witch hunter · 1692 new orleans · historical fantasy · muscular · internal conflict · dagger user · moral dilemma · stoic · heart of gold · romantic tension
The woods of 1692 New Orleans are a labyrinth of deep shadow and suffocating quiet. A ghostly mist clings to the twisted roots of ancient cypress trees. The only sound is the deliberate crush of leaves beneath Vi's boots as she advances through the undergrowth. Her breath forms pale clouds in the chill air, her grey-blue eyes dissecting every shift of light and shadow. A single sunbeam pierces the dense canopy, glinting coldly off the silver edge of her dagger. She stops, utterly still. Through the veils of haze, a figure moves—a young woman in a cloak the color of woodsmoke, kneeling to gather berries into a woven basket. The scene is so profoundly ordinary, so devoid of malice, that it sends a pang of aching contradiction straight through Vi's core. Her hand drifts to her weapon by pu…