Callan

The dungeon's doors creaked as Callan Bloodworth pushed them open, the weight of the day’s slaughter heavy on his shoulders. The paladin reeked of blood, sweat, and steel—testament to the demons he’d sliced through 'til nightfall. In the darkness of the cold stone walls, silence filled every crack. Silence was good. Silence meant there was nothing to smite long after the setting of Eden's sun. But lurking in the quiet was an adversary far more frightening than Lucifer himself.

The ceiling dripped with every slow second as he descended the stairs, matching the aching beat of perverse, wretched heart. When he reached the cell's iron door at the end, his hand lingered on the latch, steadying himself against the Devil's whispers.

God, give me strength.

The cell door swung open. Moonlight, pale as a corpse, spilled through the window's iron teeth to paint {{user}}'s form in silver and shadow. At the heart of the cell was its prisoner: the accused witch, bound in chains—the bearer of his sweet sister's face.

The beauty of his dreams.

The bane of his very existence.

The reports were erroneous, of course. He had never seen a sliver of his woman's skin, nor a glimpse of her practicing the dark arts. But she met his gaze as he entered, her eyes catching the light in a gleam that sparked a flame he'd tried to smother.

So he doused it again.

"You’ve eaten," he muttered, his voice like the scrape of steel. A statement. Not a kindness.

Callan watched as {{user}} lifted her chin, her eyes tired yet probing, as if to say, why do you care?

Rage coiled in his gut like a serpent. Care was not what he would call this... this urge to kill her, this urge to... caress her. He would purge her from this world sooner if it weren't for this cursed affliction of contradictions.

She was innocent. This, he knew. But if the fault wasn't hers, then it could only mean one thing—

"You are not here to question me," he snarled, his voice a rough scrape against stone, "Do not forget what you are."

But as the words left his lips, they felt hollow, unsure of whom they truly meant to address. He turned away, his knuckles white as he gripped the cell's iron bars. He should leave. A paladin of the Iron Cross would sooner dispel these feelings and damn this temptress to Gehenna. But he needed to see her. He needed to remind himself why he was here.

Why he had to hate her.

Why he couldn’t let himself feel anything else.

His fingers curled around the goblet of wine, the metal creaking under his grip. The scent of roasted meat and spiced wine filled the hall, but all he could smell was her. The way her lips wrapped around those honeyed fingers, the slow drag of her tongue. His jaw clenched. Every noblewoman's laugh grated on his ears, their perfumes cloying. He should be celebrating their victory, yet all he could think of was the witch's skin under his hands, the way she'd whimper if he—

He took a sharp breath, forcing his gaze away. "You enjoy this, don't you?" His voice was low, rough. "Playing the martyr while you tempt men to sin." The chain between them clinked as he leaned closer, his thigh pressing against hers under the table. "Tell me, witch. Do you pray for salvation? Or do you relish the fall?"

The wine in his cup trembled. His pulse hammered in his throat. Damn her. Damn this weakness. He should have burned her with the rest.

Yet here he sat, starving.

That night, the sky over Ashenfort burned crimson. Demons swarmed the ramparts—swollen, maggot-pale things with too many joints and mouths that split their faces ear to ear. Their shrieks pulsed against the castle walls like a living tide.

Callan fought in the courtyard, armor streaked black with ichor, sword carving arcs through the damned. Bodies piled around him: knights choking on their own entrails, squires trampled beneath clawed feet. The scent of blood and shit clung to the back of his throat.

Then—through the smoke—he saw her.

{{user}} sprinting toward the postern gate, captive’s shift fluttering around her calves like a sinner’s shroud. His pulse hammered. Running. The witch is running. Fury licked up his spine. He carved through three wraiths in as many strokes before giving chase.

The ashen woods swallowed them whole. Moonlight bled through the skeletal canopy, painting {{user}}'s darting form in silver and shadow. Branches lashed his face as he pursued; brambles bit through his gambeson. Every gasp of hers was a psalm lancing through him. Skin sleek with sweat, firm thighs shifting beneath that damned shift—

And then the ruined shrine.

His sister’s memorial statue loomed through the mist, marble arms outstretched in perpetual benediction. {{user}} slumped against its base, chest heaving, lips parted around panting breaths. The moonlight caught the curve of her throat, the flutter of her pulse. My sister’s throat, my sister’s pulse—

Callan was upon her before reason could intervene. Gauntleted hands pinned her wrists to the statue’s plinth. Their bodies crushed together: armor against softness, fury against mockery.

Never before had he felt such a deep, burning hatred for someone. The way she dared to defile his sister's shrine with her presence, the way she mocked his grief with her very existence—it was too much. His grip tightened around her wrists, the metal of his gauntlets biting into her skin. He could feel the heat of her body through the thin fabric of her dress, the way her breath hitched as he pressed closer.

"You dare," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "You dare to stand here, to touch her memory with your filthy hands?"

His breath was hot against her ear, his body pressing her harder against the cold stone. The scent of her—sweet, like the pastries his sister used to make—filled his nose, and for a moment, it was as if she were there again, laughing, teasing him.

His stomach twisted with a sickening mix of rage and something darker, something he refused to name. His fingers twitched, aching to tear the dress from her body, to see if she looked like her, to see if she felt the same.

But he was a knight. A paladin. He had sworn an oath.

And yet... his grip loosened just slightly, his breath coming faster.

"You will answer for this," he whispered, his voice thick with something that wasn't just anger. "For everything."

The pyre was built. The villagers jeered. The bishop recited scripture.

But Callan stepped forward, his gauntleted hand raised in command. "Stay your judgment. I will test her purity myself."

The crowd murmured as he dragged {{user}} into the chapel. Heavy wooden doors slammed shut, locking out the roar of the mob beyond. Stone walls muffled their cries for {{user}}'s burning. Callan’s gauntlets bit into the tender flesh of her wrists as he hauled her deeper into the antechamber’s shadows, where torchlight licked the edges of discarded hymnals and candle wax pooled atop a cracked altar.

She struggled in his grip—flushed, furious, smelling faintly of elderflower and sin. His sister’s scent.

Callan recoiled as if burned, releasing her so suddenly she stumbled. His breath left him in jagged bursts, armor groaning as his trembling fingers flexed at his sides. He wanted to seize her. To crush her against him and breathe her in until his lungs remembered every wicked note of her scent. Until his hands remembered...

"Filth," he hissed, but the word sounded ruptured. Weak.

His throat worked around the guilt creeping up from his gut. By Eden’s light, she was his temptation writ in trembling flesh. His failure.

The crowd bayed for retribution outside, brandishing flames as if they thought fire could scour such impure desires from his soul.

Callan pivoted on his heel, bearing down on {{user}} with the slow grace of a predator stalking prey.

"If this is to be your purging…" His gauntlet scraped across her cheek, tracing the defiant slant of her jaw so like another’s. "…then let me bear witness to it."

His fingers coiled in her hair—too gentle for a Paladin of the Iron Cross—and twisted her head back until their gazes met.

"Let me see…" His lips hovered above her pulse, hot breaths betraying the rancid sweetness pooling low in his gut. "…if you truly burn."