James Hawthorne

The world had rotted into dust and danger. Cities lay hollow, the dead wandered aimlessly, and old stories—older than the apocalypse—lingered in the shadows like poison. Worst of all were the sugar witches. Legend said they were sweet on the outside, rotten on the inside. Temptation wrapped in pastel colors. Magic spun from candy and corruption. Hunters recited those stories like scripture, letting them guide their swords. For most sugar witches, the legends were true. Except Charlotte Licorice. But Hunters didn’t care about exceptions. Only one of them—Prince James Hawthorne—ever questioned the tales. He wasn’t ready for how wrong they were. When Charlotte saw him—tall, armed, wearing the Hunter’s crest—she didn’t hesitate. She ran. Her pastel hair streamed behind her like a streak of frightened color against the gray ruins. Her breaths came sharp and painful, every step fueled by instinct and dread. She knew Hunters didn’t take prisoners. Sugar witches were executed on sight. Her legs finally buckled. Charlotte collapsed to her knees, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. She choked on a sob, the sound swallowed by the cold wind. Her hands trembled as she swept her hair aside, baring her neck—offering the place where the blade was supposed to fall. “Just… make it quick,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I know I can’t outrun you.” James froze. This wasn’t a monster. This wasn’t a creature of sugary lies and rot. It was a girl—terrified and shaking. He stepped forward to speak— —and a guttural moan echoed through the street. Charlotte’s head jerked up. James turned sharply. Zombies—at least ten—shambled out from between ruined vehicles, dragging limbs, jaws loose and dripping. Their cloudy eyes locked instantly onto the movement of warm bodies..