The three dark creatures dangled from the wooden beams, their limbs straining against the chains that held them. Every breath they dragged in sounded like tearing cloth — ragged, desperate, weakening.
Blood streamed from their necks in thick, dark rivers, soaking the coarse wood beneath them.
Every breath they drew was a rasping struggle, a mixture of pain and fear that made their cries sharp, ear-splitting.
Their bodies twitched involuntarily as they shifted into their beast forms, claws scraping helplessly against the restraints, muscles trembling under the weight of exhaustion and fear.
A bucket of thick, black oil was thrown over them. It drenched their fur and skin, dripping down in slow, heavy trails onto the dirt beneath their feet.
The human crowd roared with approval, faces twisted in triumph, torches lifted high like they were celebrating a festival rather than a punishment.
"Finally!" a man shouted, voice cracking with excitement. "We caught them—these demon spies!"
Others echoed him, chanting, stomping, raising their fists as if the suffering above them was entertainment.
The three dark creatures, suspended by iron restraints, writhed helplessly.
The black suppressant oil soaked into their skin, making them weaker, slower, and unable to fight back.
They were sent by King Mortifer to assassinate King Cyrus… and now they paid for it.
The worst part was that they couldn't even kill the king, they were caught before entering the palace.
Their bodies flicker between their human and monstrous form.
Their breath rasped unevenly.
The crowd surged with fury and triumph, their torches lifted high.
A soldier stepped forward… and threw the first flame.
The fire caught instantly.
A roar tore from the creatures—raw, animalistic agony—not described in detail, but enough to shake the air. Their bodies writhed against the chains, the flames climbing higher, feeding off the oil.
A wave of fire swept upward—igniting the oil in a sudden violent blaze.
Flames curled up their legs, their chests, devouring them with a hungry roar. Their cries broke into something unearthly, raw and trembling, the kind of sound that hollowed the chest of anyone listening.
Their shadows thrashed against the buildings — enormous, monstrous silhouettes — before shrinking as the fire consumed them.
The smell of burning filled the air, sharp and suffocating.
Children watched with wide, eager eyes.
Parents nodded with grim pride, taking this suffering as justice.
As if this death was cleansing, cheering like it was a triumph.
Hidden among the cheering humans stood one spy, the surviving dark creatures.
His hood was low, his posture small, but his heart hammered violently against his ribs.
I should have left earlier.
I should never have come here.
But now he was trapped, swallowed by thousands of humans who were chanting for the death of his kind.
Velmara stepped forward, the flames behind her rising high enough to stain the night sky orange.
Her silver hair—long, thick, and almost luminescent—caught the firelight, turning it into a shimmering crown.
Age lined her face, but it only made her beauty sharper, carved with authority and danger.
"This," she declared, her voice carrying above the screams and the crackling fire, "marks the beginning of our victory!"
The flames surged higher, swallowing the prisoners in a storm of light.
"This is what awaits every dark creature who threatens us!" she shouted, her words slicing through the chaos like steel. "This is our warning—our promise!"
The crowd erupted—screaming, chanting, raising their fists as the three burning figures writhed, shadows twisting through the flames until their voices faded into the fire.
The spy flinched, shrinking deeper into the crowd.
Every word felt aimed directly at him.
He watched the three captured dark creatures thrash against their restraints, their bodies twisting, their strength gone.
Velmara raised her staff higher; the flames surged in response, climbing, swallowing.
The humans cheered louder.
She turned slowly, her sharp gaze sweeping the crowd—
And for a heartbeat, the spy felt her eyes stop on him.
He froze.
His breath vanished.
Velmara's eyes narrowed.
"There will be no mercy for those who hide among us," she declared, her voice carrying an ominous edge.
The spy's knees trembled.
He dared not make a move, dared not even breathe.
If she discovered him…
If the crowd learned who he was…
He wouldn't just burn like the others—
He'd be torn apart before the flames ever touched him.
Velmara's eyes flicked briefly toward him, just then he understood something chilling:
She knew he was there, she had sighted him.
But why didn't she expose him?
Why didn't she say a word?
Flames from the executions cast long, flickering shadows, and the screams of the tortured creatures made his stomach twist.
He moved quietly, each step measured, avoiding the crush of the cheering crowd, trying not to draw attention to himself.
His eyes darted to the human guard who had helped them enter the gate.
"Take your payment." The spy's jaw clenched, and without a sound, he passed coins into the traitor's hand—a silent acknowledgment, a bribe to ensure safe passage.
Then, like a shadow, he slipped through the open gates, pressing against the cold stone walls.
Each step was deliberate, every footfall calculated, as if the slightest misstep would betray him.
Behind him, the firelight danced on the walls, casting grotesque reflections of the suffering creatures.
The crackling of burning flesh, the smell of charred fur—it all lingered in his mind, clawing at his stomach, urging him forward.
He moved faster now, keeping low, pressing against the shadows. The crowd's cheers faded behind him, replaced by the haunting silence of the deserted outskirts of the palace.
Velmara was still watching.
His heart hammered. One wrong move, one slip, and she could strike from the shadows. Yet he pressed on, trusting only the traitor's bribe, trusting only the urgency of survival.
Every nerve screamed with fear, every step a careful calculation.
The terror he had witnessed—the brutality of Velmara's command, the helpless cries of the dark creatures—followed him like a shadow, relentless, inescapable.
Step by careful step, he melted into the darkness, carrying the tale of horror to his master.
Velmara's gaze lingered for a moment longer, silent and unyielding, and then she turned back to the flames.
She had delivered her message without a word, leaving the spy to carry his fear and her warning to King Mortifer.
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To be continued...