He remembered the day he sold it. The Heart.

The witch had not asked questions. She never did. Though she had a youthful appearance, her eyes were ancient, like craters in forgotten moons. He walked into her cottage of rusted mirrors and whispering jars. He sat on the old wooden chair near her empty table and said, “Take it, I don’t want to feel anymore.”

“Are you sure?” she asked. “You cannot be saved unless the fates will you to be,” she said musically.

He nodded firmly. With that the ancient witch started her ritual. He remembered the searing burn in his chest when she clawed it out—like inhaling fire. And yet, the silence that followed was worse.

As the days passed, years turned into decades. It was now over a century since that day. The world collapsed around him, but he didn’t flinch. Kingdoms fell, and creatures clawed their way out of the deep. Magic vanished, then returned, then twisted, turned feral. The sky cracked open like an egg and bled gold and sulphur. And he stood, untouched. Uncaring.

They called him many names: Deathbroker. Hollow Man. The Human Who Would Not Die.

But none of those names mattered. Only hers did.

Smitha.

She had once laughed with him, danced with him in a field where time stood still—a century ago, or perhaps longer. He couldn’t tell anymore. Without a heart, time no longer felt like a rope—it was fog. Slippery and cruel.

He watched her sometimes. From the other side of the barrier. She didn’t know. Couldn’t know. His soldiers—twisted magical beasts made from alloy and bone—kept the rest of the world at bay. But he let her walk free.

He didn’t know why.

And then, one day, he felt a shudder. Something old stir in the pit of his soul. A pulse. A beat. The faintest trace of warmth.

His heart had returned.

He doubled over, coughing fire and blood, clutching his chest. Feelings—long buried—came flooding back with merciless speed. Regret. Longing. Hope. Pain.

And love.

The witch’s voice coiled around his mind like a serpent made of smoke. “She has it now.”

He fell to his knees.

All this time, he had believed he had shed weakness like an old skin. But the truth came with brutal clarity:

He hadn’t given his heart to the witch to gain power. He had done it because he couldn’t bear the way Smitha had walked away from him that day, long ago—choosing duty over him.

He couldn’t bear to love her and lose her to the world.

And now, she held his heart. She could destroy him with a whisper, a thought. And maybe she would. Maybe she should.

He looked up, through the same clouds she watched, and for the first time in an age, he whispered her name.

“Smitha.”

Part (2/3)

— To be continued…