A bell tolled in the village square.
It echoed across Ivarra's crooked streets, bouncing off shuttered windows and waking even the deepest sleepers. Children grabbed their cloaks. Merchants abandoned their stalls. By the time the second bell rang, more than half the village was already gathered.
"A witch is about to burn!" someone shouted.
In moments, the square was full. People jostled and murmured, excitement fizzing like lightning. Above the execution platform, bounty posters flapped in the warm wind:
WANTED: WITCHES. 200 Gold Coins for Capture. 100 Gold Coins for Proof of Death. By Order of Their Majesties, King Alexander and Queen Victoria.
The crowd's buzz grew as footsteps echoed down the cobbled road. Purifiers marched in formation, their silver armor gleaming. At their center, bound in rusted chains, a young woman was dragged forward.
She was pregnant. Heavily so.
Her gown clung to her swollen belly, tattered and streaked with dirt. Her lip was split. One eye swollen shut.
"No," she whimpered. "Please… please, you're making a mistake."
She staggered, barely keeping pace, and the crowd closed in like vultures drawn to blood.
"I knew something was off about her!" a woman hissed.
"Never seen her husband."
"I heard she's been pregnant for over nine months. What kind of baby stays in that long?"
"She's not from here."
"She always talks to herself."
"I heard a little girl went missing right after buying pastries from her stall."
"I heard her whispering in the alley behind the chapel, muttering some foreign curse!"
The accused was forced to her knees at the base of the stake. Her hands shook with fear.
"I'm not a witch," she cried, her eyes darting, desperate for mercy. "Please… I don't even know any spells. I'm a healer. I–I've delivered your children, treated your sick—"
A disheveled woman shoved through the crowd. Her eyes were red rimmed with tears.
"Liar!" she shrieked. "I warned my daughter never to buy sweets from you. She never came home after visiting your stall! I know you did this! WITCH!!"
"I swear to the gods, I didn't—"
"She killed my little girl!" the woman screamed in pain. "BURN HER!"
A Purifier stepped forward, his voice steady and cold.
"By decree of the crown," he said, "anyone bearing the signs of witchblood shall be cleansed. Unnatural pregnancies, unsanctioned healings, unholy whisperings. These are signs of demonic corruption. The King and Queen will not allow Aradel to rot from within."
The accused sobbed as guards doused her in oil. It soaked her dress, her skin, her hair.
"No. Please—please don't do this, I'm begging you. I haven't done anything wrong!"
"You should have run witch," he said, raising the torch.
The fire bloomed instantly.
She screamed.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
They watched with wide eyes as the flames danced, licking up her body, devouring her clothes, her flesh and her hair.
A boy stood in the arms of his mother at the edge of the crowd. His dark curls shifted in the wind as he pressed his face to her shoulder.
"Mama…" he whispered. "Why are they burning her?"
The woman didn't speak at first. Her eyes remained locked on the stake, and a single tear carved a path down her cheek.
He asked again, more softly. "What's so bad about being a witch?"
She crouched, placing him gently on the ground. She knelt to his level and brushed a hand through his hair. Her voice trembled.
"They burn witches my love, because they fear what they cannot control. Because the world teaches them that power, real power, should belong only to the right kind of people. And when it shows up in someone like her… they panic."
She looked back at the fire, eyes glittering.
"She's always been so kind to everyone," she said. "Her name is Eliya. She baked and sold honey loaves at the market. She sold to me even when I didn't have coin. She rubbed my belly when I carried you and told me to be strong. She loved, and knew the name of every child in this village. Including the one that's still missing."
The crowd roared louder as the fire crackled violently.
"She never hurt a soul. She wasn't a witch."
The boy tilted his head. "Then why did they kill her?"
The woman looked at him, her expression unreadable.
"They don't care if it's true," she said softly. "Because they've been taught that anything different must be dangerous. That if someone is too smart, too strong or too strange... they must be evil. That if they survive when others fall, they must have cheated death."
The boy leaned closer. "But you're different too."
She smiled faintly. Then she leaned in and whispered just loud enough for him to hear.
"So are you."
The boy blinked.
"…Are we witches?"
The woman gently pulled his hood up over his head and stood.
"Shh," she murmured, lifting him back into her arms.
The crowd roared again as the flames reached their peak.
Elia's screams finally fell silent.
And in the far edges of the crowd, hidden beneath hoods and silence, a witch and her child retreated into the shadows.