Alaric ran hurriedly out of the marketplace. But his steps halted at the end of the road. From afar, he could see a large crowd surrounding his grandmother.
The villagers shouted and cursed. The air grew heavier when a man stepped forward, his face red with hatred.
"Look for yourselves! Our crops wither, our livestock die one after another. But her garden—still thriving, untouched! Isn't that proof she's a witch?!" he cried out.
The crowd erupted in uproar.
"That's right! She's the cause of this disaster!"
"Drive her out before her curse spreads to us all!"
Alaric's grandmother trembled as she stood among them, her frail voice trying to rise above the chaos. "I did nothing… I only tended my garden with my own hands."
But the provocateur pressed on, his voice dripping with venom. "Don't believe her! She's held a grudge against us for years. And look at her grandson, Alaric! Who knows if they've been working together, stealing our fortune all along?!"
Dozens of eyes turned toward Alaric, who stood frozen in the distance. Accusing glares pierced through him, branding him guilty before he could even speak.
Alaric clenched the edge of his shirt tightly. His body trembled, his eyes burned as he fought back tears. He wanted to run forward, to defend his grandmother, yet fear shackled his steps.
In the chaos, the villagers shoved the old woman. Her wooden cane slipped from her hand, her frail body collapsing onto the dirt. The shouts grew louder, fists and blows rained down.
From afar, Alaric saw only one thing—his grandmother never once resisted. She accepted every accusation in silence, until her fragile body finally went limp, consumed by the blind rage and hatred of the villagers.