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, their excitement filling the air. Above the execution platform, bounty posters flapped in the warm wind.
WANTED: WITCHES. Two hundred gold coins for Capture. One hundred 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 under the sunlight. 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 and one eye was 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'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.
But before the flames touched her, Eliya's voice broke through the square, raw with desperation.
"Can't you see?!" she screamed. "Your fear… your blind hatred—it makes you slaughter the innocent! Not just witches, but your own kind, your neighbors, your friends. How many more will you murder before you see the truth?!"
Her chest heaved, her voice ringing across the square. "The prophecy is clear! One day the Queen of Hearts will rise, and she will put an end to this madness! This cruelty, this persecution!"
The Purifiers did not hesitate. The torch dropped.
They watched with wide eyes as the flames danced, licking up her body, devouring her clothes, her flesh and her hair as she screamed in agony.
Then like a tide, a wave of murmurs ripple through the crowd as the villagers talked amongst themselves.
"She dares invoke the Queen of Hearts!"
"The witch spoke blasphemy!"
"They say the Queen of Hearts will bathe the lands in our blood!"
"She'll kill us all, so we must put an end to all witches first!"
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, her eyes glistening with tears.
"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.
Eliya'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.
—
{HERON, CAPITAL CITY OF ARADEL}
The council chamber was a long stone hall lit by iron sconces and a high ring of stained glass windows. Shadows bled across the polished oak table where the kingdom's lords, generals, and advisors sat in uneasy silence.
At the head of the table, King Alexander leaned forward, his hands clasped, the jeweled crown on his head catching the firelight.
The air was heavy, and tense.
Lord Halric of Kesselmere was the first to speak. His jaw trembled as his voice broke the silence. "My King… villages in the south are restless. In Darrowstead, two more women were burned last week. In Brenwick, an innkeeper's daughter was accused and hanged by her own neighbors. Order is crumbling. The people see witches in every shadow."
Lord Ansel of Caelshire, gaunt and sharp-eyed, drummed his fingers on the table. "And what of Karandor? Word has spread of bodies washing ashore. Hearts of children carved from their chests like offerings to some pagan god. Do you not see? Chaos is spreading faster than the crown can contain it."
A murmur rippled through the chamber, grim faces bending closer to one another.
"The north is no better," Lord Raymond added, his voice tight. "From Ivarra to Greystone, families whisper of the prophecy. Farmers say witches speak of it openly in the dark… of this Queen of Hearts who will rise and bathe mankind in blood."
The name itself seemed to stir unease. The council exchanged wary glances.
"It terrifies the people," Halric muttered. "They see every pregnant woman as a threat, every new born child as a possible omen."
"And yet the witches cling to it," Raymond countered. "To them, she is salvation."
The room fell into heated conversations until King Alexander raised his hand. Silence followed. "Prophecies are words… nothing more. But words have power. Power to unmake a kingdom if left unchecked." His gaze swept the table. "So tell me, what is to be done?"
All eyes turned to the far end of the table where Thorne Rhaegor sat. The crimson cloak of the Severance draped over his broad shoulders, his gauntleted hands resting on the wood. Beside him, silent and watchful, sat his vice-commander, Darius Fane.
Lord Ansel leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Commander Rhaegor, the Severance was forged to serve the crown in rooting out this evil. Tell us, what are you doing while our kingdom rots from within?"
The tension sharpened. Rhaegor rose slowly, his presence commanding the chamber at once. His voice was deep, firm and unwavering.
"The Severance does not rest, my lords. We scour village after village, city after city, rooting out corruption before it festers. The number of witches living among our people dwindles by the day. They know they are no longer welcome, no longer safe."
He let the words hang before continuing.
"But there's more. The people report sightings of witches abandoning their homes, fleeing into the forests along the outskirts of the kingdom. Always northward. This aligns with rumors we have uncovered, whispers of sanctuaries. Hidden enclaves where witches gather, train, and bide their time."
Uneasy murmurs filled the chamber again.
Rhaegor's scarred face hardened. "If such sanctuaries exist, then the witch plague has not lessened — it has only gone to ground. And if we don't strike, it will rise again, stronger."
The King leaned back in his chair, considering this. His gaze flicked to his wife, Victoria, who said nothing but her violet eyes gleamed with thought.
At last, Alexander spoke, his voice a blade cutting through the quiet.
"Then strike."
He leaned forward, pinning Rhaegor with his stare.
"Follow their trail. If these sanctuaries exist beyond our borders, I want them uncovered. Root them out. Burn them to ashes. Aradel will not fall to superstition, nor to prophecy."
Rhaegor bowed his head.
"As you command, my King."