“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 hunter’s stomach.

Why does she look so proud?

It matters not. The hunter levers her weight off her sword and levels it along her eyeline, the killing guard, her hands shaking only slightly. She’s paid too dearly for this moment to allow it to be sullied.

“Repent, and your soul may yet be salvaged,” she intones.

The Witch laughs - actually laughs, a high, clear sound like the peal of silver bells.

“Excellent! Excellent! You’re perfect, sweetheart, you really are! I thought for sure dear Peony would get you this time, but,” she nudges a shard of porcelain mandible with her boot-toe, sends it rocking, “alas, it wasn’t to be! Oh, I’m so happy, I’m so proud!” Her voice breaks up again, more laughter, like a flock of doves taking flight.

The hunter’s satisfaction curdles in her chest. Enough of this. She surges forward, gathered to kill, every line of her body bent towards her enemy’s heart–

“Fall,” says the Witch, with a little smile.

The hunter only realises she’s obeyed when she hears her sword clatter to the floor. She’s on her knees. Why is she on her knees? Why did she… do that? It was automatic, autonomic, like breathing– she has to get up, she has to fight - click of heels on tile, she’s coming closer–

The Witch’s hand ruffles her hair. She jerks her head away, bares her teeth - anything - anything, anything– anything, no, she has bowed her head, why? “That’s all there is, silly! Game over, curtain call.” Her smile - her smile is so–

“You win,” she says. The words pour through the fractures in her hunter’s skull like nectar. “Good doll.” The Witch crouches before her, cups her jawline, traces the freshest of the cracks with gloved fingers. The hunter - the cleverly-made thing that dreamed, for a time, of being a hunter - stares helplessly up into her eyes, beginning to understand.

How many times has it awoken from this dream?

“Let’s play again.”