fortune favors the bold

He was twenty six years old when he tracked down his first mage. At the time, it seemed to be the best day of his life. His new life, anyways. His life as a witchfinder. He’d honed his magic on a single lock of her hair, traced her from Faline, to Mead, to a tiny little town that didn’t even have a name. Of course, there had been hiccups. He’d even almost arrested the wrong person at first, before a child bursted frantically out from behind a closed door and called her name.

He had not been there for a Lilianna, nor was the person he was after a mother. He hadn’t even offered an apology before he left; he hadn’t felt an ounce of guilt. Some of it was embarrassment, some was frustration.

Luckily, the next one his magic had led to was correct. His partner at the time, a short man they called Junior, had been proud of him. They all were. There was always something to celebrate when a mage used their magic for… good. Or so they called it. Linkoln knew there was far more to it than simply good or bad.

He preferred to consider it survival. Mages were dangerous. Witchfinders were simply saving the world from their wrath. It was a pity not everyone saw it that way.

It is nearly twenty years later when he finds himself back in that tiny town, the streets muddy from a recent rain and the stench of swamp water heavy in the air. Bugs buzz by his ears, the soft night breeze tugs at his sleeves. He wears dark clothes as if trying to blend in, but his steps carry him down the middle of the streets. Hands in his pockets, eyes turned down, he knows he does not belong, but he finds himself uncaring.

His target is welcome to spot him. They are welcome to flea. Linkoln will be mere steps behind.

This one is no ordinary target. They go by the name Vilim. A fellow witchfinder. A fellow mage. However, unlike Link, Vilim is one who has been unfortunately poisoned by the lies of fellow magic wielders. It was not obvious at first; their rebellion. It started out quiet, subtle, and slipped under the radar of many.

And it is a shame, Linkoln thinks, as he pulls himself to a stop outside of a ruined house, that Vilim chose to step off the righteous path. Link didn’t bother much in the world of friends, but… he considered Vilim a friend. Perhaps that is why he let them try to escape. Why he gave them extra time to hide. But there was no hiding from the magic of a bloodhound.

His knuckles rap on the splintering door, his other hand plucking at the blade at his side. He waits a beat… two… three…

“Vilim, I know you’re in there.” He calls out softly, leaning against the door with his ear turned to the wood. He listens for anything; a shuffle of a foot, an opening of a window, a breath… “Vilim,” He sighs and offers another knock. Another chance. “We won’t harm you, brother. You still have a chance. But you have to cooperate.”

Silence. Again.

He takes in a deep breath, rolling his shoulders as he steps away from the door and leans to peek in through a dusty window. Curtains flutter in the back. An open window glints in the moonlight. A shadow moves. They’re going to make a run for it.

Link moves quickly, now, away from the door as he circles the house. He turns his blade in his hand, and when he swoops in around the corner of the ruined house, he is just in time to grab his fleeing friend by the wrist and throw them against the side of the building. His blade finds their throat, and he shoves its sharp edge into the skin with just enough restraint to avoid bloodshed.

“I should have never trusted you,” Vilim hisses, struggling as Link forces his hands into restraints, narrowed gaze hungry for the blood they didn’t get a chance to spill. “You’re no different from the rest.”

“No,” Link confirms, moving his blade from his throat to his back as he urges his captive forward. “I’m not.”