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The day after the trial, father gave me another "gift." If you could even call it that—more responsibilities, really. Since he had seen how comfortable I was becoming on horseback, he decided it was time to begin more formal military training. So he gave me a small bow.
It wasn't a longbow, nor a curved one, not even a crossbow, which I understand are also common in the Empire. No. This bow was simple, made of ash wood, and though it was a training weapon, it was crafted to my size. The problem was, my size was already considerable. I was taller and broader than boys one or two years older, so the bow was also larger than usual.
This time, at least, I had more guidance. Several of the guards posted on the battlements helped me with the basics: how to string the bow, how to care for the string, how to adopt the correct stance. Drawing a toy wasn't the same as firing a projectile with intent to kill. Every step had to be precise.
The hardest part was the damn strength required. Drawing that bow with my thin arms and still-developing back was a titanic task. And when I did manage to pull it, the result was a joke. My arrows didn't fly. They stumbled through the air, fell at my feet, or overshot the target completely.
The guards said nothing. Not a chuckle. But I could see more than one biting their lip to keep from bursting into laughter. It was obvious: they were laughing on the inside, but they knew if one of them mocked me aloud, father could very well order a whipping for wounding my pride.
Now I had a new routine. My day was split between horseback training and archery practice. My body ached constantly. Legs, back, shoulders—everything burned, everything felt heavy.
And as if that weren't enough, none of those damned guards had the decency to warn me I needed forearm protection.
The first time I released the string carelessly, it snapped hard against my left arm. A sharp, burning strike that left a red welt instantly. I thought it was part of the process. I ignored it. Kept practicing.
The second time, it broke the skin. There was blood. A lot of it. And that's when I understood why all serious archers wore a damn bracer. But the guards had said nothing. They stayed silent. Probably thinking that if I was stupid enough not to ask for one, then I deserved the punishment.
And maybe I did. Or maybe it was part of the lesson. This wasn't a world where someone would take your hand and teach you how to avoid pain. Here, pain was part of learning.
For several days, my forearm was covered in bruises and cuts. But the lesson stuck. I started wearing a leather bracer. I never made the same mistake again. I trained without rest that whole week, until the news came: the witch hunter had arrived in the village.
I was curious. I wanted to see how one of these men acted—supposed paladins of Sigmar, tasked with purging corruption with fire and steel. I imagined long sessions, meticulous torture, interrogations that pushed the limit.
None of that happened.
Barely half an hour after his arrival, the woman had confessed everything. She broke almost instantly. Rumors spread fast: that she admitted to cursing crops, making pacts with shadows, sleeping with demons. The peasants, of course, believed it all.
That same afternoon, they built the pyre in the village center. Father insisted I attend. He said it was important. That there was a lesson I needed to learn.
He himself threw the torch onto the dry wood.
The woman, tied to the stake, screamed as soon as the flames reached her feet. Some of the townsfolk prayed. Others laughed. Several children threw stones before the fire grew too high to allow it.
I just watched. I had seen fire before. I had heard those screams before.
I remembered the explosion of the armored vehicle in my other life. When the shell split it in two and the crew was trapped inside. I remember the heat. The smell of burning flesh. The screams. Screams no one could stop. Screams that never leave you.
The difference was, that time all the soldiers watched in horror… We all thought, "please, not me."
Here, it was different.
Here, people celebrated while she screamed. They laughed. They applauded. Some cried… with joy. Her lungs filled with smoke, her flesh cooked—and still, the flames weren't the worst part. The worst part was that everyone there was convinced they were doing the right thing.
Father simply stood beside me and watched as the whole village celebrated the witch's death.
When we finally started heading back to the castle, father addressed me.
"What did we learn today?" he asked, without even fully turning to look at me.
"That the peasantry is stupid, and sometimes we have to sacrifice one of them to calm the rest?" I replied, phrasing it more as a question than a statement.
Father let out a small exhale, something between a muted laugh and a scoff.
"Yes… and no. This could've amounted to nothing, but when peasants fall into paranoia, when they believe they're in danger… they'll quickly turn on anyone who helps soothe their fear. Even their lord."
He paused. Then looked at me seriously.
"That's why we must keep them content. And afraid. But not of Chaos. Not of witches. The only one they must fear… is us. Because we're the only thing protecting them from themselves."
I nodded, storing his words with the same care I gave all my past lessons. Only this one felt far more real.
The witch hunter stayed as a guest in the castle, and I got to observe him while we ate venison delivered by local hunters as tax for using father's hunting grounds.
The man looked grim, with ash-colored hair betraying his age, and a face marked by old scars mixed with fresh wounds that hadn't fully healed. His eyes were dull but alert, like someone constantly expecting a betrayal he had already lived through many times.
"Baron von Reinsfeld, I heard you recently had to clear your woods of mutant abominations," said the witch hunter after shoving a large piece of meat into his mouth and chewing slowly.
"That's correct, honorable servant of Sigmar. Beastmen. Further north, across the river, in one of the villages under my protection," father replied after wiping his mouth with a linen cloth.
"Didn't you find it unusual? I mean… yes, they're common in forests, but not gathering in such numbers in one area," the witch hunter said, placing his silver cutlery on the half-finished plate and clasping his hands.
"I've fought those abominations since my youth. I know their patterns, and their movement immediately raised my alarm. That's why I reacted so quickly the moment I was informed," father answered, growing serious.
"And you didn't notice anything strange among the villagers? Anything that might warrant closer watch?" asked the witch hunter, not breaking eye contact with father.
"It's clear that one of those..." father paused for a moment, lowering his voice slightly, "…one of my subjects must have had a child born with deformities. And between us, I know that when a child like that is born, its cries attract beastmen. I've seen it more times than I care to admit. It can't be just coincidence."
"Then they broke the sacred law..." said the witch hunter, tapping the table sharply with one finger. "That child should have been sacrificed. And you did nothing?"
"The peasants were uncooperative. They said nothing. I lost men clearing the threat, and by the time I arrived, everything had already happened weeks earlier. I couldn't identify the culprit. I left warnings… and raised their taxes," father answered without emotion.
"A punishment far too lenient for such a grave crime," said the witch hunter firmly.
"That was years ago," father replied, his tone dry.
"I'm far more persuasive in these matters, baron. I know how to deal with those who protect—knowingly or not—the forces that threaten the sons of the Empire," said the witch hunter, picking up his knife and fork again without looking away from father.
Father didn't respond immediately. He simply wiped the meat from his fingers with a linen napkin, glanced at the hunter out of the corner of his eye, then at his wine goblet, which he still hadn't touched.
"I don't doubt your skill… nor your reputation. But I am the baron of these lands. I also lack investigative jurisdiction over evil, witchcraft, and heresy. And if I start burning villages every time there's a rumor, I won't have any peasants left to work my mines or men to till the fields… the same fields that feed the forces who purge corruption wherever it appears."
"The worship of Deus Sigmar does not prioritize how full your granaries are, baron. It demands purity from its servants. Order. Faith. Sometimes, to save a hundred souls… you must sacrifice ten. Or a thousand. Sometimes you must cut, even when the wound seems clean," he said, slicing off another piece of meat without averting his gaze.
"And sometimes, servant of Sigmar, to keep a hundred in line, one must let a few minor details slide—if peace is to last more than a month," father replied, now staring him directly in the eye, firm.
The table fell silent. Only the distant sound of the servants' cutlery, waiting to bring more food, broke the heavy air of the hall.
"I'll have one of my men escort you if you wish to conduct a more thorough inspection of the village. But don't raze everything without solid proof. It cost me too much to stabilize this region to lose it over a handful of rumors."
The witch hunter smiled. It wasn't a kind smile. It was sharp, restrained, dangerous.
"Of course, Baron von Reinsfeld. Everything will be done according to Sigmar's precepts. Only the guilty will be purged. The innocent… have nothing to fear. But I'll need more than one man… you know… in case I find something that shouldn't be there."
He shoved another piece of meat into his mouth, smiling again, chewing slowly. Then he took a sip of wine and resumed cutting, as if nothing had happened.
The dinner ended shortly after, and luckily nothing escalated further. The witch hunter left immediately for the north, took a handful of men, and wasted no time departing.
Meanwhile, father was more irritable than usual. I heard him curse the witch hunter in more ways than I could count. He called him a blind zealot, a scoundrel, an indiscriminate executioner… and other things I wouldn't repeat in front of a priest.
It seemed clear he had drawn the worst luck possible: one of the most fanatical witch hunters in the region. From what I heard whispered among the servants, he was a devout member of Sigmar's templars.
Now I understood why father had hesitated so much before calling one. If the village had indeed hidden a deformed birth—as father suspected—then there was no doubt: many people would burn. Not just the guilty. All who knew. All who stayed silent. All who looked the other way.
And that was the true danger of summoning a witch hunter. If he was too soft, corruption could keep festering in the shadows. But if he was too fanatical, he wouldn't stop until he tore out every root… even if it was a flower. Even if no one was left standing.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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