By the time he had secured Ruyter in the woman's shed, the wind had reached a keening pitch, and the snow had begun to fall in earnest. The cabin itself was warm and dry though, and for that Roland was thankful. Sybilla barely spared him a glance as he entered, choosing to preoccupy herself with whatever stew she was cooking. That suited the hunter just fine, as he took his time examining the small structure's interior. It was a one-room affair, with the only door he could see being the one leading back outside, the only other separation being the curtain most likely leading to the food stores. And yet, despite the seemingly cramped nature of the place, the cabin was well-ordered and well-maintained. The cooking area and stove took up one corner, with a small table and chairs taking up the room's center. In the opposite corner sat a bed and a wooden chest. All in all a neat, tidy habitation. Roland frowned as he caught sight of a small bookcase, surprisingly laden with books.

"You can leave your things by the door," Sybilla said suddenly, "Just don't make a damned mess."

The witch-hunter simply nodded, carefully removing his boots and leaving them at the entrance with his pack before taking off his coat. Sybilla said nothing, simply bowing her head back to her cooking, paying him no more attention.

"Would you like some tea and stew?" the woman asked abruptly.

"If you don't mind," he nodded politely, pulling up a chair and taking a seat at the table.

"I invited you in, it would hardly be fair not to offer," she snickered slightly, the first sound of humor he had heard from her.

"I appreciate the generosity," Roland allowed a slight smile to lighten his features.

"It has been a long long while since I last had visitors," she said, "Not many come this way. The mountains are a bit of a dangerous place."

"I am sure," the witch hunter nodded, "Yet you seem to have made your home here just fine."

"One has to make do," the woman laughed again.

It was a lively, ringing laugh, surprisingly warm and heartfelt, eliciting a small chuckle out of Roland. As he eyed Sybilla it occurred to him that she was younger than he had first supposed. Muttering

slightly to herself she poured him a cup of tea, sliding it across the table. Roland frowned slightly at the bitter, watered-down taste of low-quality brew but said nothing, simply nodding his thanks in turn.

"It's not the best, I know, but its all I have," she shrugged apologetically.

"No matter, it's good enough," he smiled and took another sip.

"How long have you lived out here?" he raised an eyebrow, "Seems you're pretty well established."

"Three years, four soon," she said haphazardly, handing him a bowl of stew.

Roland could feel his stomach growl in response to the fragrant meal before him.

"Isn't this kind of lonely, living in the middle of nowhere?" he inquired.

"How do I put it, mister Arnow," she said slowly, taking a seat opposite him and looking him in the eyes, "I'm just not that fond of people."

The witch hunter pursed his lips, unsure of how to respond to that. Deciding to say nothing, he set about eating. Unlike the tea, the stew was good. Thick with peas and carrots.

"You can read?" he asked warily.

"I can, and I do, you can learn much from books, mister Arnow," she answered simply.

"True," he nodded, "Seems a waste of ability to be reading tracts alone in the woods though. You could find good pay out in the city. Even as a woman, there are many who would pay for your literary services."

"I used to live in the city of Holine, but there were difficulties. I was forced out," she said matter-of-factly in between spoonfuls of the stew.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he frowned sympathetically.

In the back of his mind, however, he could feel warning bells ringing. Something was very much amiss, albeit he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Dimly he could feel the cold metal of the malthorian cross pressing against his chest, the uncomfortable rune etchings pressing against his skin.

"It is what it is," she said calmly.

"I suppose so," Roland nodded, pulling the trinket clear of his shirt, so as to arrange it beneath his jerkin.

Sybilla's jaw tensed, eyes flashing briefly with momentary recognition. The cross did not burn in warning of malefic energies, yet he could see the flicker of hatred in her gaze. She said nothing, but Roland felt realization dawning.

"So, what is it you are hunting for, out here in this corner of the world," she said nonchalantly, her tone scarcely betraying her ire.

The Malthorian cross suddenly began to warm, and Roland reached downward, his hand straying across the weapon at his side. Something. No, someone, was picking his mind, trying to read his thoughts.

He kept his gaze locked on Sybilla, trying to read her features as his hand unclasped the holster at his hip. The feeling of lancets jabbing into his brain was distracting. The Malthusian cross burned. A feeling of hot fire against his flesh, drawing a grimace to the hunter's face.

"I've been given a task by the people of Frolingen," he said slowly, firmly grasping the butt of his revolver and tilting the barrel upward.

"Was tasked with hunting down a certain individual. I was tasked with hunting down a witch."

Sybilla froze, and the pain in his mind subsided. The revolver swung up beneath the table, Roland's thumb pushing back the hammer with speed of thought. A dull click resonated through the room.

He was ready for the sudden violence, the sudden explosion of eldritch powers amid the witch's panic. And yet the woman did nothing. She just sat silent and frigid, her face betraying nearly no emotion, just resignation.

Roland adjusted his aim slightly, finger sliding across the trigger guard. Even if the witch attempted anything now, she'd be dead. At such close range the bullet would pass through her like paper and blow out her spine, of that he was sure.

They sat there frozen, eyes locked, neither daring to move. The fire in the Malthusian cross subsided. In spite of his desire to end it then and there, the hunter stayed his hand.

"You hid well," he said calmly, not daring to lower his weapon for even a second.

"I've been hiding for a long time," she answered, "I should have expected it, I suppose."

Roland said nothing, intently examining her.

"Are you going to shoot?" she asked bluntly.

"If you cooperate I will take you before the appropriate authorities in Frolingen to face judgment," the hunter answered, "There need not be violence."

"Judgement?" she snorted derisively, "For what crime?"

"Murder, you are accused of attacking and murdering multiple men in cold blood, including the son of a councilman," he answered.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"Murder!?" the woman scoffed, "I did no such thing."

"That is for a court to decide," Roland shrugged indifferently.

The witch shook her head in disgust, "A court? You think I have any chance in a court where my mere existence is seen as an abomination?!"

"You are an abomination," the witch hunter said icily, "An aberration against the natural order."

"Of course a man like you should say that," she spat back at him, "And yet you expect me to face a court that believes the same."

"There is only one other way this ends if you won't face justice," Roland's voice took on a softer edge.

"I am not going anywhere," the vehemence in her tone took the hunter aback.

"I don't want to kill you," he said calmly.

"No, you want the people to kill me for you," she sneered.

Roland clamped his jaw shut.

"I'm not coming with you," she slumped and shook her head, "Kill me if you want. But I won't face your 'justice'."

The hunter frowned. The woman's lack of resistance disturbed him.

"You want me to attack you," she snickered, "Give you justification? Why should you need any?"

Her gaze drilled into him, boring into Roland's soul, "Your people never needed that sort of justification, so why do you need it now."

"A witch-hunter must be certain," Roland said calmly, "Certain the mark is a good one."

The witch's head dropped into her palms as she leaned on the table, "Don't lie to me, Roland, I've seen what you do. What men of your ilk are capable of."

When she raised her head he could see the tears forming in her eyes. It almost moved him.

"Men of my ilk, huh," he frowned at her, "Those men are all but dead. Dead by the king's own orders."

"Good," she said simply, "I hope they suffered. And yet I doubt their suffering was anywhere near what they caused."

Roland's jaw clenched, he had to struggle not to fire. To gun her down then and there. The witch just remained slumped, brooding in silence.

"The wyrd blood is weak. One does not inherit it easily," her words came slowly, forced through pain and sorrow, "My mother had it. My father did not, nor my siblings. Only i received the 'gift'. She never hurt anyone. My family did no harm."

"And yet your people came, and they murdered them all," she muttered weakly, "Mother. Father. Brother and sister. They burned them. Your people. Your people burned them all for the crime of their existence."

"Mistakes happen. Sometimes there are miscalculations," Roland said coldly.

"Mistakes," she shook her head in disbelief, raising her gaze once more, "There were no mistakes. Just murder. Murder to the baying of an angry mob."

"I am sorry that happened, assuming it did," the hunter said unkindly.

"Do you take me for a liar?" the woman asked.

"I do not know what to think," he answered, "There must be fair judgment. Thus far you have done nothing to disprove the accusations leveled against you, and that is all that concerns me."

He lied and he knew it. There was much amiss with the story he had been given, and the witch's passiveness was disconcerting. Her head cocked sideways as she scrutinized him.

"Why do you hate me?" she asked suddenly.

"I do not hate," he answered softly.

"Of course you do, as if your words weren't enough to show it," the small frown on the woman's face made him hesitant, "I can feel it bleeding off you. The disgust, the contempt."

"Can you now?" he raised an eyebrow, "Well, let me tell you Sybilla, I do not hate you. You do, however, vex me."

"You continue to understate and lie, witch hunter, it is not befitting," she shook her head, "You do hate. I can sense it, I see it in your eyes, and even your own words condemn you on that front."

Roland did not answer, keeping his eyes locked with the witch's gaze.

"So tell me, please, why do you hate me so?" Sybilla said.

The witch hunter smiled hideously, "Magic- Magic is a blight, a rot. It is corruption in its purest form."

The witch made to interrupt, yet he silenced her with a dismissive sweep of his hand, "Your kind are born with power. The power to twist reality, to fulfill your whims and acquire whatever you desire. And it is never enough. Such power simply breeds desire for more of the same."

"Tell me, witch, have you ever seen entire companies incinerated by magical fire? Villages decimated by alchemical plague? Any of the horrors your kind visit upon mankind to sate your powerlust?"

She said nothing, the spite in her eyes all too tangible.

"You seek to play God, and people suffer for it," Roland said finally.

The grimace she gave him was one of anything but acceptance, "And what of you, witch hunter? Judge and executioner? Who are you to choose who lives and dies."

"Someone must bring balance," the witch-hunter sneered.

"Power corrupts, does it not?" the witch said icily.

Roland did not deign to respond.

"Hypocrisy doesn't suit you either, witch hunter," the witch's acrid tone made the hunter's fingers clench white against the revolver.

Then, she slumped once more, as if deflated by her own outburst.

"I was last in town a week ago. Traded off most of my remaining elixirs for supplies," she said suddenly before noticing the confusion on his face, "There are many mountain plants that make fine ingredients for elixirs of mending and recuperation. You can find them in Trachtman's Treatises over there. It is how I make my living."

She gestured languidly in the direction of the bookshelves.

"Did you use magic?" Roland asked.

"I did," Sybilla said simply.

"Why?"

"The councilman's son wanted me to open a magical lock keeping a container sealed, a Albraer. I felt- something dark within. Something I could not place, but something I did not want to dabble with," she said, shuddering at the memory, "He was very persistent. Did not want to accept my refusal, I had to discourage him."

"Did you kill him?" the witch hunter licked his lips and leaned back.

"No, nothing of the sort," the woman shook her head, "Showed just enough to scare him. I've never killed. Never harmed anyone."

"Why are you still here?"

"You ask a lot of questions," the witch leaned back, the severity not leaving her features.

Roland froze, his jaw grinding at the interruption.

"It is my job to ask questions," he said frostily.

"I am here because this is my home."

"You had to have known how this would end, why stay?" the Malthorian raised a wary eyebrow.

"I am not about to be evicted by angry peasants with winter on my doorstep," she grimaced in turn, "I am tired of running."

"Yet you will not fight me?" Roland asked in disbelief.

"No."

"What proof do you have?" he asked.

"Would it not be more appropriate to ask what proof there is that I did attempt to murder the man?" she said coldly.

"Several sworn witnesses placed you at the scene of the crime, it is hard to argue against such claims," he answered calmly.

"You are a smart man, Mr. Arnow. You know, or at very least suspect what I am capable of. Do you really think there would be any trail left to follow had I chosen to perform such an act?" she shook her head in disbelief, "Do you think I would have stayed to be pursued by you? Really, do you?"

"I hoped the threat, and worry at revealing his own plotting, would be deterrent enough to keep him from revealing me," she sighed, "I see now that's not the case."

"What did you do with the locked container?" Roland asked.

"Left it there. He still had it in his hands when I fled. The one called Korvin still had it," she answered, "Why?"

Suddenly, the pit was back, Roland's gut sinking at the thought, "It was gone. It is gone."

He had been fooled. He had to get back to the city, to Frolingen, yet the howling wind outside said otherwise.

For a brief few moments, the two sat in silence, mulling over their thoughts. The hammer clicked. With a frown, Roland lowered his revolver. Sybilla arched an eyebrow in surprise at the gesture.

"You raise a good point," he said with finality, his mind trailing elsewhere, "Given the lack of proof, I think you are in the right."

"I-" the woman froze, as if unsure how to continue, "I'm surprised."

"Yet it does not resolve this situation, I can inform your pursuers you are gone, disappeared, but they will come and find you regardless,” the witch-hunter said cynically, doing his best to distract his mind from the situation, “You should flee before that happens.”

“With the winter snows setting in? I do not believe so,” the witch shook her head, “You are the first to venture into these mountains in years.”

“Your choice, if you end up with a furious mob on your doorstep, don't blame me,” he shrugged and took a wary bite of stew.

His eyes never left the woman, scouring for any signs of movement or sudden attack, even as his free hand remained resting on his weapon.

“You really think I'm going to attack you?” she arched a critical eyebrow at him.

“I wouldn't put it past you,” he said sourly, “The stew is good though.”

The woman shook her head, “That's supposed to be reassuring?”

“No, I'm simply stating what I think,” he said in between spoonfuls.

“Did the king really purge all the others?” she asked.

The mix of uncertainty and excited curiosity in her tone made him frown.

“In my order specifically, yes,” he said frostily, finishing the last bite of his food and pushing the bowl aside, “Seven years ago now.”

She nodded at that, “Then why are you here?”

“You already know that,” he grimaced and took a sip of the bitter tea.

“No, why are you in Frolingen? I'm not entirely ignorant to the world's affairs, Roland, is it not Astanian crown territory now?” she raised an eyebrow.

“It is,” he agreed.

“Then why stay?” she asked.

“I have to wait out the winter, then perhaps cross to Ruthenia,” he shrugged.

The woman squinted her eyes, glaring intently at the witch-hunter.

“You don't actually intend to cross to Ruthenia, do you?” she laughed slightly.

Roland said nothing.

“I must say, I am curious. If your order is truly purged, then you loitering on Astana's land does not seem like the most clever of decisions,” she sighed and snatched up the dirty bowls, “So whatever you're staying here for has to be really important.”

He licked his lips at the remark, annoyed by the woman's prying, as well as the precision of her analysis. For a second it occurred to him that she had pried through his mind, that the Malthorian Cross had failed, despite the impossibility of such an event.

“You could say that,” he nodded finally.

“Care to talk about it?” she asked.

Her boldness was infuriating.

“A secret of your order? Why does it matter to keep it secret if they're all dead?” she sighed and strode past him, taking a seat by the crackling fireplace.

The witch-hunter trailed her with his gaze, only now finally re-holstering the revolver at his hip.

“Some things shouldn't be in the wrong hands,” he growled.

The seat beneath him creaked as he turned it about, staring at the flames as they licked greedily at the firewood.

“Before the purge, I and some others were tasked with finding something, that is all,” he said simply, “A place that may house an item of great value, and great power.”

It was a cryptic, unsatisfactory statement, but he had no intent of telling the witch more.

“A magical item? One connected to the wyrd?” she asked, remaining fixated on the fire.

“Most likely,” he nodded.

“And you fear others will now find it? You fear what they may do with it?” her matter-of-fact tone took him aback.

“Yes.”

The young witch nodded, contemplating what he had said. Roland yawned and slouched down in his chair, stretching his legs out as far as they'd go. The fire's warmth on his feet was comforting.

“How long have you been looking?” she asked.

“Me?” he glanced over at her and pursed his lips, “Eight years I suppose.”

“And nothing?”

“Nothing,” he admitted.

The witch snorted in soft laughter, crossing her arms and shaking her head, “Eight years spent searching for something and nothing to show for it? It may very well not exist.”

“I have faith it does," he said slowly, "It has to."