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Chapter Text

Sounds of steel against steel, the splintering of wooden shields, the thud of wooden pikes meeting armor and the deep stench of sweat, mud and undoubtably shed blood. The air used up, humid and warm in a yard full of men --- boys really, who sought to honor their families; a chance to prove their worth as second sons among the nobility and gentry; and above all glory to shine on their name so that they might be remembered. Their names etched in books, sonnets, legends, often in the wombs of women whose names they do not remember. Among them, who stood with his head high, he who had moved up the ranks just as his father had before him --- a legacy, Ser Dean Winchester.

He was a strong knight, stronger than most, but his true strength lied in his stubbornness --- he did not know when to give up, it suited him in many cases but one day lady luck may not be on his side. With every strike he delt, his chest heaved as sweat trickled down beneath the heavy padding of his gambeson. His sword-arm burned, but he ignored it much as you would expect him to, he drove it forward against his opponent until the man’s sword clattered into the dirt, yielding to the young Winchester. Dean stepped back immediately, his shoulders sagging slightly as he caught his breath, offering the clattered weapon to his mentor an older Kings guard, helping him back up on his feet.

“Your father would’ve been proud of you.” Ser Campbell muttered with a shake of his head. “You fight just like him.” This made Dean’s jaw tighten, not in any kind of offense, but in a dull ache that always seemed to catch him off guard no matter how many times he has heard that sentiment. You fight like him; He would have been proud. Always in the past tense, what could have been if not for the war, he still remembered that day when his father’s squire came to the house with a solemn look, knowing that he was now looking at two orphaned kids. He remembered having to tell his little brother --- Sammy of their father’s passing, having to hold him as he heaved out in agony, forgetting his own feelings in that moment his heart focused on healing his brothers’. When the boys were of age, Sammy was put through a fully paid schooling, in exchange for Dean to lend his services to the crown as a knight. All thoughts consumed of ensuring his brother would no longer have to face hardship, shouldering the entirety of the pain and burden doing his duty as an older brother.

Dean had a lot to live up to, Ser John Winchester had been a legend among the King’s Guard. His name still carried that same weight all these years, whispers of his names in taverns and brothels, of his victories retold in an esteemed fashion with all the awe of men who would only dream of reaching such heights. This caused Dean to grow in the shadow of that name ‘Winchester’, reminding himself of what an honor it is to be one and for his father to pave the way before him. He polished his father’s blade till his hands blistered, trained till his shoulders ached, in hopes that someday he would be half the man his father was, stand where he stood: as the King’s right hand, the sword and shield of the realm.  

It was the only dream Dean had ever allowed himself to have.

“again” his mentor said gruffly, pairing him up with another knight, wanting Dean to be sharp and steady to go for another bout. Every fiber of Deans body screamed for him to rest, to take a break, but as usual he shoved that thought down. There was no room for weakness, it had no place here, it meant failure and failure? It meant dishonor --- not just for him, but the memory of the man he has yet to measure up to. He had to prove himself, he had to prove that he was worthy of anything.

When dusk fell, the yard had emptied, most of the knights and their squires had gotten back to their cots, some in the forge and others at brothels breaking their sacred vows, but that was not a problem that greatly concerned the crown. Dean, however, stayed, strikes and blows landing on the training dummy, ignoring how his body ached in a multitude of places --- each strike that landed echoed with an unspoken desperation. The hours had completely soaked his tunic, and his knuckles split and bruised where the leather straps had created friction. But regardless of all the pain, he pressed on gritting his teeth landing blow after blow.

“You’ll wear yourself into the grave before you ever earn the Guard’s colors that way” a cool voice rang through the air, he knew that voice from anywhere, just the right amount of cocky and entitlement reeking from every syllable --- Ser Micheal the commander of the King’s Guard, his gaze, dark, calculating and unreadable. Something about him greatly unnerved Dean, Micheal was a great fighter no doubt but his lust for brutality was not something you would expect from a knight, most of the time it seemed like he enjoyed the violence more than defending the realm.

“Better I wear myself into the grave than never be fit to carry the name I was born with,” Dean replied, his tone flat, but anyone who had been around him long enough knew the weight his proclamation had. Micheal studies him for a moment, then gave the faintest curl of a smile, “Your father’s shadow looms large. But a haunted man cannot fight forever. The King requires loyalty, not legacy. Keep that in mind” his voice fading to a slight drawl. Dean bowed his head in respect, but his heart was heavy and twisted with frustration and indignation, his father’s legacy was all he had. Without it, he’s just a nameless sword, maybe that’s what he must be. A loyal, nameless sword. He turned to the straw filled dummy, landing blow after blow of frustration, grunting as he did so.

High above the castle, perched on the crooked stone parapet, a curious crow tilted its head, watching him. Another landed on the arm of a weathered gargoyle and a third settling in the shadows of the chapel spire. Their black eyes glittering against the dying sun, following his every move. Through their eyes you saw him, from your cottage deep in the woods, you watched him with the patience of a predator. In all his sweat, fury and stubborn pride you saw something in him an aura that intrigued you “Curious,” you muttered, observing his movements. He was a man who trusted too much in kings, a man who had yet to see the dagger angled at his back by the most powerful man of the realm.

“The crown of lies shall rot away,

The realm will tremble beneath its weight

From honor, an heir shall rise

with harvest hair and forest eyes

His sword of mercy, heart of flame.

Strikes the king who bears a false name.

The righteous hand shall end his reign,

 the true-born king at last remains”  

The Prophecy of the False King, that’s what they called it most nobility did not care for such prophecies, the common folk, however? They clung to it, in hopes that a king would come saving them from their hardship, to do his duty in serving the realm. But kings after kings came and all of them selfish and self-serving, without a care for the common man, the poor, the hungry and downtrodden. You were but a young girl when you heard that prophecy, your mother was the first to tell you about it. The long-awaited heir to the throne, “The true and righteous ruler of the realm” she said. But there were righteous men all the time, weren’t there? All of them dreaming to rule to be greater than the common man and to rise above their station. Your mother was a queens-maid at her time in the castle, when King Chuck was not a king but a prince, though you had yet understood why her voice trembled, you never pushed or prodded you hated seeing her sad, so you just nodded as she spoke and never brought it up again.

Through the eyes of your watchful crows, you saw everything that went on in the castle. When your eyes caught him, they could not look away, it was like something was drawing you to him. Harvest hair. Forest eyes. A heart of flame. You watched with every strike he delt with power and fury to match, it was exhilarating, and he never faltered not a stumble or a misstep in sight. A small smile curved your lips, tiling your head when it finally made sense. “So, this is the righteous man. Loyal to a fault, he’s so blind I feel bad for him,” You mumbled to yourself, he was a lamb sent to the slaughter, and he didn’t even see it. Just then, you felt the strings pulling at you taut, weaving you into his path whether you willed it or not. “Curse the crown” your mother used to say, and perhaps after all these years, you wonder if maybe she had been right all along.

Nightfall came upon the castle, and Dean had retreated to his quarters. A modest chamber for a knight, especially one of his standings, consisted of a simple narrow bed, a wash basin and a single candle flickering against the draft. With a low groan, he peeled the sweat-soaked tunic from his body, the fabric clinging stubbornly on his skin before finally giving in. His chest rose and fell steadily, broad and slick for the day’s training, muscles rippling as he did so --- corded from years of discipline --- he looked down at the bruise that bloomed faintly across his ribs, little specks of dirt that managed to sneak past the barrier of his tunic. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, dirty blonde hair curling at the nape of his neck before tossing the used cloth to the side. That’s when he noticed a small piece of parchment laying atop his bed, upon closer inspection it bore the seal of the crown with much haste he opened the parchment and inlaid read.

“Ser Dean Winchester,

By command of His Majesty, you are hereby summoned to the royal chambers at first light. There are matters of grave import concerning the realm’s safety and the crown requires your counsel and your steel.

By order of the King’s Hand,

Lord Metatron, Keeper of the Seal.”

This was it, he thought, a chance to finally prove himself worthy --- not just as a knight of the realm, but proof to his father’s memory. Every scar that stretched across his body, every sleepless night of training, every battle where he had thrown himself to the front lines without hesitation, had been in pursuit of this exact moment: recognition. If he carried out the king’s command with honor, if he returned triumphant then perhaps it would finally be enough. He would finally be enough. His blood burned with determination, but anyone could see it from miles away that there is still a quiet ache of a little boy reaching desperately for his father’s hand, for his approval.

As the night yielded to the early dawn, the first pale rays of sun spilled across the castle into the windows, illuminating everything in its wake. The morning bells toll low and steadily, echoing through the corridors as the servants bustled through their chores and the guards changed watch. Dean had seen all of this, why? He had risen from his bed before the sun had, he always did, though sleep had been scarce he was feeling energized and excited. He stood by the narrow window of his chamber, fastening his armor piece by piece, the polished steel reflecting a warm light. Today was not an ordinary day, no, today was the day that would stand before the king. The summons was seared into his mind, each word branded upon him, but he knew that whatever the task, whatever the cost, he would make sure that it would be done --- he had waited for this moment too long for it to go to waste. He shall claim his place in the eyes of the crown.

The great doors of the throne room loomed tall before him, golden lions and laurels, guarding the realm’s secrets. Dean’s boots echoed sharply against the cold granite floors, he strode forward, shoulders squared disguising the hammering of his heart with each step. The guards swung the doors open, sunlight spilled through tall and intricate stained glass, bathing the hall in gold. At the far end, a large throne sat King Chuck, cloaked in crimson, gaze as sharp as the jewels that glittered his crown. Dean dropped down on one knee before the dais, his head bowed low.

“Your majesty” he said with reverence.

“Sir Winchester, you may rise,” the king’s voice rang, both weary and commanding, “You have been called for a task, a mission. And it is not an easy one but doing this will earn you place in my Kings Guard, and will prove your loyalty to me. Have you heard about the dark forest in Wichita?” the King inquired looking at Dean expectantly, the green-eyed knight nodded and King Chuck continued “A dark shadow grows at the edge of my kingdom. A witch, vile, cunning the embodiment of pure evil in the land, she has taken the forest and made it her home. She commands a beast --- a creature from your worst nightmares, with an all-consuming hunger like fire. Already the villages tremble at her presence.” Chuck leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at Dean.

“You will ride out, find this creature and its mistress, and bring me their heads. Do this, and you will carve your name into history alongside your father’s. Fail? Well, there is no room for that not if you want to be part of my King’s Guard. I trust that you will remind this kingdom that darkness falls before the might of its one true king” at this, Dean got down on one knee with his head down, pressing his palm against the cold stone floor and vowed.

“I will not fail you, my King. For the crown, for the realm.” As Dean bowed with loyal fervor. He failed to notice the curl of satisfaction at the corner of the King’s mouth. Poor boy, he thought he’d been handed honor, when all he’d really been given was a sure death sentence, because if the creature in the woods would not take his life, then he had other ways to ensure that Dean Winchester would not return, alive at least. The bait? the crown’s favor. The trap? Everything that comes after. But why spoil the surprise, there is much more in store for our knight in shining amour.  

Chapter Text

The morning sun broke spilling gold over the pale blue horizon, colors merging into one another like an oil painting in the sky. The sound of birds chirping, the breeze whispered through the trees and the steady rhythm of hoof beats from Dean’s trusty stead “Baby” a dark mare with sleek ebony hair to match flowing through the wind, as they rode the dirt packed road eastward to Wichita. He found a strange calm in it, the kind that settled heavy in his chest, almost enough to quiet the weight of his thoughts as he carried on with his journey.

The banners of the crown were long behind him now; it would be a longer stretch of road before he would see any form of civilization. Overhead, a lone crow trailed behind him, its dark wings cutting against the bright blue sky, always keeping a close enough distance with him --- as though it was watching, waiting, or perhaps a guide towards something that he has yet uncovered. Each mile had taken him farther and farther from the realm that he had come to know and closer to the cursed borders of the Dark Forest.

By midday, he had reached the outskirts of Wichita’s market square, a place more of a slum than a thriving trade. The stalls leaned with disrepair, wares sparse, and the people were thin --- their faces gaunt-like, hollow from hunger and dread. Children darted between alleyways with eyes that were too old for their years, seeing too much of everything, forced to grow up too fast. Something about the scene that unfolded struck him close to home, having to take care of his little brother while his father was away, and after he passed, he saw his little brother Sammy in the children around him.

 Dean dismounted, he didn’t show it, but his heart ached for them, he loosened the strap of his coin purse and approached one of the stalls buying some food. He was no lord, no prince and certainly not one dripping with gold, but what little he carried he gave freely as was his character. Silver coins pressed into a mother’s palm, a hunk of bread to a hungry wide-eyed child, and his waterskin full and given to an old man coughing at the roadside. People were not used to such kindness, and showered him with gratitude, he quickly brushed it off not quite learning how to take thanks. After giving what little wealth he had with him, he mounted his horse to find a nearby inn to rest his weary body, preferably with some ale.

After a few minutes, his eyes caught the rusty sign of a nearby pub “Silver Hart”. His boots hit the muddy ground, his hands on the lead before tying his horse to a wooden post. Baby gave a huff disapproval, she had always been against leaving Dean alone, but he gave a crooked smile rubbing her snout lovingly giving a promise to be back soon. Inside, the tavern was wild and alive, sounds of tankards slamming against wooden tables, dice clattering and the sour stench of ale soaking into old wood. Dean claimed a seat at the far wall, his back to the timber and his eyes on the room, wanting to nurse his drink in silence preparing himself for what he might face in the woods later on.

But it wasn’t long before he felt the hair raise at the back of his neck, a feeling that always served him well it often indicated an impending danger to him. He noticed the way the laughter died when he walked through the tavern, the way men hunched and whispered quietly amongst themselves, and stopping a little too quickly when his eyes met them. He smiled appreciatively at the bar maiden who gave him a cup of ale, she only smiled tightly, never quite reaching her eyes like she felt pity for what is about to come.

Dean glanced over at the bar, spotting a pair of broad-shouldered sellswords lingering, watching and waiting for the perfect moment to strike. They glanced at him when they thought he was distracted, well lets just say subtlety was not their strong suit as they rested their hands on the hilt of their dagger more than once. Dean just smirked into his ale, he knew the look of men spoiling for a fight, and even more so he knew that his armor made him even more of a target. After all who wouldn’t want the notoriety of getting the better of a knight of the crown? Or probably locals who resented the King’s banners riding into their town, or rogues who are eager to remind a knight that Wichita did not answer to any crown.

Dean let the silence stretch, letting them think he hadn’t noticed. He took another slow sip of ale, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the tankard while his other hand rested loose near the hilt of his long sword. For his father had once said “A cornered wolf bares its teeth, but a smart one lets the hunters get closer…biding its time before striking”. When he finally rose, the legs of the chair scraping against the wooden floorboards like a blade drawn from its sheath. At this all the chatter seemed to quieten, as curious eyes followed him as he tossed a silver coin to the barkeep, strutting lazily to the door. He didn’t need to cast another glance back, not when he heard the shuffling of boots falling behind him, the sound of men eager to take a life.

The night air outside was crisp and soothing, moonlight spilling silver across the dirt covered road. Dean adjusted the strap of his scabbard, pretending not to notice the four shadows trailing from the tavern door. He waited until they were clear of the torchlight before stopping in the middle of the street. He let out a sigh “Well,” he drawled, turning around to finally face them, “Either you boys are real eager to walk me home, or you’ve decided picking a fight with a King’s knight is the best way to spend your evening. I’m flattered truly gentlemen, I promise to make it worth your while,” he smirked with a cocky grin.

The tallest of the four sneered, flashing his yellowed teeth. “No knight’s welcome here. We don’t take kindly to the crown’s bitch boys sniffin’ ‘round Wichita.”

“Right,” Dean said flatly, rolling his shoulders loose. “That’s one way to say you’re about to get real sore tomorrow, but don’t worry lads, I’ll be gentle I promise.” And with that the first man lunged, Dean sidestepped, catching the man’s wrist before driving his knee into the mans gut, before spinning him into the dirt. The second swung his short blade at Dean, steel gleaming under the moonlight. In response, Dean drew his own in one fluid motion defending himself, sparks flew as metal met metal. He caught the third one at the corner of his eye, a big lug wielding a club like a mad man letting out a battle cry, Dean swiftly moved out of the way causing the third one to ram his club at his friend knocking the second one unconscious. Dean then picked up a wooden board swung it across his head effectively putting the third one to sleep, he smiled at himself before he remembered that there were four men.

The last one circled him, knife out and ready for the attack. Dean feinted left, then dove right, grabbing the man’s knife hand with both of his own. They struggled as Dean forced him into the dirt, they rolled around the dirt and snarled at each other, shoving the blade closer and closer to the other’s throats inch by inch. Dean’s arms screamed with effort, with a guttural yell Dean unexpectedly slammed his forehead into the mans nose. Blood sprayed. The grip faltered. And Dean took the opportunity to wrench the knife free and drove it into the ground right beside the man’s head --- pinning his tunic to the ground, close enough to remind him just how lucky he was.

The knight staggered upright, chest heaving from the encounter, he looked down at his muddied armor and sighed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, muttering “Hell of a welcome.” Looking back at the four men groaning or silent at his feet, just when he was about to relax the tavern doors burst open again. Six more men pour out, armed to the teeth, their eyes sharp with intent. Behind them, the torchlight flickered as more shadows followed. Ten men in total, these men looked coordinated, too disciplined for ordinary drunkards seeking premature glory.

“Son of a--” Dean hissed, turning on his heel and bolting straight to the Dark Forest.

The pack gave chase immediately, boots pounding like war drums against the cobblestone before spilling into the forest after him. Torches snapped branches, the light weaving like fire serpents between the trees. Their shouts echoed “Don’t let him go!”

Dean’s lungs burned, sweat sticking his shirt to his skin, but his mind cut sharp. Running blind wasn’t an option. They had numbers, torches, and stamina if they spread out. He needed to think this through if he was going to survive this. He slid down a slope, crashing through brambles. The forest floor sucked at his boots, slowing him, but it slowed them too. He ducked behind a fallen log just as one of the torchbearers broke through the undergrowth. The shouting grew louder. They were circling, cutting off angles. Driving him, herding him almost, this was not just anger at the presence of a knight, no, this was much more than that. This was a hunt. Ordered. Planned and paid for.

The night grew heavy, suffocating. Dean’s breath rasped in his throat as he leaned against a tree, blood running hot down his ribs. The torchlight of his pursuers flickered between the trunks, voices closing in on his location. “Spread out! He’s here!” one of them yelled in the dense forest. Boots crushed dead leaves. Steel scraped from sheaths. Ten men fanned across the clearing, tightening their net around him. Dean pressed a trembling hand against his side, readying his blade for the last stand.

But then, A scream ripped through the night, it was sharp, high and cut short. The torches swung toward the sound. One of their own was gone. The leaves where he’d been standing rustled, but no body remained.

“What the hell—?” one growled, voice breaking. When another tried to answer, his words ended in a wet gurgle as he choked on his own blood. His torch toppled, hissing as it landed in a patch of moss. The light showed nothing but trees.

Dean froze. His instincts screamed at him, they were not alone. Something else was moving in the dark, something more dangerous, more sinister. The hunters spun wildly, eyes wide, blades slashing at shadows. One bolted for the tree line. He didn’t make it two steps before something yanked him off his feet, dragging him into the black. His shriek curdled into silence.

Dean’s grip tightened on his sword. He wanted to see it, wanted proof of what stalked them, but the forest gave him nothing but sound. Branches cracking. A heavy breath. The wet rip of the sound of flesh being torn apart. Another man swung his torch wildly, light strobing across bark. “It’s behind us!” he cried. Then the torch dropped as his arm was wrenched backward with bone-snapping force. He went down screaming, dragged into the dark.

The others broke. “Run! Run!” they howled, scattering like frightened deer. The forest answered with thunderous movement, the hunter becoming hunted. One after another, their voices cut off in violent bursts, snaps, crunches, were the only things heard, the sound of something feasting on these men. Dean pressed his back to the tree, too afraid to move, sword trembling in his grasp. He could hear it, circling now, heavy footfalls that didn’t belong to man. A guttural growl rolled through the night, so low it made the earth hum beneath his boots.

Then silence. No more screams. No more torches. Just him, alone in the forest, heart hammering loud enough to betray him. Dean swallowed hard, scanning the black, he had a white-knuckled grip on his blade. He wanted to believe he was safe, that the beast was gone. But he knew better. He knew it was still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The rustling of trees made his eyes snap towards the direction of the sound, it was followed by a bone-deep rumble of a growl, as it circled him in the dark. It finally stepped away from the shadows, it didn’t move so much as it slipped forward, almost like it was peeling itself out of the dark like the shadows had given it its form. Its body wavering between substance and mist, its fur rippling like smoke caught in the breeze. When it got closer, it looked entirely otherworldly, its silhouette as confusing as its movements, long and low with too many teeth glinting in the moonlight. As it moved its muscles shifted under a coat that looked less like fur and more like a shadow stretched taut, its paws padding the ground with no sound, and its eyes like gold embers burning in the night, fixed and unblinking.

Dean’s grip on the sword tightened. His boots shifted. The creature mirrored him, lowering into a crouch, claws curling into the earth with an audible scrape. They circled one another in silence; Dean’s every nerve screaming at him to strike before it did but he knew that he could not take on a creature of that size.

Then it lunged.

It came in a blur, smoke and muscle and teeth, faster than anything its size should’ve been. Dean barely dodged it, his steel whistling through the air, his sword cutting only emptiness. The beast slid to a halt, tail lashing, head low, ready to spring again. Its growl was like thunder rolling deep underground, vibrating in Dean’s ribs. He braced himself, thinking of his brother in his last moments because he was sure his fate would be sealed.

“Enough.” A voice called out in the darkness. Human. Commanding.

The beast froze, body rippling as though caught between instinct and obedience. Its growl dwindled to a low, uneasy hum. Slowly, impossibly, the shadows peeled back from it, the darkness sloughing off like smoke until what remained was solid. Smaller. Sleeker. It stood revealed as a panther-shaped creature, still black as midnight but with its menace softened, the edges of its form no longer blurred with shadow. It turned from Dean without hesitation, padding to the figure emerging from the brush. When she placed a hand on its massive head, the monstrous growl turned into a sound like a purr.

Dean could not believe his eyes “the hell…”. He came face to face with a woman? This was the vile witch who commanded the terrifying beast? She was not at all what he was expecting, she looked almost as old as him maybe even younger, her curled hair spilling loose, eyes sharp and intent, narrowing at him. She turned to her beast instead, smiling at it “You did well, Phantom.” She murmured, low but commanding.

Phantom padded to her side, its massive head bowing nudging against her thigh, looking almost like an oversized housecat begging for attention. She let her hand fall another She let her hand fall onto its coarse fur, fingers threading through patches of dark hair, calming it with a simple touch of her hand. The monster purred. A purr. The sound rumbled through the ground, making the bushes shake and the rocks shiver.

Dean lowered his sword a fraction, suspicion twisting in his gut. “You’re gonna tell me what in God’s name that is?”

Her eyes finally met his, steady and unreadable. “A friend.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “That thing just tore half a dozen men apart like wet paper.”

“And would’ve done the same to you if I hadn’t called it off.” She stated matter-of-factly. That silenced him for a beat. The panther pressed closer to her side, its molten eyes never leaving Dean it tilted its head to the side analysing it in its own cute way, protective and curious all at once.

Dean swallowed, uneasy but drawn in despite himself. The beast had gone from executioner to companion in a heartbeat, and the woman before him was the reason why.

The Witch of the Dark Forest.

Chapter Text

“And would’ve done the same to you if I hadn’t called it off.” She stated matter-of-factly. That silenced him for a beat. The panther pressed closer to her side, its molten eyes never leaving Dean it tilted its head to the side analyzing it in its own cute way, protective and curious all at once.

Dean swallowed, uneasy but drawn in despite himself. The beast had gone from executioner to companion in a heartbeat, and the woman before him was the reason why.

Dean’s jaw clenched, a single question stuck to his mind like molten sugar to fabric. Why had she stopped the beast? Why spare him? Especially when every story he had heard, every whisper uttered depicted her as some sort of despicable horrid woman in league with the devil himself? That none who had ever entered her woods came out alive, much less spared when she could easily command her beast to slaughter him just as it did with the other men.

He replayed it in his mind, the shadowy beast circling him ready to pounce, its eyes bright with hunger as its muscles coiled to strike. Then her voice cut through the night, sharp and commanding like steel against paper, and the beast obeyed. Sparing his life.

She had chosen to spare him.

But why?

He wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was an act of mercy. No, how could a witch have mercy, it was not in their nature to have kindness, to care, let alone show mercy? Especially not knights sworn to the crown. Did she think it crueler to leave him alive, burdened with the weight of knowing his life had been hers to end. Perhaps lulling him into a false sense of security only to turn around and show her viciousness, a cold and soullessness that only a witch could conjure. They were not human after all. Or worse, was she going to strip him of his dignity and make him leave the forest, his mission failed, a disgrace to the entire kingdom.

That thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. Knights were not spared, they fought to the bone, bled with steel in their hands, and died with honour. But to be chosen in this way? By her no less, a witch, a woman who waltzed with Satan, howled at the moon, the villain to the hero knight. To be chosen by her unsettled him deeply down to his bones.

Yet when his eyes finally met hers again, staring at the witch whose name had haunted the kingdom so much so that the king had sent a bounty on her head. She didn’t look like the devil woman she’d been painted as, no jagged teeth, certainly not the vile witch he was promised to slay. Instead, she had an elegance to her as the moonlight hit her hair catching the silver like woven threads of starlight, she glowed under the lunar gaze, her eyes sharp and dark in the night, he was certain she could see right through him.

Dean held onto his sword steadily, though his arms ached.

“Funny” he said, his voice gruff, desperately trying to cover the tension in his chest. “You don’t look like the man-eating vile witch I was sent here to kill.”

The corner of her mouth twitched a small ghost of a smile on her face. “Disappointed?” her voice enchanting.

“Were you expecting a pointed hat? A few too many warts maybe? Or maybe the blood of newborn babies staining my lips.” She questioned.

“It is a wonderful shade of red. I jest of course.” Saying it in such an easy confidence like he was not holding a blade to her at this very second, but who wouldn’t be especially since she had her little beast attached to her hip, ready for a command.

Regardless of the light conversation she was making, it fell on deaf ears, Dean was too stuck in his own head as a question droned on and on ‘Why me?’. That’s when she took a single unhurried step forward, calm and deliberate. She raised a hand and with the barest touch of her finger, brushed the tip of his blade, and within an instant the steel grew heavy. He fought fruitlessly against it, straining his body to hold on to his as its weight became harder and harder to bear. His knuckles whitened, his jaw clenched, desperately trying to hold on until with a small thump, the sword slipped from his grip and struck the earth.

Dean froze, breath sharp in his throat. He should have been furious.

Afraid.

But the truth was much stranger. There was something in the calm curve of her mouth, in the way her eyes lingered on him not mocking, not triumphant, something undecipherable, something that made his pulse trip. The unease in his chest wasn’t only fear. He tore his gaze away, cursing himself silently. Whatever spell she wove, he would not fall for it. Not when his duty was clear.

Dean forced steel into his voice. “Some trick of yours. Doesn’t make you untouchable.”

She tilted her head, studying him the way one might examine a curious specimen, before stating incredulously. “If I wanted you dead, knight, you’d be nothing more than bones cooling in the dirt. Yet here you stand.”

Her words cut sharper than any blade. Dean’s jaw clenched. “You expect me to thank you for sparing me?”

A soft laugh slipped from her lips low, and enchanting. “Your gratitude is wasted on me. I want no thanks.” Her gaze flicked over him, sharp and unashamed, lingering for a fraction too long before returning to his face. “I was only curious to see what kind of man the king would throw at my doorstep.”

Dean bristled, pride sparking hot in his chest. “I came here of my own will.”

“Sure, you did,” she said sarcastically, her voice almost deadpan. “No, you came because you were told to. Because you think obedience makes you righteous, makes you a knight worthy of honour.” Her eyes narrowed. “But obedience makes you blind, knight. And the blind do not last long in these woods.”

Dean opened his mouth, then shut it again, teeth grinding. He hated how her words sank past his armour, striking deeper than they had any right to.

“You talk like you know me,” he muttered.

Another a smile touched her lips “Well maybe, or maybe i know too many righteous men cut from the same cloth. Still my mother did teach me not to make baseless assumptions though I think that is lacking in the curriculum of knighthood…..to foster blind loyalty I suppose”

The beast rumbled at her side, low and steady, as though agreeing with its master, echoing her certainty. Dean forced his eyes away from it, back to her face. She was nothing like he had expected. No monster. No hag. Instead, she was… composed. Beautiful, in a way that unnerved him, the danger in her presence only sharpening the pull he felt toward her. He buried the thought as quickly as it came, smothering it beneath duty.

“I will not fail,” he said, his voice harsher than he intended.

She stepped closer, close enough that the air between them seemed to hum, her eyes catching the moonlight like two deep pools. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “but whether you fail the king… or yourself… remains to be seen.”

Dean swallowed hard, his hand itching toward the sword at his feet. But for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure who the real enemy was.

She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned without another word. The beast followed at her heel, its shadowy form slipping silently back into the darkness. Her hair caught one last ribbon of moonlight before the forest seemed to swallow her whole.

Dean stood frozen, heart still hammering in his chest unsure of his next move. Slowly, he bent to retrieve his weapon, fingers curling tight around the hilt. He pulled once. Nothing. The blade hadn’t just fallen, it had buried itself deep in the soil, so deep in fact it was as if the earth itself refused to let it go. His brows furrowed, muscles straining as he tried again. The weapon didn’t budge. He set his jaw, planted both boots, and hauled with all his weight. Still nothing. A knight brought low by his own sword—he could almost hear his father’s voice, grim and disappointed.

“Son of a-“Dean muttered, kicking at the dirt in frustration. His glare snapped back to the shadowy path she had taken. Of course she did this. Some kind of damned trick to make him look like a fool.

He shoved away from the sword, threw his arms up with a groan, and stomped after her into the trees. “Witch!” he barked into the dark, branches clawing at his armour as he shoved past them. “Hey! I’m talkin’ to you!”

His boots pounded the forest floor, heavy and graceless, his muttered grumbles trailing after him like a curse. “First you sic your demon-cat thing on me, now you hex my sword? Real nice hospitality you’ve got out here!”

Somewhere ahead, faint and fleeting, he thought he heard the softest laugh like she was amused by his struggle. It only made him stomp harder, jaw tight, every step a mix of irritation and something else he couldn’t quite put a name to. For all his training, for all his loyalty to the crown, Dean Winchester had never felt more like a very angry puppy chasing after a woman who had no intention of slowing down.

The forest swallowed his voice, but Dean pressed on, the weight of his irritation keeping his pace steady. He didn’t care if every creature in these cursed woods knew he was stomping around like a fool, but he was no fool and he wanted answers, damn it. Finally, through the tangle of trees, he caught sight of her again. She was walking as if she hadn’t a care in the world, bare feet silent against the leaf-strewn ground, the great shadow-beast at her side moving like smoke.

“Witch!” Dean called again, louder this time. His tone landed somewhere between accusation, desperation and a little bit whiney.

At last, she slowed. With a turn of her head, she glanced over her shoulder, eyes catching the faint moonlight. “You cry like a child who’s lost his toy,” she said smoothly, a curl of amusement playing on her lips.

Dean bristled, as heat rised to his ears. “That ‘toy’ happens to be my father’s sword. And for the record I do not sound like a child. I don’t know what kind of trick you pulled, but-“

“You dropped it,” she stated plainly.

“If you cannot hold onto your own steel, perhaps the forest has decided you are not fit to wield it.”

His jaw clenched, words caught somewhere between a growl and a scoff. He jogged a few steps closer, careful but determined, eyes flicking warily toward the beast. “Fit or not, I’m not lettin’ you walk away after-after whatever that was back there.”

She stopped then, fully facing him.

Dean straightened, trying to hide the fact that his hand still twitched for a sword he no longer had. “Why?” he asked finally, his voice dropping low. “Why spare me?”

Her smile was faint, unreadable. “Perhaps,” she said, tilting her head ever so slightly, “I wanted to see what you would do without your blade.”

Something about the way she said it—half-mocking, half-curious—twisted in his chest. He should have been furious, should have been thinking of the crown, of the oath he swore just that morning, to lunge forward and demand her surrender and claim the glory every knight had dreamt about. But instead, all he could think was that he couldn’t look away from her, his mind snagged on the way her voice lingered in the air, smooth like velvet. The look of calm defiance in her eyes, knowing the power she had over him, how she has bewitched him entirely just in their first meeting. Yet here he stood, more rattled by her than any blade. Distracted, by a woman who should be his enemy.

And worse of all, she seemed to know it.

Her gaze lingered on him again the same unreadable expression he has bound to get used to with their interactions. Then her lips curved into the faintest of knowing smile, in a voice low and steady as a chant, she spoke words that seemed to thrum through the very air around them like a lyre playing a tune:

“The crown of lies shall rot away,

The realm will tremble beneath its weight

From honor, an heir shall rise

with harvest hair and forest eyes

His sword of mercy, heart of flame.

Strikes the king who bears a false name.

The righteous hand shall end his reign,

 the true-born king at last remains”

The forest seemed to hush with every syllable, as though the trees themselves strained to listen. Dean felt a chill crawl down his spine, the words sinking into him like stones into a deep pond. He didn’t understand what she was saying or why she spoke those words to him. Some sort of poem? A witches curse? Or a prophecy that has yet to be revealed

He shook his head, swallowing the unease tightening his chest. “What the hell was that supposed to mean?” he demanded, but his voice lacked the sharpness he intended. Because deep down, in some unspoken place, he feared the answer.

“It’s the whole reason you’re even on this quest Sir Winchester,”

Chapter Text

 “It’s the whole reason you’re even on this quest, Sir Winchester,” she said, her tone cutting and deliberate, each word meant to peel back his certainty. “You think this is some marvellous trial of honour? That if you strike down the witch of the woods, your name will be sung in the halls and your place in the Kingsguard assured?” Her smile thinned, sharp as a knife as she scoffed lightly at his naivete.

“Well, think again, knight. Because this is no witch hunt…” she stepped closer, her voice dropping like a blade, “…no, this is an execution.”

“It’s your execution.” She stated plainly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Dean blinked at her, the words hitting harder than any blade could. “Execution?” he scoffed, though the sound came out shakier than he’d intended. “No. No, you’re lying. That’s what witches do, isn’t it? Spin their little riddles, whisper poison in men’s ears.” His hands balled into fists at his sides, his voice rising with each word, as if volume alone could drown out the unease tightening in his chest.

He shook his head, almost laughing, but there was no humor in it. “The King entrusted me with this task. He chose me- for the crown, for the realm. My father served in the Kingsguard before me, and I’ll do the same. You think you can twist that into some curse?”

For a moment, she only watched him unravel, her head tilting ever so slightly as his denials tumbled out in a rush. When he finally paused to catch his breath, she gave a sound that was not quite a laugh, but close enough to make his pride bristle low and mocking, touched with something like pity.

“Lies?” she mused, a faint smile curling her lips. “You think me a liar, Sir Winchester? Then perhaps your mirror lies as well.” Her gaze dragged slowly over him, deliberate, and when her eyes met his again, they seemed to see straight through him.

“Harvest hair… forest eyes,” she repeated softly, the forest echoing them back in whispers Dean could almost swear he heard.

His mouth went dry. The retort on his tongue faltered, strangled by a chill that coiled down his spine.

She let out a small, mirthless chuckle and turned her back on him, walking with the casual disdain of someone who’d grown tired of explaining the obvious to fools. “But sure! blame the witch for everything,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm as she paced between the trees. “Oh, I’m poor? A witch must’ve cursed me. Oh, I’m ill? A witch must’ve cursed me. Oh, I find a woman attractive and—God forbid—feel something human for her? She must be a witch who cursed me with lust!” Her steps were slow, theatrical.

“Let us all clutch our pearls and light the pyre. Burn the witch! Because that always fixes everything.” She turned around lifting her brow expectantly for a snarky retort from him.

Dean’s face flushed before he could stop it, heat flaring across his neck. The words hit like salt, humiliating because they were true, and humiliating because she’d made them sound absurd so easily. He opened his mouth but any retort he had, died on his tongue, somehow nothing coming to his head. The more she mocked, the more his certainty unravelled, until he felt ridiculous for having felt so certain in the first place.

He watched her shoulders pull back into the dark, heard the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as she walked on, and for the first time since the King’s summons, Dean felt the familiar map of his world shift. He grumbled something that was half an insult and half a question “You got a point, witch” then stomped after her, the sound absurdly petulant in the hush of the forest.

Dean trailed her through the winding trees, muttering under his breath the whole way, every stomp of his boots more stubborn than the last. He told himself he was only following to keep her in sight—to finish what he started, to bring her to justice, to uphold his oath—but that didn’t explain why his heart was beating like a war drum, or why every flick of her dark hair as she moved ahead tugged his attention like a lure.

The forest finally broke open into a small clearing, and there it stood: a crooked little cottage, its stone walls half-swallowed by moss and ivy, smoke curling lazily from the chimney. It looked… homely. Too homely for a witch he’d been told commanded a monster out of nightmares.

But what truly stole his breath was the sight beside it.

“Baby?” Dean froze, his mouth parting in disbelief.

There, standing with her glossy ebony coat and proud black mane, was his mare. His mare. Happily chewing on a half-rotten apple that had dropped from the tree, tail swishing contentedly as though she hadn’t nearly thrown him into a pack of blades and teeth earlier that day.

“Unbelievable,” Dean muttered, running a hand down his face. He knew that body, that shine, that stubborn tilt of the head, he could spot her in a stable full of a hundred. And there she was, perfectly at ease, as if the forest belonged to her.

He took a step forward, ready to grab Baby’s reins happy to see his trusty steed, but the mare moved before he could. With a slow, deliberate grace, Baby wandered toward the witch, ears flicking forward in calm curiosity. Dean’s jaw tightened as his horse, his loyal, battle-trained mare lowered her head and nudged against the witch’s hand like an old friend. The woman didn’t hesitate. She raised her hand, fingers slipping into Baby’s black mane, stroking with an ease that made Dean’s chest burn hot with irritation. Baby whickered softly, leaning into the touch, utterly besotted as if she’d belonged here all along.

Dean blinked, dumbfounded. “Traitor,” he muttered under his breath. The witch glanced at him then, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“Seems she prefers me, knight,” she said, voice smooth and cutting, before scratching Baby’s neck and earning a pleased snort from the mare.

Dean shifted his weight, scowling like a boy left out of a game. “Yeah, well, don’t get too comfortable,” he grumbled, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. Baby pressed closer to her, blissfully ignoring him, and the sting was dare I say, more sharper than any blade.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her tone softening, almost casual. Her hand lingered in Baby’s mane as if the mare had always been hers. “I just… have an affinity with animals. In general.”

Then, as if she’d plucked the thought straight from his head, her lips curved into a faint smile. “Don’t get your braies in a twist. I’m not stealing your mare. I have Phantom,” At the mere mention of his name, Phantom’s ears twitched, and in a blink he materialized beside her, moving a little clumsily looking up expectantly at his owner. He nudged gently against her hip, pressing for the same attention she had lavished on Baby moments ago. The oversized panther’s golden eyes shone with expectation, tail curling in a slow, lazy loop as he waited for her soft pets. The witch glanced down at Phantom with a faint smile, running her hand along his sleek, dark fur. Phantom nudged her again, rolling slightly against her side, clearly delighted to receive her hand.

Dean’s fists clenched at his sides, but this time it wasn’t anger that made his chest tighten. It was… confusion. A pang of jealousy, mixed with a grudging admiration. He grumbled something under his breath, the words more mutter than insult: “Overgrown cat, my ass.”

The witch merely tilted her head, eyes glinting with amusement. “Careful, knight. My familiar might just decide you need a lesson in humility.”

The witch gave a small, inviting smile. “Come inside,” she said, motioning toward the crooked cottage that had seemed so unassuming from afar. Phantom padded at her side, tail flicking lazily, while Baby shifted nervously, sniffing the air as if assessing whether it was safe to follow.

Dean hesitated at the threshold, his hand lingering on where the hilt of his sword might have been, reminding him that it was indeed still stuck in the ground in the path the left. But the warmth spilling from the cottage, and the sight of the witch moving with calm confidence, nudged him forward. His eyes drifted around the entrance and caught the carefully tended herbs lining the stone path: sprigs of sage, bundles of lavender, clusters of something unfamiliar but pungent and earthy. Their fragrant aroma mingled with the forest air, sharp and grounding, and Dean’s curiosity prickled despite himself.

Inside, the cottage smelled of woodsmoke and dried flowers, a cozy contradiction to the dark tales he’d heard of witches and their beasts. Phantom curled lazily near the hearth, eyes glinting like molten gold, while the witch moved with an easy grace to place a pot over a fire. Dean’s gaze flicked between her and the array of herbs, then back to the oversized panther, and he realized just how completely out of his element he was.

“Relax, Sir Winchester,” she said lightly, glancing at him with that faint, teasing smile that had both unnerved and intrigued him from the start. “There’s more to me than the tales the crown spreads.”

Dean shifted uneasily, clearing his throat. “I… I can see that,” he muttered, unable to stop his eyes from flicking to Phantom again. The panther’s slow blink, almost catlike, made him wonder just how many things in this forest were not as they seemed.

“I made hazelnut soup for supper, and I have a fresh loaf of bread should that interest you in anyway?” she offered, she stirred the pot intermittently adding water to bring back its texture, she stirred the pot simmering over the hearth, adding a ladle of water to loosen its thick texture, then turned to Dean, lifting her gaze to meet his.

Dean stood there, broad shoulders stiff beneath his worn tunic, as though the simple offer of food had knocked him more off balance than the many battles he had faced. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more, the easy way she spoke, like he was nothing more than a guest at her table, or the way her eyes seemed to be studying him, waiting for an answer that carried more weight than he wanted to give.

His stomach, traitorous and loud, gave its own reply.

She arched a brow at the sound, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I’ll take that as a yes, Sir Knight.”

The witch ladled the soup into a wooden bowl and set it before him, along with a hunk of fresh bread. The rich, nutty aroma filled the room, making Dean’s stomach growl despite himself. He lowered into the chair slowly, wary as ever, and broke off a piece of bread to dip into the steaming broth.

Dean dipped the bread into the hazelnut soup and took his first bite. He expected it to be simple, maybe edible at best. But to his shock the flavour hit him like a revelation. Warm, nutty, rich with herbs he couldn’t name, and a depth that reminded him of hearth fires and autumn harvests rather than the bland meals of the castle. For a moment, he froze, half-afraid that his face had betrayed too much.

It was the best thing he’d tasted in years. Maybe ever.

He quickly schooled his expression, chewing slowly, as if the food were merely acceptable. But his stomach and his traitorous taste buds had already declared their allegiance to her and her miraculous cooking.

The witch shifted slightly, watching him with quiet expectancy. When he didn’t say anything right away, she glanced away, smoothing her skirt as though to disguise nerves. “It’s nothing fancy,” she said at last, almost dismissive. “Just something I’ve made for myself a hundred times over. I imagine it hardly compares to what you’ve grown used to in the castle kitchens.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. He’d never thought of it that way. Never thought that his time in the castle, even as a knight who ate at the servants’ tables, might make her question her own craft. She was underestimating herself, he realized. Another spoonful, another rush of warmth down his chest. He swallowed, and before he could stop himself, he muttered gruffly, “It’s better.”

Her eyes flicked back to him, surprised. “Better?”

Dean cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how much he’d revealed. He shifted in his chair, scratching awkwardly at his jaw. “I mean- it’s… it’s good. More honest. Not covered up with all those… sauces and-“ He stopped himself before he rambled like a fool.

The witch tilted her head, and though she said nothing, the faint curve of her lips told him she’d heard more in his words than he meant to give away. That earned him the faintest curve of her lips, a smile that was neither mocking nor proud, just… knowing. “High praise, coming from the king’s knight.”

Dean shifted in his seat, trying not to stare at her where she leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the firelight sketching her face in warm tones. He’d seen women before, plenty of them. Tavern maids with low necklines, noblewomen in silks. He’d been tempted more than once, but temptation had never outweighed his vows. Still, this was different, it certainly felt different. There was no coy glance or promise. Just her presence, calm and sharp at once, unsettling him in ways he didn’t have words for.

A heavy weight pressed against his knee. Dean nearly jolted, hand darting toward the knife at his belt, only to find himself staring into Phantom’s molten eyes. The great beast had sidled up without a sound, settling its massive head against Dean’s leg. For a moment, the knight sat frozen, unsure whether to breathe or move.

Then Phantom nudged him again, harder this time, as if demanding attention.

Dean blinked down at him, baffled. “What in the—”

The witch’s laugh cut in, warm and bright. “Seems he likes you.”

Phantom nudged once more, a low rumble in his throat — not threatening, but insistent, almost playful. Dean scowled, giving the beast the briefest scratch behind the ear before snatching his hand back like he’d touched fire.

The witch tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. Dean muttered under his breath, “Bloody cat,” and shoved another spoonful of soup into his mouth, as if that would cover the awkward warmth creeping into his face.

“You should feel lucky,” she said, her smile curving as her fingers tapped lightly against the table. “He’s not quite that nice to foreign men.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully to Dean, then down at Phantom, who had half-climbed against the knight’s leg in his bid for attention.

At her soft beckon, the beast lifted his head, ears twitching. In an instant, the enormous panther-like creature abandoned Dean’s side and padded around the table, settling against her hip with a low rumble of contentment. She stroked the velvet fur behind his ear, and Phantom leaned into her touch, eyes slipping half-shut like any spoiled housecat.

Dean let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, flexing his leg where the beast’s weight had pressed into him. He muttered, “Yeah, luck’s one word for it,” though his gaze lingered on the easy trust between witch and creature, a trust he couldn’t help but envy, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

She glanced back up at him, that same knowing smile playing at her lips, and for the briefest moment Dean had to look away, busying himself with another bite of bread.

Dean’s gaze lingered longer than it should have as she moved, his eyes flickering over her face before his gaze dropped for the briefest of moments to the way the candlelight traced her figure across the table. It was subtle, but there he caught himself, jaw tightening as if to snap the thought in half. A knight didn’t look at a woman that way, not one who had taken vows. He cleared his throat softly and reached for his drink, covering the slip with the motion.

“You could’ve left me for dead in that forest,” he said finally, voice low, carrying a weight that wasn’t quite accusation but not gratitude either. His gaze lifted, steady and searching, narrowing a little as though he might read her truer nature in her eyes. “Most men wouldn’t survive crossing a witch’s path, let alone walking into her own cottage. So…” His thumb rolled slowly against the side of his cup. “Why did you spare me?”

Phantom huffed, stretching out at her feet, the tip of his tail flicking lazily—as if he were listening too.

“The prophecy,” she said at last, fingers idly tracing the rim of her bowl as though the words needed anchoring. “It’s why I chose to protect you. Anyone in the realm with even a flicker of magic—or the belief in it—knows of it. They’ve whispered of it for years.” Her gaze lifted, steady, unwavering as it found his. “And the moment I saw you… I knew. You were the one.”

Dean stilled, spoon hovering just short of his mouth. For a heartbeat, he let himself drown in her eyes—steady, resolute, almost too sure of him. Then the knight in him surged up, the vows, the training, the ingrained scepticisms of anything that hinted at sorcery. He set the spoon down, jaw tightening.

“A prophecy,” he echoed, a faint scoff beneath his breath. “You expect me to believe that fate itself saw fit to point me out to you?” His gaze flicked over her, unbidden, before he forced it back to the crackling fire. “I’m no chosen one, witch. I’m a knight. Nothing more.”

But his voice lacked its usual certainty, and when he glanced back at her, there was a shadow of something else behind his guarded stare—hesitation, curiosity, maybe even the smallest flicker of fear that she was right.

“Well, if the prophecy is true or not,” she said, her tone measured, almost casual, “someone believes in it enough to send men to kill you, or to hope that by sending you on a quest marked for death, it would never be fulfilled.” She tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing with a sharpness that made Dean shift in his seat. “They think the prophecy is a threat. And for some, the crown is worth more than any life, especially a knight’s whose entire existence puts the crowns legitimacy hanging by a thread,”