THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF

CHAPTER ONE

Amadeus was a witch hunter. His duty was to send the wicked into the black abyss. He was a tall, well-built man of formidable presence. His silky white hair glowed faintly under the dying sun, casting an eerie radiance. At his side was his white wolf, Snow—bred to be a predator, a faithful and tireless watchdog. Strapped across his back were twin swords, crafted for swift combat, and on his black horse—whom he named The Knight—hung a weathered shield.

On this day, Amadeus came upon a small village. Quiet and remote, it huddled beneath the shadow of an old church that overlooked the modest cluster of homes like a forgotten sentinel.

As he entered Wallachia, the villagers scattered and hid. His reputation had preceded him. Shopkeepers closed their stalls, fearing that death followed him. But Amadeus was not a butcher of innocents—he had never spilled clean blood. He hunted only the damned, the cursed, and the monstrous.

Three years earlier, while he was away on a hunt, a vampire had murdered his wife and child. Since then, his sword had found not only witches, but shapeshifters, daemons, ghouls, and blood-drinkers. His vengeance knew no boundaries.

As he neared the church, a figure emerged from the mist. It was the village priest.

“Pardon me, warrior. You have no business here,” said the priest.

“There’s always business in cursed lands,” Amadeus replied. “Now move—you’re in my way.”

“I will not allow sacrilege in this holy place—not even for your cruel bounties! Tell me, do you believe in God, sir?”

Amadeus met his gaze. “No. Only in man, and the evil within.”

“Then may God deliver you from the grip of sin,” the priest whispered, stepping aside reluctantly. “I pray you find peace in your work.”

Amadeus pushed open the church doors and entered.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the bitter tang of sulfur—clear signs of something unholy. The once-sacred sanctuary was now lifeless, haunted by rumors of ghosts and the cursed things that kept them company.

He unsheathed his blade—Stormbringer—forged in fire and enchanted by ancient rites. Few wielded such a weapon, and even fewer dared to face what it was made for.

Snow growled beside him as the final light of the village faded. Darkness swallowed the chapel whole.

At the altar, a cloaked figure hunched over a corpse, feasting like a beast.

“Have you come to kill me, Witcher?” the figure rasped, its cloak billowing in the moonlight pouring through the broken window.

“There’s a price on your head,” Amadeus said, stepping forward. “I’ve come to collect it.”

“Very well... let me finish my dinner,” hissed the creature—a vile fusion of man and monster. “You really think you can hurt me?” it asked, licking its blood-soaked fingers.

“Flee now,” Amadeus warned, “or feel the wrath of Stormbringer.”

The creature turned. Its skin was pale as bone. Its fingers stretched unnaturally long, crackling as they moved. “You're just another bounty hunter. You came for gold.”

It reached under its tattered cloak, tossed a pouch of coins toward him. “Here. Take it, and leave me be.”

Amadeus stared at the gold, unmoved. “I said go! Or I shall have you for dessert!” the monster roared.

Amadeus pulled a capsule from his belt—a vial of holy water, blessed by the last of the old popes. He poured it along the blade, which hissed as the holy water met its runes.

“They call me the Count of Wallachia,” the vampire hissed. “This is my city.”

Amadeus surged forward without warning, slamming his elbow into the Count’s face. The creature collapsed beside the bloodied remains of a woman in a torn white gown, her body limp and lifeless.

“And you... what do they call you?” the Count wheezed.

“I am your end,” Amadeus said, driving the sword through the vampire’s chest.

The Count screamed, his body igniting in a blaze of fire. The church filled with his final, echoing cry.

Amadeus stepped away from the ash and left the gold where it fell.

Outside, the villagers began to emerge, one by one, from behind doors and shadows. They had heard everything. Their eyes followed him, wary and silent.

Amadeus said nothing.

Snow walked beside him, and The Knight waited. Without a word, he mounted his horse and rode into the breaking dawn, the great white wolf padding beside him, vanishing into the light.