stillness that would have put a statue to shame.

“Nefarious!”

The voice came from just behind him, and it was that fact, more than anything else, that made him spin with dagger in hand. The force of the movement sent a shockwave of water spreading out from his shoulders, perpendicular to the falling rain.

“Ah, it’s you,” he said in a monotone that betrayed no emotion. “I should have known; you’re the only one stupid enough to call me by my name.”

“Would be best not to antagonise me, Nefarious. Not only am I your best agent, I’m the only one who knows what you’re doing.”

There was a moment of silence between the two, punctuated by the incessant downpour.

“So then, why are you helping me?” asked Nefarious slowly.

“Because it suits my purposes.”

For a brief moment, Nefarious thought about cutting the man’s throat on the spot, but discarded the thought immediately. He was too valuable. And he had managed to get right behind him without Nefarious hearing ...

Twitch.

On reflex, the finger on his dagger tensed. Quickly, Nefarious hid the weapon within the folds of his black cloak. He hoped the other man hadn’t noticed.

“So, how proceeds our matter with the Imperium?” asked Nefarious cautiously.

The other man smiled contently. “Well enough. There was rumour of further aggression, but we will be forewarned and prepared.”

“We’ll need more numbers.”

The other man laughed. He had a way with laughs. He could convey so much emotion through them. Usually it was aggression. Despite the torrential rain, the sound of that laugh chilled him.

“Where do you think you’re standing, Nefarious?”

He bit back a retort. This man was still too useful to be antagonised.

“A graveyard.”

“Exactly.”

* * *

He awoke to the sound of shouting.

Instinctively, the first thing he reached for was his sword. Blinking rapidly, he inspected his room blearily for a few seconds until he became fully alert. Nothing was out of place. The noise was coming from outside.

Dressing quickly in his cloak and pants, still stained from his last mission with blood and dirt from the woods, he made his way downstairs.

“Morning, Aion,” greeted Dortan immediately. For a second, he thought he detected nervousness in the innkeeper’s expression.

“What’s all the fuss?”

“The Imperium has made another move to banish the Exorcists. They claim the organisation isn’t necessary now that the Cleansing is over. They mean to delegate all witch matters to the common soldiers.”

“A bunch of old fools,” interrupted a nearby voice. It was Lux. “The Exorcists are the best. They’ve killed more witches than everyone else combined. If only I could get in ... I’d be able to find that bloody witch who ...”

Dortan gripped the taller man’s shoulder and Lux quietened. Grabbing a loaf of bread off the counter, Aion exited the Hall towards the source of the commotion. Dortan would charge him for the food later.

The scene outside surprised him. He didn’t remember the last time the Imperium had tried to abolish the Exorcists, but from what he could see, it seemed like a big deal. A temporary platform had been erected and a group of speakers were shouting atop the dais.

“– and the old, senile farts that deliberate the witch epidemic behind the safety of their high walls and personal guards are now trying to rob us of our justice! Who, if not the Exorcists, will kill the witches hiding amongst us? The Witch Hunters cannot! They only have the resources to deal with the trash who pickpocket and assault. What of the witches hiding amidst nobility? Taxing us near to death while providing us with no protection? The Holy Legion cannot! They are old war heroes who think past deeds will protect them. We need new heroes, we need the Exorcists –”

Aion had heard enough. There was nothing new being said. Everyone knew that the Exorcists were the only official organisation taking up an active role against the witches. After its establishment by the Imperium, the Exorcists had killed more than anyone had believed possible. And they didn’t take on the petty targets; they went for the big ones. Wealthy merchants, high-ranking officials and even minor nobility; anyone guilty of the crime of being tainted.

Regis “Light Bringer” was simply bitter that the Exorcists had stolen more fame than his loyal soldiers, who had ended the Tainting. The Holy Legion was comprised of old war dogs. They could not protect an ever-expanding metropolis. For that purpose, the Exorcists were necessary to uphold justice. They were justice. They had the information and the connections to track down any witch, leaving the low level ones to the freelance Witch Hunters by posting up missions on the Board. Aion was convinced the one he was looking for had to be a high level witch.

That did not help his plight at all, though. The Exorcists rarely accepted new members, and always, they would only pick the best. The last time they were recruiting was three years ago, and Aion had not passed the tests. He would just have to keep killing until he finally got his chance to join them.

* * *

The council was in uproar.

Regis pressed his thumb and forefinger into his temple, rubbing in a circular motion in a feeble attempt to clear away the pain.

“Preposterous! No single guild or organisation has the right to independence. That is Imperium law!”

There was an increase in volume as council members of the Imperium voiced their agreement. Another speaker rose.

“I think you must agree,” he said in a smooth voice that carried without him having to raise his voice. “That results speak for themselves. Long ago, the Esteemed Regis declared his new kingdom to be the centre of the world, where results would be rewarded and justice would reign hand-in-hand with prosperity. He called this kingdom Lumir, meaning Light in the old tongue. The witches are the darkness that threaten our light.

“In his desire to create justice, the Esteemed Regis made the Imperium a democracy. In order to reward results, he must now make it a meritocracy. Not only is independence well-earned, it is necessary for the future efficient operation of the Exorcist guild. Too many times has the Imperium obstructed justice by standing in the way of the Exorcists.”

There was a crescendo in the noise and even some applause. Regis sighed. There was nothing he could do now. They had used his own words against him. If he showed weakness now, the entire foundation of his Kingdom would be undermined.

“Very well,” he boomed in a voice untouched by age. “I hereby grant the Exorcist guild autonomy from the Imperium. This council is dismissed.”

There was a brief pause, in which disbelief clashed with feelings of defeat and victory, before the noise returned. But it was well known that Regis would only speak when he was decided, and when decided, his will would not be undone. Soon, the aggression faded and the Speakers took their leave.

As council members departed through numerous doors of the circular council room, Regis’s aide helped him from his throne. Regis took one last glance down at the departing Speakers. The representative for the Exorcists was looking up at him. For a moment, Regis thought he could see a smile.

“This whole democracy thing is a shame, sir. I find it amusing that it so closely resembles the word democari in our old tongue. ‘De’ for ‘un’ and ‘mocari’ for ‘successful’.”

Regis glanced around at the room he had so proudly built. It was a collection of rings, the smaller ones at the lowest level and each subsequent ring higher up so each Speaker could see each other. The most important Speakers stood at the second highest ring, while Regis and his staff occupied the top ring.

“Carmot, old friend, it was a novel idea taken from the nearby Kingdom of Lans. Blame me not for the word either, it is also theirs.”

Carmot opened the gold gilded door for Regis, who walked through slowly. Regis had good days and bad days. On a good day, he resembled a man half his age. On a bad day such as this, he seemed twice as old.

“Sir, was it wise to approve of their independence?”

Regis smiled. “If it’s any consolation, this changes very little. True, we may not interfere with them on trivial matters, but we now have the right to withdraw all financial support, and have the right to mobilise the Legion against them if it comes to that.”

Carmot smiled. “Always two steps ahead, sir.”

Regis lost his smile. “Not always ...”

* * *

It had been three days since his last mission, and Aion had only recently felt truly rested. In order to trap his last victim, he had spent days cutting a trail in the forest that was both subtle enough not to look suspicious and to lead his target in a leftward curve without her realising.

Tracking her had not been difficult. She had kept to herself mainly, venturing out only to get food. She had not returned to work after her crime, which was not surprising. In fact, there was very little about her that was surprising, which had been a great asset to him; he could expect her to react typically.

And so she had, falling right into the trap.

Only, there had been a slight hiccough in the plan. He had missed his first blow. Against a more dangerous target, that mistake could have proven fatal. Aion was a perfectionist. He had not ceased chiding himself since he had made that blunder.

The problem was, he reasoned, quite simply that he had not had a suitable opponent to hone his skills for a very long time. The usual jobs were on witches that barely fought back. He needed an opportunity to really release himself, to match his wit and strength against an opponent without needing to hold back.

“Looking for work again so soon, Aion?”

Dortan’s remark brought Aion back and he realised that he had been standing in front of the Board.

“I’m feeling unsatisfied,” he replied.

“Best not to take a job right now, lad.”

Gritting his teeth, Aion turned with as much menace as he could. “I’m not a child, old man. Do not treat me like one.”

“I’m not, lad,” he said gently. “But I know what you want. Something to test your mettle, aye?”
Aion felt his anger falter, despite himself. “Yes ...”

“Something like a test to become an Exorcist?”

“Yeah ... something exactly like that.” He couldn’t help but speak in a hushed voice.
Dortan laughed. “Get your young behind to the town square then.”

Aion grabbed his sword and all but sprinted from the Hall. For a moment, he thought Dortan was making sport of him, but the absence of Hunters in the Hall was a telltale sign that something was up.

Outside the Hall he could see none of the usual foot traffic that plagued the lower district. There was tension in the air, electric like a coming storm. It excited him, made him run faster, made the breath come more easily to his lungs.

Weaving between the uniform buildings of the lower district, he crossed the wide stone bridge that marked the only passage across the moat that separated the lower district with the wealthy upper district. The moat was known as the ‘Divide’, and was essentially a deep trench filled with water diverted from a nearby lake.

As soon as his feet left the bridge and touched down in the upper district, he could see a difference in the quality of the masonry. Even through his peripheral vision, he could identify intricate carvings and flamboyant reliefs decorating every structure in sight. It was as if every single building was competing with its neighbour in an endless contest of beauty. The ubiquitous stain of dull grey was absent here; in its place was a world of white marble with splashes of gold.

A large fountain marked the location of the town square. For the sake of accuracy, it was a town circle. The large circular clearing had four roads leading to and away from it, each spaced evenly apart. It was the centre for activity in Sigal, with merchants peddling their wares. Of course, not everyone was even allowed into the upper district, which made their market rather niche. Even the best of the lower district had to worry about whether there would be food to eat next week.

As the buildings either side of him fell away, Aion found himself joining the end of a large crowd gathered around the fountain. The spray of water made the air glisten, but through the delightful sparkle he immediately identified threats. Things that did not belong.

Three cloaked figures skulked near the far entrance of the town square. Every tenth person in the crowd had a dangerous looking person keeping a close vigil on them. Through his peripherals, he saw telltale flashes of steel at the belts of strangers he had never seen before. Few people could afford a sword of high enough quality to reflect light like that.

Most of the Witch Hunters in Sigal were here. Aion picked out their familiar faces from the crowd. Others had a similar feel to them and he guessed that they were Hunters from nearby cities. But the men and women that had caught his eye were different. They felt dangerous. And that was taking into account that all Witch Hunters were killers by profession. While they did a good job of blending into the crowd, saying they were the same as the Hunters was like saying a dog was the same as a wolf. And he’d seen some bloody big wolves before.

The hubbub quietened suddenly and the crowd parted respectfully. A black cloaked man stepped forward to address the onlookers. His hood had been thrown back to reveal a grizzled visage that, surprisingly, betrayed no signs of weakness.

“There are many of you gathered here today in the desire to join the Exorcist guild. Almost all of you will fail.”

A whisper rippled through the crowd and Aion could feel tension building as the Hunters were raring to prove this man wrong.

“You will be tested on both your ability to stalk your prey and your ability to fight. Those deemed worthy will be taken with us. Applicants are to write their name on this paper,” he emphasised ‘this’ by shaking the rolled up scroll in his hands. Aion caught a flash of metal hidden beneath the leather gloves. “If you cannot write, make a unique marking to identify yourself. That is all.”
After the necessary degree of shoving and testosterone fuelled boasts and arguments, the Hunters formed a ragged line and wrote down their names. Aion spelled his out with a graceful hand, remembering how his mother had taught him to write...

“A-i-o-n,” she said gently, guiding his hand. “T-h-o-r-n-e.”

“I did it!” he declared proudly. The slightly wobbly writing had taken on an elegant slant.

He had pestered her for weeks to teach him how to write it. Having seen her sign documents, he had decided that his clumsy letters were no longer adequate.

“Yes, you did, Aion. And you did a very good job of it too. You could be my personal scribe!”

Aion puffed up proudly.

They were smiling.

Aion couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled...

“Move it, kid,” rumbled a mountainous man, shoving Aion aside with a hand the size of a buckler. Aion felt a moment of sympathy for the quill as it was promptly smothered in the man’s fist as he spelled a clumsy ‘G-r-o-o-t’ on the scroll.

A pair of enormous two-handed axes were slung across the man’s back. Aion guessed that combined, they weighed as much as he did.

“Got a problem?” Groot had caught him staring.

Aion shot him a cold look before turning away. A few steps later, he realised his heart was pounding. If it came to it, how would he fight a man that size? His mind immediately tackled the problem. How would anyone fight him, for that matter.

Breathing deeply, he tried to calm his racing heart. He felt like a fawn that had tried to stare down a bear.

“The first test will be your ability to stalk your prey. You will be split into pairs and take turns at sneaking up behind each other. To create a sense of a real danger, the stalker must strike a single blow at his prey to signify a successful stalk. No weapons will be allowed. You will be paired up with the person whose name is next to yours on the list.”

Frantically, Aion tried to recall what the person in front of him had looked like. If he ended up with the enormous man... a punch from him would be like being hit with a tree. Hopefully, the man was slow. Even better, hopefully Aion was paired up with the tall, skinny man who he now recalled had been in front of him.

All of a sudden, he felt his knees buckle as an enormous weight dropped onto his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a giant grinning down at him.

“Hey, partner,” said Groot, giving his shoulder a friendly, bone-crushing squeeze.

[Usurper Of Thrones]

I'm pretty sure I've read this same story on this forum a long time ago.

[Cogent Dream]

Yeah I posted it a while ago on an old account whose name I've forgotten. I recently decided to continue writing it and asked some friends to read and review it.

After tweaking it a bit I wanted to share it with people and see what others thought.

[zombi3h3art]

this is really good so far :3

[Sub Zero51]

I am already hooked, very well written! I look forward to reading more, and will be sure to keep doing so!

[Veeve]

Cogent Dream

Chapter One: The Innocence of Youth

The target ran into the woods. Perfect.

Drawing a deep breath, he felt the thrill of the hunt awaken within him. Splinters fell from his cloak as he crashed through the house. Remnants of the door crunched beneath his feet as he launched himself through the back door.

Thud. Acutely, he felt his knees bend as he landed. He let his centre of gravity drop for a second longer, before kicking hard and propelling himself forwards (It should just be the word forward.). Never once did his eyes leave the target. ('His eyes never left the target' would sound better in my opinion.)

Sprinting with the powerful grace of a horse, he cut a parallel course to the one the target had taken. (I think it would sound nicer like this: Sprinting with the powerful grace of a horse, he cut a parallel course, following close behind the target.) Adrenaline rushed through him, making him faster, making the breath come more easily to his lungs. Branches flashed past chaotically as he broke through the tree line, and caught telltale glimpses of a white robe flapping ahead.

Drawing his sword, he crashed sideways onto a different trail. There was a brief moment of respite, punctuated by the distant sound of foliage cracking underfoot. Swiftly, he reviewed the trap in his head.

It was simple really. Any living target would instinctively retreat from a source of danger. If he came in through the front door, the target would exit through the back. She would go straight into the nearby woods and instinctively follow the path of least resistance. Even if that path was one he had made especially for her.

The cracking sound grew louder. The two trails would soon intersect.
A white shape burst through the brush on his right. Immediately, he dropped low and slashed out. Fabric tore as the blade missed flesh.

Quickly, he twisted his wrist so the sword wouldn’t embed itself in a nearby tree. The target reached into her robes.

Off balance from his swing, he let the momentum bring him around and lowered his shoulder. Crunch. Driving his shoulder into the target’s chest, he brought her to the floor.

Leaping to his feet, he kicked her wrist before she could use whatever she had concealed in her clothing. A bag of coins skittered away, and for a brief moment, he was surprised – had she tried to purchase her life?

“Do you know anything about what happened four years ago at the Thorne residence?” he hissed malevolently, regaining his composure as he lowered the tip of his sword to her neck.

Terrified, she shook her head. Without any further comment, he buried his blade in the earth. Blood pooled around his feet.

* * *

Sigal, Capital of Lumir; (There should be a comma here instead of a semicolon as this isn't a complete sentence. You use semicolons to separate two complete sentences of closely related though. An example given by wikipedia is the following: "I told Kate she's running for the hills; I wonder if she knew I was joking." However, the pharse "captial of Lumir" is an unessential clause modifying the name of the town, Signal, and should be set apart in commas. Also, the word capital doesn't need to be capitalized. You might also want to add the article 'the' in front of the word captial.) it was a fairytale city of prosperity and peace. At least, that was what the Imperium wanted everyone to think. He thought that he made a rather fitting addition to the city’s image; (This should be a comma as the clause following it is a fragment.) walking down the main road carrying a severed head.

His fifteenth kill. (Fragment.) By itself, that figure was impressive. Most averaged around nine before they were put into forced retirement. (Nine what? I'm assuming you mean kills.) Death was an occupational hazard for a Witch Hunter. Kind of like a baker dropping a tray of cookies on his feet. (Fragment.) Magic could savage, destroy, annihilate ... and any other equally pleasant synonym one could think of. (You never end a sentence with a preposition.)

The other impressive thing about his fifteenth kill was his age. Fifteen summers old. (Fragment.) The coincidence was mildly interesting. More remarkable was the sight of an eleven year old hauling the corpse of a full grown man through town. Eleven. His first kill. (Fragments.)

How he had been brought into this world, hand in hand with death, was much the same as every other Hunter. (This is awkwardly worded.) Loved ones had been lost at the hands of witches and always, a helping hand had been there to guide them. The only difference was that he was the youngest to have chosen this path.

As always, the monotonous trek back to the Hunting Hall induced in him a reflective trance. Fifteen kills but not a single step closer to completing his vengeance. (Fragment.) The witches knew nothing. They never knew. No one could tell him who had been at the Thorne residence that night ...

The usually spotless manila walls were painted crimson (This adjective is so cliche.) with blood. The corpses were beyond recognition. The victims had not been simply killed. If anything, they had exploded – the after effect of which was this nightmarish scene. And in the middle of it all, still dripping with the fresh blood of his parents, was a child.

“Do you hate them?” asked (Capitalize the 'a'.) a voice, not unkindly. “Do you hate the ones who did this to you?”

The child nodded slowly. The stench was so strong he could almost taste it; a metallic tang that (The word 'that' isn't really needed.) dried his tongue.

“In the kitchen is a gift to you, if you are strong enough of heart to use it. Outside is the new gardener your mother hired. He was the one who opened the gate for them. He is working with them. In his jealousy of your family’s wealth, he started this all.”

Limp and lifeless, the child shuffled towards the kitchen. The stranger was gone but as promised, there upon the table was a gift. A dagger, long but thin enough for a child to handle. He stared at it dumbly.

Click. Click. Click.

The gardener worked away, unaware of what had recently occurred inside the manor. To him, there was nothing at all wrong in the world today. Such ignorance was aggravating. (Fragment.)

Seizing the blade with newfound vigour, the child affected a silent prowl and slid through the nearby door leading into the garden.

Click. Click. Click.

Busily working away, the gardener did not even turn his head. The child walked quickly until he was right behind the older man. Only then did the gardener turn, just in time to see a blood-soaked child thrust a dagger into his lower ribs. The blade slid through flesh easily, stopping only when it reached the rain guard.

Hours later the City Guard was roused. Apparently, there was a child of no more than eight, dragging a dead man at least twice his size into the Hunting Hall. Aion Thorne had killed his first witch.

I need to get ready for town so I'll stop here for now. It's well written for the most part, but there are still some minor issues that need to be tweaked in order to further enhance the story.

[Kerys]

crying I wish I had;t thunk it first! heart 3nodding heart

[Cogent Dream]

First of all, thank you for all the responses! It means a lot to me to know there are people reading and enjoying my story.

Veeve

Thanks for taking the time to go through it word by word! Very much appreciated.

You found a few errors that I missed but I'd like to clarify a few things with you.

First is the issue of all the fragments. I'm aware of them as they were intentional so I'd like to ask, isn't it ok to use fragments for dramatic effect? It's not something I usually do as the writing style I used is really an experiment for me. I was trying for a certain tone in the story which is why I used those fragments.

Now going through systematically:

forward* you are correct.

His eyes never left the target* I think you're right again, it's less wordy and adds to the pace.

Sprinting ...* I think your correction suggests a slightly different meaning. Imagine if you will that these are the two paths: |). The target ran the curve and the main character ran the straight line. So he sprints after her along a parallel course but not following behind her (as your correction suggests). This idea was particularly hard for me to incorporate without making it too wordy and taking away from the pace.

Sigal, Capital of Lumir* you're right, I don't even know why I capitalised it and put a semi-colon.

Most averaged around nine* yes nine kills. Is it a bit vague?

think of* you're right again.

How he had ...* how about if I reworded it to "How he had been brought into this world of death was quite the same as every other Hunter."

Crimson* do you have any suggestions for changing this adjective?

asked* I think it's meant to remain in lower case. I never formally learned this but as far as I know, dialogue works like this: "No, thank you," replied the man. If I replace the replied with asked shouldn't it remain in lower case?

that* shouldn't it be a "metallic tang that dried his tongue" as opposed to "a metallic tang dried his tongue" as it would be changing tenses without the "that"?

Thanks again for the detailed editing!

[sanozen]

So far this is a great story! I read the first chapter and skimmed through the second because it's getting late for me. I can't wait to read what's written more closely when I have time and to read what's next when written.

[Cogent Dream]

Chapter Three: Two Hunters One Prey

As the capital of Lumir, it was a given that Sigal was as prosperous as it was splendiferous to the eye. Built on a natural slope, the keep overlooked the city in its entirety. The view was one of the reasons why the wealthy fought over the limited domestic housing in the ‘upper district’.

Being in the town square, which was situated half-way through the upper district, Aion was afforded the cinematic view of a few thousand citizens milling about the main road that went straight from the south gate to the keep. When empty, the road took a good fifteen minutes to walk. It was far from empty.

The ubiquitous and ever-changing trappings of fashion hung elegantly off the shoulders of those in the upper district, their rich and lustrous colours overwhelming to the eye. Like an exquisite painting hung on a muddy wall, the lustre of wealth hung in stark contrast to the grim shades of brown and black – and every other colour pertaining to mud, sweat and dung – worn by the “denizens” of the lower district who lived farthest away from the keep, near the gates. It was convenient, argued the self-righteous snobs. It meant they were the first to die in the event of a siege, reasoned the ever-logical denizens. But, as was the custom, as much wealth as Sigal generated, there never seemed to be enough to fix up the lower district.

Of course, politics and ethics were the least of Aion’s worries now. The reason he surveyed the kaleidoscope before him was nothing short of a matter of life and death.

“You will take turns at playing hunter and prey. The prey’s job is to make it to the south gate without falling victim to the hunter. Obviously, this makes the hunter’s job to catch the prey. A successful catch means a clean strike with your fist, feet, head or any other serviceable limb you wish to strike your prey with. Any use of weapons, or facsimiles of weapons, will result in disqualification.

“Remember, you will be judged on your ability to stalk and your ability to flee. There’s nothing stopping you from sprinting the entire length of the road – except the thousands of bodies clogging the streets – but running will not impress the judges, who will be following and watching. Are there any questions?”

Immediately, a giant fist shot into the air.

“Yes?”

“Wha’s a fac-smiley?”

For a brief moment, the cloaked judge shot a sideways glance at his colleagues. Aion couldn’t help but grin, even if it meant aggravating the Hunter who had posed the question – which just so happened to be Groot.

“A facsimile? Never mind that, just don’t use any object as a weapon.”

Groot grinned. “Ok!” he replied brightly, cracking his knuckles. “I smash, then!”

Aion forced himself not to glance at his opponent, even though he felt imminent danger at his back. As the Hunters – or “examinees” as the Exorcists had called them – lined up at the mouth of the town square, Aion racked his brain.

Stalking someone the size of a mountain was hardly difficult. Hitting Groot would be like throwing a twig at a bear, but the Exorcists never said anything about the blow having to do any actual damage. No, what worried Aion was what would happen when he became the prey. As far as he was concerned, Aion didn’t think Groot would have much trouble charging straight through the thousands of people in his way, grabbing a hold of Aion, and extinguishing his life with a fist the size of Aion’s head.

* * *

Through the corner of his eye, he could see his companion edging closer.

“Yes, Tenfis?”

Even through the black cloak, the man managed to exude cheerfulness.

“There’s no sneaking up on you, is there Lucent?”

“You know that more than anyone,” said Lucent dangerously, though with humour.

Tenfis shrugged and threw back his hood, exposing a mane of orange-brown hair. Around him, many of the Exorcists followed suit. With the examinees focused on the task ahead, there was little need for concealment.

“So, what do you think of the candidates this year?”

Lucent was scowling at his companion – evident even through the shadowy depths of his hood. He wouldn’t break his concealment, even in the steadily rising heat.

“As with every other year in every other place, a large majority of useless Hunters, with a handful to look out for.”

Tenfis laughed good-naturedly. “And who are you looking out for?”

Lucent dropped his scowl. “I heard tell of a boy-Hunter. Fifteen kills at the age of fifteen. First kill at eleven.”

“Whoa, that’s almost one every three months,” remarked Tenfis, sinking into a thoughtful pose. “This kid sure doesn’t take breaks. Those certainly are some good numbers. Statistically, he’s probably the number one favourite this year. Well, with him aside, are there any others?”

“A few. A man in his late thirties with nineteen kills, an eighteen-year-old girl with eleven and an ex-Legionnaire with twenty-two. Oh, and that giant man who asked the question earlier.”

“What? Really? That guy’s body-to-brain ratio is smaller than legless dwarf.”

Lucent didn’t let the amusing imagery distract him.

“He’s either unbelievably stupid, or reasonably cunning. We’ll see which it is. If there’s any brain behind that muscle, he’ll be a candidate to look out for.”

* * *

It was almost too easy.

Aion had taken advantage of his small stature to meld into the daily foot traffic. Tracking his target – if it could be called tracking when you were hunting someone three times as big as any other normal person – had been as predictable as he had thought.

While Groot had made good pace through the crowd, parting people in his way like a crop of wheat, Aion had managed to skirt around the side of the main road and had sneaked up on the giant. He had thrown all his weight into kick to the man’s knee, but it was about as effective as if he’d kicked a tree. Again, just as he’d expected.

The man was dangerously big but just as predictable. He felt the initial fear he’d experienced flow away. This prey was just like any other he’d ever faced – and Aion knew he was too smart, too sharp to be beaten by any normal person. Even if this normal person was abnormally large.

A battered group of candidates waited at the south gate – making it quite obvious that several had been reluctant to stop hitting their partners.

“Aion and Groot, you’re up now. Aion, you’ve got ten seconds before I let Groot come after you.”

Immediately, Aion leapt forwards and slipped through the press of people with the dexterity of a street urchin. Indeed, many merchants kept a warding hand on their coin purses when he passed by them. By the time he’d counted to ten, Aion was a good distance away from his hunter.

Quickly, his mind ran through all likely plans of action that Groot would take, quickly crossing out and discarding those that were likely to fail. For the most viable options, he came up with countermeasures.

This was how he worked. This was how Aion, not yet in adulthood, had successfully hunted fifteen witches. When adults used their size, he used his brain.

Glancing over his shoulder, he confirmed the location of a hulking shadow pushing clumsily through the crowd. He was half-way through the lower district now.

Darting between a pair of pack mules, he skirted behind the shabby stalls lining the road and moved quickly up towards the town square, with the wall on his left and the stalls on his right. The citizens of Sigal pushed and shoved on his far right, beyond the stalls, so he was effectively on a clear path. Vendors scowled at him and guarded their wares, but the conspicuous trail of angry merchants was a small price to pay – in addition to the path being clear of any foot traffic, it was too narrow for Groot to follow on without pushing over every single stall between the two of them. Not that the giant couldn’t.

He glanced over his shoulder again, confirming the location of his hunter. Groot had forced his way from the middle of the road to the edge and had his sights locked on his prey. For a brief moment, their eyes met.

Aion grinned. He couldn’t help it. And it was a cheeky grin too.

Striding as quickly as he could without breaking into a run, he navigated his way to the bridge. This was the most dangerous part, as he would have to leave his secure path for a few brief moments to cross.

Quickly, he glanced over his shoulder as a precaution. Groot was currently ...

Gone.

He was gone! Aion spun around, expecting a fist to come crashing into him at any moment. The incessant din faded off into the background to be replaced by the metronomic beat of his heart. It sounded – and felt – like a drummer beating a tattoo inside his chest. Adrenaline rushed through him, heightening his senses, and for a moment everything moved in slow motion.

And that’s when he fully realised the threat approaching him.

Groot was missing. He’d lost sight of the man he’d be so confident that he could outwit. It was like losing sight of a tree walking through spring flowers. There was only one way to lose sight of a tree in that situation – if the tree was hiding in a forest. The only thing taller than Groot were the buildings on either side of the road.

Aion glanced up and dragged his fingers across the mortar between the bricks on the wall. It crumbled and gave way like sand. The building was tall and it had slanted wooden planks serving as a roof. But when Aion rubbed his fingers together, he could feel damp. That meant the roof was most likely broken in places and thus unable to afford a sufficient measure of protection against the rain. Water would be trapped inside with nowhere to flow, and would eventually seep into the floor and walls. It also meant that it was unlikely anything dry was stored in the building, if it wasn’t in fact derelict already. All those factors combined meant one thing to Aion. Hiding place.

He scanned his memory and could not remember seeing an entrance to the building, which mean that the door was likely to be on the other side. He couldn’t risk leaving the narrow path to find the entrance, so he’d have to climb.

The large slabs of stone used to create this particular wall were ill-fitted. With the mortar crumbling, Aion had no trouble finding hand and footholds in the cracks. He was more worried about people noticing a lone figure scaling a wall, but with the hubbub of daily trade, it was unlikely anyone would see him. Unless they were waiting for somebody to attempt this particular feat.

His final concern was one that he tried not to think about. A place like this would be premium property for the underworld gangs. If this particular building was the hideout for a band of smugglers – or worse, belonging to the Tsukage – he was in, as incredible as it sounded, more danger than if Groot managed to grab him.

As fairytale-perfect the Imperium wanted its capital to appear, there was no limit to the reach of the Tsukage; largest and most influential crime syndicate in Lumir and, whispered some, the entire world. Aion did not count much on the credibility of the rumourmongers, but it could not be denied that the Tsukage were powerful – far more powerful than the Imperium would care to admit. If the Exorcists were the light, the Tsukage were the shadow.

His hand gripped the top of the wall and with a final push he vaulted over the side and out of view from the street. Darkness engulfed his vision as he looked down. He was standing on a single beam of wood that stretched across the length of what appeared to be a sheet of solid black. He could hear the metronomic drip of water, but could not see beyond the beam into the inky black shadows below. That he could not hear anything else was comforting. That he could not see anything was alarming.

Several beams ran parallel to the one he stood on and he assumed that they were rafters, and several still had sections of what once must have been a roof attached to them. After making certain that nothing malicious lurked nearby, Aion edged along the beam to the side of the building facing the bridge.

The edges of the wall were broken and jagged, offering excellent peepholes. From this height, he was certain that it would not be hard to spot a giant.

Quickly, he scanned the most likely ambush positions around the bridge and saw nothing suspicious. He was about to move to another edge of the building to widen his search when he heard the faintest whisper of a sound that did not gel in with the din down below or the incessant drip of water. It was the slight scrape of metal leaving a scabbard.

Tensing, he tried to discern the location of the noise.

“You won’t find him from here.”

Aion twisted around in surprise, his sword-hand reaching instinctively over his shoulder and for a moment, his brain shot a sensation of panic through his body when his hand did not meet the familiar resistance of his sword’s hilt. By the time he had spun fully around, his mind had already processed two conscious thoughts; the Exorcists had confiscated all weapons for the duration of the exam and that the voice that spoke was feminine – definitely not Groot then.

“Nice reflexes,” commented the girl pointing a thin blade at his neck. Aion swallowed nervously.

“Who are you?” he asked cautiously, trying to edge backwards without appearing to do so, which was sort of like trying to run with your legs tied together – it didn’t work.

“Don’t move. I might not kill you.”

“What’s the rapier for then?” She had raised the blade a little and it was now pointing at his forehead. Trying to keep the tip of the weapon in sight was beginning to make him cross-eyed.

“It’s just so you know the situation you’re in. Now, to business; would you like to purchase some information?”

“Do I have a choice? Or is asking me just a formality?”

The girl laughed and there was enough genuine amusement in her voice to put Aion off-guard. Relaxing a little, he noticed her age, barely a few years older than himself, and that she bore a number of scars that, surprisingly, did not detract from her appearance.

“You have little choice in the matter,” she said bluntly, when her mirth finally subsided. “But seeing as we share a common enemy, I thought you might like to benefit from his death too.”

“Groot? Who are you and why do you want him dead?”

“You’re sharper than most, I like that. The one you call Groot is a refugee, so to speak. As for me, suffice to say I work for the shadows.”

Any tension he had let escape him came flooding back, the effect of which was to throw his mind into overdrive, drop his centre of gravity and coil up every single muscle in him, ready to spring into action.

“Tsukage!” hissed Aion both vehemently and warily. Already, he had come up with half a dozen courses of action. His last resort would be to take a blind leap into the blackness below.

“Nice observation!” remarked the girl, not the slightest bit surprised by his reaction. “This ‘Groot’ is an ex-Tsukage operative of sufficient rank to warrant his death. Garn Root, Eastern Branch, Berserker Division, 18th Squad Captain; placed into that division due to his ... physical qualifications, but rose through the ranks due to his unusual intellect. Too smart for his own good, in fact, he uncovered certain things that must have ... unsettled him. Now he’s on the run. A refugee, but a fugitive to the Tsukage.”

“Spouting ranks won’t unnerve me. I don’t think the Tsukage would so easily divulge information about its organisation. Mixing with your kind will bring me nothing but misfortune. What’s stopping me from just killing you here and keeping my feet free of the mud?”

The smile he saw on her face was chilling. “Not only do you seem to have forgotten that you are unarmed, but you’re under the misconception that the Tsukage will not hunt you down for taking out one of its members. The information I gave you is of little regard. A symbol of trust, should you decide to become a potential future business partner.”

“I don’t need a weapon to kill,” retorted Aion. His head was buzzing and everything around him appeared detached, moving slightly slower than it should be. At this level of concentration, Aion was confident that he could dodge a thrust from the girl’s weapon and knock her off the beam.

“Well,” said the girl softly. “Neither do I.”

For a moment, Aion didn’t realise what was happening. As if by magic, a nimbus of dust rose around her, blocking and refracting light so that it looked as if she was engulfed in a cloud of transparent fireflies. In the next moment, Aion realised that he was a Witch Hunter, and thus, this most probably was magic.

“Tell me, boy. Have you ever hunted a witch above Level Three? Comparing me to any witch you’ve ever faced is like comparing a lion to an alley cat. I could stand here and kill everyone within a minute walk of this building, without having to move a muscle. I think you need to realise your place, child.”

Dumbfounded and paralysed by – although he would never admit it – raw fear, Aion could only watch as everything ominous and terrifying in the world unfolded before his eyes. His mind screamed at him to move, but his body would not obey. Like a deer in the face of a lion. Like prey caught by a hunter.

“The Exorcist dogs will have noticed me by now, so I will be on my way. The one you call Groot is no longer on this side of the bridge; he is waiting in ambush closer to the fountain. It was a pleasure doing business with you, young Aion Thorne. The Tsukage will come seek its service fee in the near future.”

The swirling nimbus of light and dust froze in an unnatural, chilling way, before descending to the floor. The girl was gone, but where she had been standing was a strange symbol, formed by the falling dust.

“You’re not that much older than me,” mumbled in repartee Aion, finally.

He took a glance around his shoulder in case the girl had heard him, before examining the symbol on the beam. It was very triangular and encircled by two perfect rings. He rather thought it looked like a stylised bird.

As his body and mind thawed out the terror he had experienced earlier, he began to plan his next moves. He’d continue the Exorcist exam, but it was unlikely he’d ever confidently walk down an empty street again. Fixing the image of the symbol in his head, he lowered himself over the side of the building and made a careful descent to the street below.

He had never seen magic of that calibre before. Magic was always done slowly, through intricate gestures and incantations using meaningful formations of natural objects, such as stones or trees. The ability to summon magic through nothing more than willpower was ... to be frank, frightening.

“What have I gotten myself into ...”