Salem Village, 1692
The winter deepened. The snow came down in quiet fury, covering the gallows field, muffling every sound until even the church bell seemed afraid to speak.
In her cell, Prudence Ashcroft waited. The townsfolk had moved from whispers to prayers, from prayers to threats. Her trial was set for the next full moon — and until then, she was to be watched night and day.
But the watchers began to change.
The constable's wife dreamt of roots growing through her floors. The minister's daughter woke screaming that a woman of ash had stood beside her bed. And on the edge of the forest, the cattle refused to graze, their eyes rolling white when the wind shifted from the east.
Still, the magistrates insisted, "It is her doing."
They did not see that the forest itself had begun to stir.
---
On the seventh night of her imprisonment, Prudence's cell door creaked open. A child stood there — no guard, no kin. The baker's boy, no more than ten. His eyes were wide and frightened.
"Miss Ashcroft," he whispered. "My mother says they'll hang you. She says you'll burn if you don't speak."
Prudence rose slowly, the candlelight trembling across her face. "And what do you say?"
He hesitated. "I say… I saw the woods move. I think they're angry."
She knelt before him. "Then you must listen, child. When the wind rises from the hollow, close your windows and leave milk by the door. Do not pray against it — only wait."
He nodded, pale as snow, and fled into the night.
When the door shut behind him, the cell grew dark. Only the faint silver shimmer of her hidden mark remained, pulsing like a heartbeat beneath her skin.
---
By midnight, the storm broke. Not a storm of snow, but of sound — a low groan that rolled through the valley, shaking the very earth. The ash trees beyond the village bent low, their branches heavy with black ice. The river ran backwards for a heartbeat, and the sky itself flickered with a strange amber light.
Prudence opened her eyes and whispered,
> "I am ready."
The air around her thickened, scented with smoke and rain. The voice from the hollow came again — stronger, nearer.
> "Then rise, daughter of ash. The fire remembers."
Her shackles fell away like rusted leaves. The straw at her feet burst into slow, steady flame — not red, but gold-white, gentle as candlelight. She stepped forward, untouched by the heat.
---
In the morning, the villagers found her cell door ajar. The walls were unmarked by soot, but the straw was gone — burned to a perfect circle of ash.
Of Prudence, there was no sign.
Yet from the forest came the smell of smoke, and a low hum that made the hounds whimper and the elders clutch their crosses.
When they reached the hollow, they found the ash trees blackened at their roots, and every branch heavy with frost — save one.
At the center stood a single living tree, its bark silvered, its branches faintly glowing. Beneath it lay a candle, still burning in the snow.
And those who dared draw near swore they heard her voice in the wind, whispering:
> "You cannot burn what was born of flame."
Interlude — The Silence After Fire
Salem Village, One Week Later
The snow had not melted, yet the air smelled faintly of smoke. The villagers spoke of little else — how the prisoner's cell was found empty, how no one had seen a soul come or go, and how the ash trees at the edge of town now seemed to lean closer every night.
The magistrates called for fasting and prayer. Reverend Hale thundered from his pulpit that the Devil had stolen the girl's body and that her spirit would surely seek vengeance. He ordered every household to hang sprigs of rosemary and salt their thresholds.
Still, unease grew like rot beneath their faith.
Children began waking with cinders in their palms. Goody Larkin's hens stopped laying. The river froze in strange, circular patterns that would not break even under an axe. And the dreams — everyone spoke of the dreams.
In them, Prudence Ashcroft walked the village streets barefoot, her dress white as frost, her eyes gray and gleaming. She did not speak, only placed her hand upon each door, leaving behind a faint, charred print.
The constable swore he'd heard her name in the wind one night as he stood watch. "Not shouted," he told the minister, pale with dread. "Whispered. Gentle, like a prayer."
The minister forbade further talk, but he too stopped sleeping.
---
On the seventh night, the baker's boy — the same who had freed her — woke to find the milk at his door turned to steam. The candle in his window burned blue.
From the woods came a slow rhythm, like a heartbeat muffled by snow. The boy stepped outside, trembling.
Across the field, at the forest's edge, a figure stood among the ash trees. Not ghostly, not quite human — her outline shimmered between worlds, her face half shadow and half light.
"Miss Ashcroft?" he whispered.
The figure turned her head. For a moment, he saw her eyes — pale fire, calm and knowing. Then she vanished, leaving only the faint crackle of heat and the scent of rue and smoke.
The boy fell to his knees, tears freezing on his cheeks.
> "She ain't gone," he whispered. "She's just waitin'."
And from that night onward, the villagers of Salem swore the forest itself began to breathe — slow and watchful, as if listening for her next step.