“Oh! Bra-vo, hunter!”
The clapping of gloved hands echoes throughout the hall. The witch-hunter turns from above the shattered body of her final opponent, breathing heavily, her weapon still planted in the shattered ruin of a porcelain skull. Now stands before her the Witch, her quarry, every barrier dispelled, every servant slaughtered. It’s decent of her not to hide, and yet - something in her eyes turns the hero’s stomach.
Why does she look so proud?
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