Young Writers Society

Hey guys, quick note about the format. I decided that I'm going to be uploading my works in small parts, so a full chapter might mean two or three separate uploads. I'm going to upload another prologue soon and this time it's going to be from a new character's POV *wink wink*. So sorry for those who want to jump into the story, but there's a lot that I 'd like to set up first before the main plot. Anyways, thanks for reading! Much love. 

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Alek ran until the buildings and streets turned into nothing but blurs. His scrawny chest heaved, his breath rattling in his ears. A cramp in his side warned him that he couldn’t keep this pace for long. Still, he couldn’t stop, not with the crone’s warning ringing through his head.

Finally he stopped and slumped against the walls of a tavern. He could hear the sounds of raucous laughter and scuffling boots, smelled the meat from tonight’s dinner emanating from the closed door. He waited a moment to catch his breath. Then another, and another. He didn’t know how long he sat outside of that tavern for, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was unbearably tired, the weariness of his departure from the palace finally overcoming him. He wanted to get the image of the bloody witch and his sister’s screams and his mother’s pale, dead face out of his head. He wanted to go home.

But he didn’t have one. Not anymore.

He contemplated curling into a ball and falling asleep in the snow covered street when a gruff voice startled him out of his thoughts. A man towered in the light of the doorway, looking greatly annoyed. “Get lost, urchin. I’ve had enough of you lot begging outside of my tavern.”

Alek scrambled to his feet and was ready to comply with the man’s demands when a hand gripped his shoulder. “This boy is no beggar. He’s with me.”

Alek looked up into the face of a man he didn’t recognize. He was at least a handful of years older than Alek, his jaw rough with stubble. He had his curly black locks pulled into a knot at the base of his neck. His dark skin and hazel eyes were common with natives from the Summer Isles, but he didn’t have the same lilting accent that many from the islands carried.

The gruff man in the doorway grunted in displeasure, clearly not convinced. Yet he stepped aside and let them through all the same. Alek didn’t know how to react as the stranger pulled him to a table in the corner and ordered two ales and a plate of venison.

Alek blinked as a pint was thrust in his face. The stranger pushed the plate overflowing with meat towards Alek. “Go on, then. It’s on me.”

Hunger gnawed in Alek’s stomach. Without a word, he gripped a fork and devoured the meat greedily. When Alek was done, he leaned back and patted his now full stomach lovingly. It was with a jolt and a flush of embarrassment when Alek realized that the stranger was still there, watching him with curious eyes.

“Would you like to know what I do?” The question caught Alek off-guard. He nodded slowly, wondering why this stranger was being so generous towards a boy that looked like a beggar. “My name is Zephyr, and I am captain of a witch hunter’s guild.” 

Alek stared in wide-eyed amazement. He had heard of witch hunters, but never really thought they were real. They were heroes, the stuff of legends.

The witch hunters were a relatively new guild, having been created only two decades ago. His Majesty King Lucien, grandfather of the current king, had spearheaded a program that would give special training to soldiers. This special training consisted of disabling spells, learning how to protect oneself against curses, and of course, lessons on how to kill a witch. Only the strongest, most capable of the king's soldiers became witch hunters. Or so Alek thought.  

Alek bristled, suspicion taking a hold of him. What did a witch hunter want with him? Did he think that Alek was sympathetic to the witches and wanted to interrogate him? The thought unnerved him. "What is it that you want with me?"

“I saw you and that witch.” Alek’s stomach clenched at the mention of the crone, threatening to spill his dinner all over the floor. Zephyr was watching him with a sharpness that made Alek uneasy. It was as if he could stare right into the boy’s soul and see all the dark, anger-filled parts of him. “You have a little magic in you, boy. I can feel it.”

Alek almost snorted. “Are you accusing me of being a witch?”

Zephyr laughed. “No. But something there, inside of you, makes me wonder if you’d be willing to join our cause. As an apprentice.”

“The last time I accepted a stranger’s offer, they ended up with bleeding eyes and a bad temper.”

“I’m counting on you to do that again. Except not on me.” Zephyr leaned forward, his eyes shining. “You don’t plan to hide in the shadows for the rest of your life, do you? You know there’s so much more that the world can offer you other than picking scraps off a table. I can give you that.”

Though doubt crept into the back of his head, begging him to reconsider, Alek already knew what his answer was the moment this man had said witch hunter. He could feel the certainty of it, a feeling he had felt only once before; the moment he walked out of the golden gates of the palace for the last time. “What do I have to do?”

Zephyr smiled and grasped the boy’s hand. “Nothing I wouldn’t do myself.”