THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF

CHAPTER TWO

Ten Years Ago

The night howled with winter’s breath—cold, sharp, and unforgiving. Snow fell in thick, swirling sheets like ashes from a dying sky. Amadeus stood in the barn, brushing down his tall black stallion, Knight, as his wife labored in pain just beyond the wooden walls.

The barn door creaked open, and the midwife appeared, her cloak dusted with frost. “The child is almost here,” she whispered breathlessly, eyes wide with urgency.

Amadeus nodded once, solemn. As custom demanded, he had prepared a gift for the newborn—an heirloom dagger, short and keen, with a silver sheen and pearls embedded in the hilt. It was wrapped in royal blue silk—a warrior’s welcome.

Moments later, a cry broke through the howling wind—a child’s first scream, fierce and wild. Amadeus stepped into the firelit room. The midwife handed him the boy, whose piercing blue eyes seemed to glow, twin flames in the dark. He was silent now, staring at his father as though he already understood the harshness of the world. The boy’s spirit resembled Snow, the white wolf curled by the hearth, watching protectively.

Angelica lay on the bed, her golden hair damp with sweat, her skin glowing like amber under the flickering firelight. She smiled faintly, drained but proud, her fingers brushing the edge of the blanket wrapped around their child. Amadeus knelt beside her, placed the sheathed dagger beside the baby, and whispered:

“Your name shall be Artemis, goddess of the wild and the hunt. You will walk between shadows and flame.”

The next morning dawned clear and cruel. Though the air was brittle with frost, the sun shone brilliantly through the trees, casting long spears of golden light into the cottage windows.

Amadeus went into the woods, carrying his twin swords and a bow. The hunt was quick—he sighted a deer grazing beneath frost-covered branches. A single breath, a drawn string, a whistling arrow—and the beast fell. He skinned it cleanly, bound the meat, and turned homeward, satisfied.

But as he neared the river, a plume of smoke snaked into the sky. His heart froze.

He ran.

Crossing the stream, the scent of fire and blood filled his nostrils. His home—his sanctuary—was engulfed in flames. Villagers surrounded it, torches in hand, faces twisted with ignorant fury.

“Burn the witch!” they chanted. “Death to the magical conduits!”

Amadeus drew Stormbringer, his great blade—etched in runes and thirsting for vengeance. With a roar of agony, he descended upon them like a tempest. Steel met flesh. Screams rang through the cold morning. Justice—or wrath—was swift.

But it was too late.

Inside the burning home, Angelica and Artemis were gone. The fire had claimed them both. Amadeus dropped to his knees, ashes falling like black snow around him. His world collapsed. The light in his soul extinguished.

The truth was cruel. Angelica had been no witch. She was a healer—gentle, wise, skilled in herbs and roots. But the town priest, threatened by what he did not understand, branded her a heretic, and the villagers obeyed like sheep.

Enraged, Amadeus stormed the chapel of Grenadia. The priest stood defiant, robed in false holiness.

“May God forgive you, Witcher,” the priest gasped as Amadeus plunged Stormbringer into his chest.

“God is dead,” Amadeus whispered coldly. “Only monsters like you remain.”

As the priest’s lifeless body slumped to the floor, Amadeus walked into the snow. His heart now hollow, he vowed to hunt every monster—be it beast or man—that poisoned the world.

On a high cliff, he knelt beneath a gray sky, snow falling around him. A small white wolf pup emerged from the blizzard, curling beside him for warmth. Its fur was indistinguishable from the snow—silent, pure, and deadly.

“It should’ve been me on that pyre,” Amadeus murmured, closing his eyes. “Not you… my Angelica.”

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