Hunting the Broken-Heart Witch

The night smelled of rain and old secrets. Elias Thorne adjusted the strap of his worn leather satchel, the silver edges of his crossbow glinting faintly beneath the half-moon. The cobblestone streets of Ravenshollow were nearly silent, save for the occasional whisper of the wind dragging across the rooftops. Behind shuttered windows, people dreamt — or prayed not to. The Hunter of Shadows was awake. He had walked these streets too many times before, answering pleas from villagers, nobles, and priests alike — all bound by the same fear. Monsters. Witches. Things that moved between heartbeats and left grief in their wake. But tonight’s summons was different. The letter had arrived at dusk, carried by a raven whose eyes glowed the same violet hue that haunted his dreams. It spoke of the Witch of the Weeping Woods — a creature said to twist sorrow into song, to call the broken-hearted to her side and drown them in their own despair. “Find her,” the letter had read, sealed in wax shaped like a teardrop. “End her curse before the moon bleeds full again.” Elias had not hesitated. He never did. He left the warmth of his fire and the bitter taste of old whiskey behind, stepping into the fog with only his weapons and his ghosts for company. The forest greeted him like a cathedral of shadows. Branches arched above him, gnarled and entwined, their silhouettes swaying against a silver sky. Mist clung to the ground, thick and alive, wrapping around his boots as if to drag him deeper. Every hunter knew of the Weeping Woods. Few returned to speak of them. Elias stopped beside an ancient willow, its roots like skeletal fingers breaking through the soil. The faint sound of weeping echoed through the trees — soft, melodic, inhuman. It wasn’t the cry of grief, but of longing. He touched the pendant at his throat — a charm of protection, once given by his mother before the fire took her. “For when the night speaks to you,” she had said. The forest spoke now. And he listened. “Looking for death, hunter?” The voice came from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was smooth as silk, sharp as winter. Elias spun, crossbow drawn, eyes scanning the fog. She emerged like a dream unraveling. A woman cloaked in twilight — her hair black as spilled ink, her eyes luminous, reflecting both sorrow and defiance. Her feet barely disturbed the moss beneath them, and around her the air shimmered faintly, heavy with magic and melancholy. “I’m looking for truth,” Elias said evenly, though his pulse betrayed him. Her lips curved in something between a smile and a sigh. “Truth is far crueler than death. Which one will you aim for first?” He didn’t lower his weapon. “Are you the Witch of the Weeping Woods?” She tilted her head. “Is that what they call me now? Witch. Monster. Temptress. I lose track.” The way she said it — weary, amused, sad — unsettled him more than any threat could. The witches he had hunted before had screamed curses, spat blood, begged for mercy. But this woman spoke as though she had already lived through every death imaginable. “What curse binds this forest?” he asked. Her eyes glimmered. “A heart that broke… and never stopped bleeding.” The wind stirred, carrying her words like a ghost’s confession. Elias hesitated. Something in her tone struck too close — something that reached into his own buried pain. The memory of a grave. The sound of a woman’s laughter turned to silence. He steadied his voice. “Then I’ll find that heart and end it.” Her gaze darkened. “You cannot kill what still beats in sorrow.” The air thickened. Shadows coiled around the trees like serpents, and for an instant, the forest seemed to breathe. Elias took aim, finger brushing the trigger. But then — he saw it. A tear gliding down her cheek. It shimmered faintly, catching the moonlight before dissolving into mist. Not illusion. Not deceit. Pain. The kind he knew too well. His weapon wavered. “What are you?” he whispered. She met his gaze. “Once, I was like you.” And with that, she vanished into the fog, leaving only the echo of her voice — and the unbearable silence of a man who had come seeking a monster and found a reflection instead. Hours passed. Elias made camp by the ruins of an old chapel swallowed by vines. The flames crackled low, struggling against the damp. He stared into them as though they might burn away the questions clawing at his mind. He should have killed her. That’s what the Order would expect — what he was trained to do. But her eyes… they hadn’t been those of a creature. They had been human. Haunted. Beautiful. He reached for his journal and scribbled in quick, rough lines: “The witch is unlike any other. Her sorrow feels… alive. I sense no malice, only grief. Proceed with caution.” He paused. Then added, almost unwillingly: “Her voice lingers in my chest.” When he finally closed his eyes, sleep did not come easy. He dreamt of the witch standing before him again — her hand pressed against his heart, her tears falling not on his skin but into it, leaving warmth that burned like guilt. When he awoke, the fire was dead, but something else remained — a whisper at the edge of hearing. “If you seek to end me, hunter… you must first know why I weep.” Elias rose, tightening his cloak, jaw set. The forest awaited. The hunt had begun. And somewhere in its depths, a witch’s heart still bled.