My Prisoner Is an Enemy Wizard, and Our Forbidden Touch Unleashed a Devastating Power

The Veil shimmered, a constant, silent waterfall of amethyst light separating my world from theirs. It hummed a low, ancient note that vibrated deep in my bones, a song I’d known since birth. As a Warden of the Cinderwood Coven, this border was my charge, my inheritance. Generations of my ancestors had walked this same path, their boots treading the soft loam, their hands resting on the same rowan-wood hilts, their hearts filled with the same righteous animosity. It was a duty as natural as breathing.

And just as boring.

Most days, the only thing to break the monotony was a squirrel foolish enough to try and dart through the magical barrier. It would be repelled with a harmless pop and a puff of purple smoke, leaving it stunned and confused on the other side. The wizards were arrogant, but they weren't stupid enough to attempt an unauthorized crossing. Their magic was rigid, disciplined, and predictable. They respected boundaries, if only because they feared the wild, untamed power of ours.

That’s why the surge, when it came, felt like a physical blow.

It wasn't the clean, cutting edge of a wizard’s spell. This was a ragged, brutal tearing of magic. A raw, screaming wound that ripped through the Veil and slammed into my senses. It was chaos. It was pain. My breath caught in my throat, and every instinct screamed wrong.

My hand fell to the familiar grip of my dagger, the polished rowan-wood warm against my palm. I moved without thinking, my body propelled by years of training. I left the patrol path, pushing through ferns that brushed coolly against my leather leggings. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and something else, something coppery and sharp like spilled power. It was the smell of violence.

The hum of the Veil was gone, replaced by a high-pitched crackle that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. This wasn’t a simple trespass. This was a violation. Someone, or something, had been thrown through the barrier, not passed through it. The sheer force required was staggering, and the magical residue left behind was a messy, desperate signature. My jaw tightened. Whatever had happened, it was an intrusion my coven would not tolerate, and I was the one who had to face it first. The trees of the Cinderwood grew darker, their branches seeming to twist as I drew closer to the disturbance, a silent, waiting audience for the confrontation to come.

I found him in a small clearing where the earth was churned and blackened, the leaves on the surrounding saplings scorched and curled. He was lying face down, a dark shape against the forest floor. Even from a distance, I could see the fine cut of his robes—deep blue silk, now shredded and smeared with mud and something darker that I knew was blood. A wizard. Here, on our soil. My grip on the dagger tightened until my knuckles were white.

I circled him slowly, my steps silent on the moss. Every fiber of my being, every lesson from my elders, screamed threat. He was the enemy, an infection to be purged before it could spread. He didn't move. A low groan escaped his lips as I nudged his shoulder with the toe of my boot. He was alive, then.

With a final, decisive movement, I kicked him onto his back. He cried out, a sharp sound of agony, and his eyes flew open. They were a startling shade of green, like new spring leaves, and they were clouded with pain. His face was streaked with dirt, a deep cut bleeding freely at his hairline. He was younger than I expected, maybe my own age. There was no arrogance in his gaze, none of the cold superiority I’d been taught to see in all wizards. There was only shock and a raw, desperate exhaustion.

My dagger was at his throat in an instant, the sharp point dimpling the skin. "You have one chance to tell me why I shouldn't spill your life onto this ground, wizard," I said, my voice low and steady.

His eyes focused on mine, and for a moment, the pain in them sharpened into something else—awareness. He swallowed, the movement careful against the blade. "Davis," he managed, his voice strained. "My name is Davis."

"I don't care what your name is."

"Please," he breathed, the word a desperate plea. "I was ambushed. Near the border." He took a ragged breath, his gaze never leaving mine. "I've been researching the magical blight… the dead zones. A beast—it wasn't natural. It was corrupted, twisted. It attacked me, and the force of its magic threw me through the Veil."

I froze. Corrupted beast. The words echoed in my mind, a chilling reflection of the whispers that had been spreading through my own coven. We had seen them, too. Horrific creatures that defied all magical law, leaving patches of dead, barren land in their wake. We thought it was our secret, our curse. His story, as impossible as it was, rang with a terrifying truth. I looked closer, past the fact that he was a wizard, an enemy. I saw the weary frustration in his eyes, the same helpless anger I felt every time I found a new patch of blighted Cinderwood. He wasn't lying. I could feel it, a gut instinct that fought against a lifetime of ingrained hatred.

The law of the coven was as clear and cold as winter water: any wizard found on our lands was to be considered a hostile force, a poison to be neutralized on sight. My duty was simple. Kill him. End the threat. Report the incursion.

But the words corrupted beast were a hook in my gut, pulling me down a different path. My coven’s High Priestess had forbidden us from speaking of the creatures, from admitting the blight was anything more than a natural decay of the forest. She called it a test of our faith. I called it willful ignorance. And now, here was an enemy, bleeding on my soil, naming the very horror that kept me awake at night.

Killing him would be easy. It would be right. But it would also be stupid. He was a source of information my coven was too proud to seek.

My decision was a betrayal of my ancestors, my coven, and my entire life’s training. I pulled the dagger away from his throat. The relief that washed over his face was so profound it almost made me sick.

"Don't mistake this for mercy," I said, my voice sharp enough to cut. "You are my prisoner."

I sheathed my dagger and knelt beside him, ignoring the way his green eyes tracked my every move. "I'm going to bind your magic. If you try to resist, I will finish what that beast started."

He gave a short, pained nod.

I placed my palms on the damp earth on either side of his head, drawing on the deep, living power of the Cinderwood. This wasn't the clean, incantation-based magic of wizards. This was raw and alive. I felt the energy flow up through my hands, smelling of rich soil and deep roots. Murmuring the words of suppression, I brought my hands to his temples.

The moment my skin touched his, a jolt went through me. It wasn't like the violent surge from the Veil, but a low, quiet hum, a resonance that vibrated from my fingertips up my arms. His skin was warm, human. Under the dirt and blood, he was just a man. I pushed the thought away, focusing on the spell. Threads of green and brown energy flowed from my fingers, sinking into his skin, wrapping around his magical core like living vines. I felt his power—structured, immense, and now, dormant. He shuddered under my touch, his breath catching.

"Get up," I ordered, pulling my hands back as if burned. The lingering warmth on my palms was unsettling.

He struggled, his arms shaking. With an impatient sigh, I hooked an arm under his, hauling him to his feet. He was heavier than he looked, and he sagged against me for a moment, his head falling near my shoulder. I could feel the heat of his body through his torn robes, smell the scent of him beneath the blood and ozone—something clean, like rain and parchment. I shoved him away just enough to keep him upright on his own.

"We're not going to my coven," I told him, my voice low. "You speak of this to no one."

I pushed him forward, guiding him away from the path and deeper into the woods. He stumbled, but kept his footing. Every step we took was a step further into treason. I told myself it was a calculated risk. A pragmatic choice. He wasn't a wizard, not anymore. He was a weapon, a key. And I was going to use him to find out who was trying to destroy us both.