*****

This is a particularly dark erotica with horror elements. 

Please read with caution.

*****

"He's like a king living up on that hill." Udora remarked to me in a hushed voice.

Living in WitchFall Fortress on that hill. Guarding the WitchFall dungeons. I thought bitterly. Having not like the man since he'd accused my friend Mara of being a witch and taken her away.

I never saw her after that.

It was safe to assume that she'd died in WitchFall.

Most do. I knew. It was a massive torture chamber where witches confessed to their sins.

We watched the older man coming down off the hill from his towering fortress. His powdered wig and overly elaborate cravat carefully in place.

"An evil one." My eyes narrowed.

"You only say that because of his pursuit of you."

"No. There's something wrong with him." I insisted.

"Saria, you been saying this for years." She groaned. "He's the most powerful man in our village and the six surrounding."

"That's because he has a knack for calling out witches."

"It's true!" Udora gasped. Giving me a wide-eyed look. Her brown hair tossing in her huff. "You think otherwise?"

"I think its mighty convenient he always seems to find some trace of witchery on every woman he accuses."

"Devil marks or devil gifts." She emphasized. "Proof."

"Is it really though?" I eyed her askance.

She frowned. "Well, what else would it be?"

"His magic." I suggested.

"Saria!" She covered my mouth and looked furtively around as though I'd said something infinitely profane.

I yanked her hand away. "I'm going to prove it, Udora."

"How?"

"I'm going to follow him for a day. I'll find out the truth."

"What if he catches you?" She sputtered. "He could have you thrown in those dungeons! No one ever comes back out! You know that!"

***

I did what I told Udora I would. I slinked in the shadows. Haunting the magistrate's step. Watching every careful adjustment of his wig. Every long step which seemed a bit too spry for a man of his age.

How old is he? I had no idea.

He'd looked the same since as long as I could remember.

Even my father, the town tanner had feared him. Ushering me away from the magistrate's watchful gaze. Telling me the man wasn't one to be trifled with.

Why does he never age? I moved behind the booths in the village to keep him in view as he inspected wares. Keeping his hands linked behind his back as he eyed the goods. His eyes were bleary green, but they flitted around as though he missed not the smallest detail. He had blotched skin on his face and a few lumpy growths marring along his nose and cheeks making him difficult to look directly at. But even as I was thinking it he lifted his hand to make sure his wig was carefully in place and I noticed something that had always struck my attention. His hands were darkly tanned and sinewed. Long fingered and...

Beautiful.

Like the hands of a much younger man.

***

The heat of the midday sun was blindingly painful today. Taking it to such a temperature that anyone not under a canopy was flushed red and panting for water.

Me included. But I doggedly followed the man buying trinkets here and there. Pretty little necklaces or women's dresses.

Odd things for a man living alone to purchase. I frowned. My eyes narrowing on him.

Does he have a mistress he hides from the village? Perhaps a village over?

That would indeed be clever! I'd heard my father speak before of men that did such things so their catty wives wouldn't find out about their affairs.

Soon he was wiping a smooth brown wrist along his forehead and plucking at his wig in a way that told me he was overly hot in it.

A dangerous game in Drimidan.

Overheating was one of the fastest ways people died in this country.

He veered from the booths and cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. Missing me crouched behind a booth. Once he'd verified no one seemed to be watching him, he turned sharply and quickly maneuvered to the left.

Heading straight into Warlock Wood.

What is he about?