Salem Village, 1692
They woke her before dawn. The air in her cell was damp, heavy with the breath of the river fog. Two women entered first — matrons of the church, faces pale and tight as parchment. Behind them came Reverend Hale, his Bible clutched like a weapon.
"Prudence Ashcroft," he intoned, "the court must search for the Devil's mark upon your flesh. You will not resist, lest your silence condemn you further."
Prudence sat still upon the cot. The straw rustled beneath her. "You seek a mark," she said softly. "Then you will find one, for all living things are marked — by birth, by grief, by the hands that raise them."
Her words unsettled them. The older matron crossed herself despite the Reverend's glare.
They searched her arms, her neck, her shoulders. Every scar from her childhood, every freckle and bruise, was noted with feverish precision. When they found a small crescent scar behind her ear — no larger than a fingernail — the Reverend exhaled sharply.
"There," he whispered. "There lies the proof."
Prudence turned her gaze on him. Her eyes were calm, distant, as though watching from another time.
"It is proof only that I have lived," she said. "Not that I have sinned."
But the Reverend would not hear. He struck the Bible upon the table, pages fluttering like wings. "Confess, and perhaps your soul may yet be spared!"
"I have nothing to confess," she murmured. "Only that I am weary of your mercy."
---
That night, after they left her bleeding from the roughness of their search, she lay upon the stone floor and listened. From the world above came the low hum of the wind. Beneath it, faint but certain, came a whisper — the same voice from the hollow woods.
> "They would mark you as theirs," it said, "but your blood remembers older vows."
Her pulse beat in her wrists, hot and slow. The air shimmered faintly — not with light, but with presence.
> "Shall I show you what they fear?" the voice asked.
Prudence closed her eyes. "Yes."
The candle in the hall guttered. The shadows along the walls seemed to stretch and twist, weaving patterns like roots. From the darkness behind her, a shape took form — tall, faceless, robed in the color of deep earth. It reached out a hand, not of flesh, but of smoke and soil.
When its fingers touched her marked skin, she felt no pain — only recognition. A warmth spread through her veins like the first light of dawn. The scar behind her ear flared gold, then settled into a faint silver shimmer.
"You are of the Ash and the Hollow," the voice murmured. "Their fear cannot unmake what was never theirs to name."
---
At sunrise, the guards came to bring her bread and water. They found her standing by the window, her eyes reflecting the pale sky, her posture unbroken.
"Did you not sleep?" one asked.
"I dreamed," she replied.
Of what?"
Prudence smiled faintly. "Of roots that reach farther than fire."
The guard hesitated. For a moment, he thought he smelled the faint sweetness of flowers — impossible for the season — drifting from her cell. He made the sign of the cross and fled without another word.