Chapter 1 : Monster, Contract, and Loneliness

The stench of the drowner arrived before its body.

Vela Silverhair stood at the edge of the swamp, silver sword in hand, leather gloves creaking as her fingers tightened around the hilt. Not fear—witches didn''t know fear, the Grass Trial had burned that part of her nerves—but recognition. Like a hound scenting prey, muscles automatically tensing.

Moonlight filtered through the mist, casting everything in shades of gray and silver. The swamp was quiet, too quiet. No frogs croaking, no insects buzzing. Monster territory.

She moved forward, boots sinking into the mud with soft sucking sounds. Ten years of hunting alone had taught her: monsters were predictable. Drowners liked water, liked ambushes, liked to drag their victims down and feast on the bloated corpses.

Three of them. The village elder had said three. Fifty crowns for three drowner heads. Good money, enough for a month of food and lodging. If she survived.

The first one lunged from the water.

It was humanoid, but twisted. Greenish skin covered in slime, webbed hands with claws, mouth full of needle-sharp teeth. It moved fast, clumsy but powerful.

Vela didn''t think. Muscle memory was faster than thought.

She sidestepped, silver sword flashing in an arc. Not elegant swordsmanship, butchery. Precise, efficient, emotionless. The blade cut through the drowner''s neck, black blood spraying. The head flew, body collapsing into the water.

Two more.

They came together, coordinated. One from the left, one from the right. She pivoted, sword sweeping low, cutting the legs out from under the first. It fell, screeching. The second was on her, claws raking her leather armor. She felt the impact, but no pain. The armor held.

She kicked the fallen drowner away, turned to the second. It was bigger, older, smarter. It circled her, waiting for an opening.

She didn''t give it one.

A quick sign with her left hand—Igni. Fire burst from her palm, hitting the drowner square in the chest. It screamed, flesh sizzling. She charged, sword thrusting through the burning chest. The creature went still.

The third was trying to crawl away, legless. She walked over, sword raised, brought it down. Clean cut. Silence.

She stood there, breathing heavily. The adrenaline was fading, leaving the familiar emptiness in her stomach. She wiped her sword on the grass, sheathed it. Collected the heads. Three. Fifty crowns.

***

The village was small, poor. Wooden houses with thatched roofs, muddy streets, the smell of woodsmoke and unwashed bodies. It was late, but lights were on in the tavern. They were waiting.

She pushed open the door, heads in a sack slung over her shoulder. The conversation died instantly.

All eyes turned to her. Fear, disgust, curiosity. The witch. The silver-haired monster hunter. Necessary evil.

The elder stood up from his table, face pale. "You... you got them?"

She dropped the sack on the floor. It landed with a wet thud. "Three. Fifty crowns."

He counted out the coins, hands trembling. Gold crowns, worn from use. She took them, weighed them in her palm. Real. She pocketed them.

"Thank you," the elder said, not meeting her eyes. "The swamp... it''s safe now?"

"For now." She turned to leave.

"Wait." A woman''s voice, young, scared. "My son... he was taken last week. Could you...?"

Vela looked at her. The woman had tears in her eyes, hope mixed with desperation. "If he was taken by drowners, he''s dead. Eaten."

The hope died. The woman looked away, sobbing.

Vela left the tavern. Behind her, she heard the whispers start again. "Monster... she''s a monster too..."

She didn''t care. Or told herself she didn''t care.

The emptiness in her stomach was back, deeper now. Not hunger, something else. A familiar hollow feeling that reminded her of the Grass Trial. Ten years old, drinking that green liquid, feeling it burn through her veins, changing her forever.

She pushed the memory away. Memories were useless. Only the present mattered. Only survival.

***

The tavern upstairs room was cheap. Five crowns a night, bed with a straw mattress, thin blanket, window overlooking the muddy street. But it had a lock on the door, and that was enough.

She counted her money again. Fifty crowns from the drowners, minus five for the room, minus two for food tomorrow. Forty-three left. Good. She could afford a drink.

Downstairs, the tavern was crowded. Farmers, traders, a few mercenaries. She sat at the corner table, back to the wall, facing the door. Old habits.

The barmaid brought her ale without asking. They knew her here. The witch who came every few months, killed monsters, drank alone, left. No questions, no conversations.

She drank slowly, letting the bitter liquid wash away the taste of swamp water and blood. The ale was weak, watered down, but it was something.

A man approached. Young, healthy, not ugly. He had the look of a farmer''s son, strong arms, calloused hands. He sat down without invitation.

"Fifteen crowns," she said, not looking at him.

He nodded, pulled out a coin purse, counted fifteen crowns onto the table. She took them, pocketed them.

"Upstairs," she said, standing up.

He followed.

***

The room was dark, only moonlight through the window. She took off her armor, piece by piece. Leather chestplate, gauntlets, boots. Underneath, she wore simple linen clothes, stained with sweat and blood.

The man watched, eyes hungry. She could smell his desire: cheap ale, sweat, lust. Simple, straightforward.

She lay down on the bed, not looking at him. "Hurry up."

He fumbled with his clothes, then was on top of her. Rough hands, rough kisses, rough everything. She closed her eyes, detached. This was transaction, not connection. Fifteen crowns for physical release, nothing more.

He entered her, no foreplay, no tenderness. Just thrusting, grunting, sweating. She felt the physical sensations: pressure, friction, the bed creaking. But emotionally, nothing. Empty. Like the drowners, like the ale, like the coins. Just another transaction.

He finished quickly, collapsing on top of her, breathing heavily. She pushed him off, got up, went to the washbasin. Cleaned herself with cold water, methodical, efficient.

He dressed in silence, then left without a word. The door closed. She was alone again.

She looked at herself in the small mirror above the basin. Silver hair, pale skin, yellow cat-like eyes—the marks of a witch. Twenty-five years old, but felt older. Much older.

The emptiness in her stomach was still there. The sex hadn''t filled it. Nothing ever did.

She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Memories came, unwanted.

***

The Grass Trial. Ten years old.

The old witch found her in the gutter, starving, freezing. "You have potential," he said, his voice like gravel. "Or you''ll die. Your choice."

No choice. She followed him.

The laboratory was cold, stone walls, strange instruments, bubbling potions. He made her drink the green liquid. It burned going down, like swallowing fire. Then the real pain started.

Muscles twisting, bones cracking, skin tearing. She screamed, but no sound came out. Her hair turned silver overnight. Her eyes changed color. Her senses sharpened: she could hear a mouse scratching in the walls, smell the mold on the stones, see in near darkness.

When it was over, she was different. Stronger, faster, better. A witch. A monster.

"Remember," the old witch said, his hand on her shoulder. "Witches are alone. Connection is weakness. Love is death."

She remembered. Ten years alone, no connections, no love. Only contracts, coins, survival.

***

She opened her eyes. The ceiling was still there, the room still empty, the night still long.

She turned on her side, facing the wall. The emptiness in her stomach was a constant companion now. She named it: loneliness. But loneliness was protection. Loneliness meant no one could hurt you, no one could leave you, no one could die on you.

Better to be alone than to feel this emptiness for someone else.

She closed her eyes, forced herself to sleep.

Tomorrow, another contract. Another monster. Another fifty crowns.

The cycle continued.

And she told herself she was fine with that.

Even when the hollow feeling said otherwise.

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