Chapter Text

Ishmael took a deep breath of the frigid air, his eyes scanning the snow-covered horizon. The Winter Witch’s trail of icy destruction had led him deep into the mountains of the Frozen North of Everfrost, the spiraling mountains of Crosswind Hold. These ice scapes were different from the ones of the Frontier, the Northern most lands of the Realm and Ishmael’s homeland. What ever had led the Winter Witch to these lands must be powerful, and if that power landed in the hands of a woman so evil, so dark-hearted… Ishmael shuddered to think of the consequences.

The trail was getting warmer and warmer, everywhere Ishmael walked, his sensor crystals picked up magical energy. There was a witch near here, of this he was certain, and by the trail of animals and plants frozen solid, Ishmael could guess which one.

As distracted by the trail ahead, he did not notice small tendrils snaking their way to his ankles, until the dark snake-like limbs had grasped him by his legs and began to hoist him into the air. Ishmael panicked and clutched for his Crystal Rifle, but the weapon was yanked from his hands by another tendril. Darkness clouded his vision, blocking his sight from the snowy fields around him. His throat was clogged from the billowy shadows, and he began to choke.Something emerged from the darkness, the slender, tall form of a pale skinned woman. The woman was dressed in the darkness, which fit around her thin form into a smooth, royal blue gown. The woman wore a low hat that covered her eyes and displayed a crown of feathers behind her head. Her silver-white hair was curled close to her head, and twin trails of hair streamed out from behind her. This woman possessed powerful magic, but she was no witch.

“What do you want?” Ishmael snarled.

The woman clasped her hands together before her gently, before cocking her head and responding, “Perhaps a gentler tone, mortal.”

Ishmael did not respond.

The woman shook her head, her feather crown rustling, “Never bother, I always forget how… lacking mortals are in courtesy. A lost jewel, the tactic has found itself. Regardless, your services are required.”

“A witch you want killed?” Ishmael snapped, “Very well. And my payment?”

The woman huffed, “As if your life was not value enough? Tsk, I miss the days when mortals-”

“Enough.” Ishmael cut her off, “If you want something, tell me.”

The woman pouted slightly, before flicking a hand in annoyance and continuing, “A witch, I need a witch killed. A shadow witch, and you will find her by her mask.”

Between the two, a shape appeared. A white mask adorned with green crystal eyes and black horns.

“Destroy the witch, destroy her creations, destroy everything she has and loves.”

The journey was not a long one, the neighboring city of Frozenguard.

Children darted to and fro, paying little mind to the freezing weather. Small cries of joy and surprise filled the air, along with the pitter-patter of tiny booted feet. Some game of chase, many of the children played, although who was “It”, Ishmael was not sure any of the children knew.

He sat on a small wooden bench clicking metal into metal. The snow drifted here and there, wetting his hair and cooling his face, sprinkling into his ebony beard and melting in his sharp breath.

He selected another metal piece from the case beside him and snapped it into place on his creation.

He glanced up, his violet eyes surveying the children. There were seven names in his mind, seven cold names. He recited them to himself in his head as he stood, flicking the switch under his creation. The twin arms snapped into place, the band between them connecting to the crystal dart in the sheath of the rifle. He repeated the list of names in a silent whisper as his thoughts drowned out.

“Kostya.”

The rifle felt heavy in his hands, but his mind felt empty. Nyx’s temporary curse, to be assured that he would obey.

“Nikolai.”

The dart fired from the rifle. The sound of children playing, laughing, died instantly.

“Tamryn.”

Screams again, but not of joy. Pitter-pattering feet, but not of play.

“Ivania.”

As each dart snapped out, another was pushed in its place, ready to fire, only to be sent out a second later.

“Androxus.”

He should feel something, he knew he should. Nyx had wanted to make sure that nothing would stop him. His emotions were gone, his morals were gone, she had promised him that she would restore them when the deed was done.

“Eibhlyn.”

Adults were noticing, running in, scooping up panicked children. Ishmael’s amarok growled when one adult turned toward it and it’s master.

“Maximilian.”

The playground was all but empty now. Seven bodies lay crumpled on the ground, the snow around them stained scarlet. Ishmael stood and approached the children, surveying them. Faces rushed through his mind, images that Nyx had granted him to find the children. Only five of the children’s faces matched the images in his mind. Two of them had escaped and Ishmael could only assume they were with his final target, their mother.

He marched through the snowdrifts, his amarok following close behind.

The shadows cried out in terror.

Evanthia crumbled to the ground, her hands clutched to her mask and the screams deafened her. Something was very, very wrong.

The Shadow Witch recited incantation after incantation under her breath, trying to quiet the enraged and terrified energies, but they would not obey her. She collapsed as the energy drained from her body, as the shadow magic refused to listen to her. She allowed the drift of weakness to consume her, knowing that fighting would be pointless. There was nothing for her now but to wait for the shadows to calm down so she could help them.

Her lull of weakness was interrupted as she spotted movement out of the corner of her eye. A pair of children made their way across the hall to her, a panicked look on their faces. The look of her children’s horror brought Evanthia new strength, and the Witch pushed herself off of the ground and held out her arms to her children. The five-year-old boy, Androxus, collapsed into his mother's arms, wailing as tears streamed down his face. The four-year-old Eibhlyn was only several seconds away from following her brother, when a crystal erupted through her chest. The girl collapsed to the ground. Evanthia shrieked and shoved Androxus behind her as she looked up at the newcomer.

Approaching after the children was a tall man with jet black hair and blank, violet eyes. Evanthia sensed the magical energy surrounding this man: a curse. Reasoning with him would be useless.

The shadows swirled around her, lifting her into the air. Her long, curly ebony hair flicked and bounced from behind her head, and the burn in her equally dark eyes was barely hidden by the emerald lenses in her mask.

Tendrils of shadow lashed out at the Witch Hunter, catching him before he had a chance to respond. They surrounded him, blocking him from the light. As soon as she was sure he was securely trapped, the tendrils began to tighten, with the intention to crush until there was nothing left to crush.

Ishmael struggled in the grasp of the shadow magic. He could barely move his rifle, and he felt the shadowy tendrils threaten to snap one of the arms of the rifle, along with Ishmael’s body. He pulled against the magic, trying to reach the crystal that was loaded in the rifle’s sheath. His fingers brushed on the crystal’s cold surface, before coming loose from the rifle into his hand. He locked his fingers around it and used every bit of energy he had to thrust the crystal into the tendrils. The tendrils exploded around him as the crystal’s magic draining power took effect.

He collapsed to the hard ground and rolled back onto his feet in one breath. The Witch had her back turned toward him as she knelt over the dying body of her daughter. Ishmael could hear soft cries from behind the witch’s skull-shaped mask. He knew something was wrong, he should be feeling something, yet what, he had trouble remembering.

He raised his rifle again. The witch raised her masked face. Emotionless violet eyes met green crystal lenses.

The crystal loosed from its sheath.

Lady Evanthia, Shadow Witch of the North, collapsed on to the body of the dead child.

Ishmael turned and walked away. The deed was done.

But if his quest was complete, why did his senses of mercy, regret, and peace not return to him?

Why did his curse remain?

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Seris rolled on to her back on the bed, an arm cocked under her head. Her “blind” eyes stared ahead blankly. Her breath was quick and short, slowing down now.

Beside her, Nyx sat up against her pillow and lit a pipe, before taking a long drag. Both women remained silent for a few moments, before Nyx turned to Seris, the goddesses, equally “blind” silver eyes trailing the oracle’s resting form, “Oh, Seris, I have good news.”

“Do you now?” Seris did not face her partner.

“I have found out your riddle, how clever I am.” Nyx smirked. She placed her pipe on the bedside table before rolling over to Seris. She rested her chin on her right hand and sat up on the pillow with it, before touching Seris’ neck with her left index finger. “I have found out your riddle, this ‘Frozenguard’ and shattering and all.”

Seris chuckled, “I really don’t think you have Nyx, it was a very cunning riddle I told you. But tell me, what have you found?”

Nyx’s finger traced down Seris’ neck, collarbone, and chest, before her hand rested on Seris’ stomach, “Lady Evanthia Frozenguard, the Shadow Witch. She could have killed me… how unfortunate that a Witch Hunter caught wind of her and brought her demise. How unfortunate.” She teased.

Seris smiled, still not facing Nyx. Seris’ plan had begun. Her hand trailed across her own body, moving slowly over the deep bruise on her hip, a romp too rough, cries of declination and pain ignored. Seris would be rid of all of this very soon, and Nyx had fallen right into her trap. She rested her hand on Nyx’s, before whispering,

“How unfortunate indeed.”