A 25-year-old man, poses as a Witcher, using a dead Witcher's gear and weapons to pretend to be a monster hunter. He picked up the Witcher's medallion a month ago, not knowing it carried a curse. The curse compels him to act like a Witcher and forbids him from revealing that he is not one, under penalty of death. Seth uses the deceased Witcher's authentic equipment and his own wits to deceive villagers into paying him to hunt monsters, knowing he lacks the true mutations and training of a real Witcher.
He attracts the attention of two women: a female Witcher who suspects he's a fake and follows him to uncover his motives, and a female sorceress who uses her magic to see through his deception but keeps his secret for her own reasons. Both women believe the other is unaware of Seth's true identity, creating a complex web of secrets and deceptions. The story explores Seth's dangerous predicament, navigating the treacherous world of monster hunting while maintaining his false identity and dealing with the romantic entanglements and threats posed by the two women who know his secret.
Core Themes:
Ali's scream cuts through everything, high-pitched and raw with shock. “NO!”
She drops to her knees beside Sam's still form, fingers trembling as she searches for a pulse. When she finds none, her face contorts with grief and rage.
“You bastard!” she snarls, scrambling to her feet and launching herself at me.
She attacks wildly, her nails raking across my face, her fists pounding against my chest. I try to fend her off, but she's relentless, driven by a fury born of sudden loss.
“What have you done?” she shrieks, tears mixing with the spittle flying from her lips. “He was the last of my family! The last person I cared about!”
I manage to grab her wrists, pinning them to her sides as she kicks and struggles against me. But her anger is starting to give way to exhaustion, her movements becoming weaker.
“Why?” she sobs, her voice cracking. “Why did you have to kill him?”
I try to control the adrenaline coursing through my veins, “Stop! Shut the fuck up!” I hiss into her ear trying to stop her from yelling.
“Not far. We'll take the alleyways. It'll add a bit of time, but it's safer than the main streets,” Ali replies, her eyes darting between the shadows.
We continue through the maze of alleys, occasionally pausing to listen for any signs of pursuit. The city feels empty and haunted in the moonlight, as though we're the only ones left.
As we near our destination, Ali's pace quickens. She leads us into a narrow passageway between two buildings.
“There,” she whispers suddenly, pointing to a fire escape on the side of an old apartment building. “That's it. We can get in through the third floor.”
She moves toward the rusted metal ladder, but pauses before starting to climb. “Listen, Seth. I know you saved me back there, but we need a plan.”
Her expression is grim. “So here's what's going to happen. We hole up here for the day. Rest, regroup. Then tomorrow, we move. I have a safe house on the outskirts of the city. It won't be easy, but with the right supplies, I know a way out of this hellhole.”
She holds my gaze steadily. “What do you say? Are you with me?”
I weigh my options. She's right about the danger outside, but trusting a stranger in these times… it's risky. Still, she seems to know the area, and we did just save each other's lives.
“No. I'm staying in the city for now, we don't have a vehicle, supplies for long term survival nor the ammo.” I climb the ladder behind her trying not to look at her ass instead around us in case we were follow by that man.
“You can leave if you want to” I huff as I climb.
The medallion feels heavier than it should against my chest, swinging slightly as I shift in the chair. I know it’s nothing more than iron hammered by a blacksmith, polished enough to look dangerous. It doesn’t hum when danger approaches. It doesn’t vibrate at the presence of the unnatural. It’s just iron. But in the firelight, to the villagers huddled before me with wide, terrified eyes, it might as well be silver infused with magic. It might as well be the mark of destiny itself.
“My price is fair,” I say, leaning back and letting my coat fall into place. “I’ll rid your fields of this… beast. Silver isn’t cheap, and neither is my blood.” I let the last word linger, thick with the weight of something I’ve never truly earned. Witcher words always sound heavier than the truth. The villagers nod—or at least, they try.
One spits into the fire, sparks hissing where the saliva meets flame. “Fair price, aye… if you can really do it.” He sets a pouch of coin on the table, hands trembling. His son’s been torn apart, half-eaten, left dangling from a fencepost like a warning. The monster still prowls their fields. They want a savior. But they’re not sure they trust the pale-eyed, scarred man—or whatever creature I pretend to be—sitting before them. I’ve powdered my skin, rimmed my eyes in ash. I look monstrous enough when the firelight hits just right.
I nod once, tight-lipped, and rise. Steel sings against scabbard as I swing the sword onto my hip. The silver blade glints. It’s a fraud—steel coated in a silver layer, brittle as glass—but perhaps enough to fool some beasts. If it’s a drowner, maybe it will work. If it’s something worse… I’ve made peace with fear before, but nothing prepares you for the real thing.
Outside, the wind slices through the village, carrying the scent of rot, mud, and old blood. My boots sink into the mud as I make for the treeline, torch in one hand, sword in the other. Every step toward the field tightens my gut. Real Witchers don’t feel fear. I’ve heard it said a hundred times. Perhaps they lie better than I do.
A low, guttural growl cuts through the night. I freeze, torchlight shaking, medallion dead and silent against my chest. Of course it is. My lie doesn’t protect me. My skill doesn’t match the legends. And yet, I step forward anyway, because turning back would mean death—or worse, exposing myself.
The fields are black silhouettes under the moonlight. Corn stalks sway like skeletal arms. Something moves. I grip the sword, throat dry, knuckles tight. The wind carries the smell of something wrong—acrid, wet, metallic.
Then I see it.
Eyes like embers, glinting between the stalks. A hulking shadow, muscles rippling unnaturally. Its breathing is wet, heavy, and wrong. The stories were never lies, but the truth… the truth is worse.
I take a deep breath, forcing my pulse to slow. Witcher words echo in my head—signs, monster lore, everything I’ve memorized. I mutter a gesture, trying to emulate a sign, waving a hand like I know what I’m doing. Smoke flares from a small alchemical bomb, hissing into the night. The thing hesitates, recoiling slightly. Perhaps it’s fear. Perhaps it’s just curiosity.
I raise the sword. My stance is wrong, clumsy. I hope the monster doesn’t notice. I hope the villagers’ fear is enough to carry me through the night. But I know it won’t be. The monsters of the Continent don’t care about appearances. They don’t care about titles, legends, or medallions.
They only care about flesh.
And wearing a Witcher’s face… only makes them expect you to fight like one.