descendant of the witch hunter

In the year 1667,

The night reeked of death and burning flesh. Flames roared high into the sky, casting long, writhing shadows against the trees as the bodies of the condemned twisted and convulsed in their fiery graves. Their screams had long since faded to a crackling silence, but the stench of charred bone and cursed blood lingered in the air like an open wound.

Gabriel Voss, the infamous witch hunter, stood before the last of them—Selene the Dread, the leader of the coven. Unlike her kin, who had screamed and cursed as they burned, she remained still, bound to the pyre by thick iron chains. Her long, raven-black hair hung in tangles over her pale face, and her silver eyes glowed with something unnatural in the flickering firelight. Even in death's grip, she radiated defiance.

Gabriel tightened his grip on the hilt of his blade. His hands were steady, as they had been for years. He had killed dozens like her, witches, sorcerers, heretics. It was his life's work, his duty to cleanse the world of the unnatural filth that lurked in its shadows. And yet, as he looked into Selene's eyes, something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. It was not fear. No, he had long abandoned such weaknesses. It was something else. Something darker.

"You have lost," he said, voice cold as steel. "Your sisters are dead. Your power is no more."

Selene smiled. It was not the smile of a woman who had been beaten—it was the smile of someone who knew something he did not.

"Oh, Gabriel Voss," she murmured, her voice like the whisper of wind through dead leaves. "You think this is victory? You think the flames cleanse you of your sins?"

Gabriel said nothing. He had heard the dying words of witches before. Their curses, their desperate threats, their pathetic bargains. He had learned to ignore them.

But Selene continued, her voice gaining strength, as if the fire had no hold over her.

"You have spilled innocent blood in your hunt for the wicked," she said. "You have butchered those who were no threat to you, all in the name of your righteous crusade. But justice is blind, Gabriel. And it is not you who shall pay the price."

Gabriel felt the weight of her words settle over him like a cold hand on his throat. He took a step closer, pressing the tip of his sword against her chest.

"You speak lies," he growled.

Selene's smile widened, revealing teeth too sharp, too perfect. Her eyes burned with something ancient, something older than fire and shadow.

"The sins of your blade will not rest in your grave," she whispered. "Your bloodline is stained, Gabriel Voss. Your kin shall bear the burden of your sins. They shall walk in darkness, haunted by the ghosts of those you have slain. Your name will become a curse, your legacy a ruin. The end of your line will come not by steel or fire, but by the hands of the dead you have wronged."

The words coiled around Gabriel's mind, wrapping around his thoughts like a serpent. For the first time in years, a shiver ran down his spine.

"Enough," he snarled, shoving the blade forward.

The sword plunged into Selene's chest, piercing flesh, cutting deep into her heart. But she did not scream. She did not struggle. Instead, she laughed, a low, hollow sound that sent the flames around her flaring high into the sky.

Gabriel stepped back as the fire consumed her, swallowing her whole. The laughter did not stop. It grew louder, echoing into the night, rising over the wind, over the flames, over everything.

And then, silence.

The witch was dead. But the words—those damned words, remained.

Gabriel Voss turned away from the pyre, but deep in his soul, he knew.

Something had changed.

Something had begun.

Gabriel walked through the remains of the battlefield, his boots crunching over ash and bone. The night air was thick with the scent of burned flesh, yet it felt colder than it should have. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the echoes of voices—whispers too soft to catch, but heavy with meaning.

He had done his duty. The coven was destroyed. Yet the unease in his chest remained.

The sky, once clouded in thick smoke, began to change. The stars above flickered strangely, their light dimming as if swallowed by something unseen. And then, without warning, the heavens bled.

A crimson hue spread across the sky, painting the clouds in sickly shades of red and black. It was as if the very world recoiled from what had happened here tonight. Gabriel felt the shift in the air, the pressure in his skull, the weight pressing against his lungs. He clenched his jaw and turned toward his horse.

He needed to leave this place.

But then, pain.

A sharp, searing agony ripped through his arms. He staggered, nearly falling to his knees as he tore at his sleeves. Beneath the fabric, something moved. His skin burned, pulsing with unnatural heat, and before his eyes, symbols began to etch themselves into his flesh.

Dark, curling runes carved into his skin, twisting and writhing like living things. They burned, not with fire, but with something deeper—something that dug into his very soul. Gabriel clenched his teeth, biting back a cry of pain. He had felt wounds before, suffered injuries in battle, but this, this was something else.

As he gasped for breath, he felt it.

A presence.

Something watching him.

He turned sharply, his sword drawn, but there was nothing there. The trees stood still, the ashes of the dead swirled in the wind, and yet—he was not alone.

The whispers returned, louder now. They coiled around him, slithering through his mind like fingers tracing his thoughts. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the ground, twisting, forming shapes that did not belong to the trees or the bodies left behind.

Gabriel Voss was a man who did not fear the dark. He had faced horrors that would break lesser men. But tonight, standing beneath a sky soaked in blood, with his skin branded by a witch's dying curse, he felt something he had not felt since he was a child.

Dread.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand straight. Whatever this was, he would face it. He was Gabriel Voss, the greatest witch hunter of his time.

And yet, as he rode away from that cursed place, he could not shake the feeling that something had already taken root inside him.

A sickness.

A shadow.

A curse that would not die with him.

And in the darkness of the trees, unseen eyes watched him go.

Waiting.

Whispering.

The bloodline had been marked.

And the curse had only just begun.