The pyre had been built before dawn.
It stood in the center of the square like a promise no one wanted to examine too closely—stacked wood bound with pitch-soaked rope, raised high enough that the flames would be visible from every window, every alley, every place a conscience might try to hide. The villagers had worked in silence, hands moving quickly, eyes refusing to linger.
They told themselves it was necessary.
They always did.
A girl knelt at the base of the post.
Her wrists were bound too tightly, rope biting into skin already bruised by accusation and prayer. Ash clung to her skirts. Her hair—dark, tangled—hung loose down her back because someone had decided cutting it might make her look too human.
She was sixteen.
Someone had said she spoke to herself.Someone else said the milk soured when she touched it.A man with trembling hands swore she'd looked at him too long.
That was enough.
The priest raised his voice, and the square quieted—not because the people believed, but because belief had learned how to sound like authority.
"By fire, we cleanse," he intoned. "By flame, we return the impure to God's judgment."
The girl looked up.
Her eyes were dry.
She had already cried herself empty.
At the edge of the village, the dogs began to whine.
Not bark.Not growl.
Whine—as though something had stepped too close to the edge of what animals understood.
Caelum Vireth watched from the treeline.
He stood still, silver hair loose against his shoulders, the long shape of his coat blending with shadow and branch alike. The world around him seemed to pull inward, sound dulling, movement slowing, as though the night itself was reluctant to draw attention to him.
Beside him, Seraphaine Ilyra crouched low, her presence sharper, more restless. Her gaze never left the square, never softened. The glow of torchlight caught faintly in her eyes, painting them darker red.
"They didn't even bother with a trial," she said quietly.
"They rarely do," Caelum replied.
His hand rested loosely at his side, fingers relaxed, blood already dried along his palm from earlier. Threnody of Red Steel slept in its sheath, patient. It always waited.
The priest began the final prayer.
Seraphaine's jaw tightened.
"She won't survive the smoke," she said. "Not even the fire. She'll choke first."
"Yes."
A pause.
"That bothers you," Caelum observed.
She did not look at him. "It insults me."
The torchbearer stepped forward.
That was when the wind shifted.
It came from the wrong direction—cold, sudden, carrying the scent of salt and something older beneath it. Flames bent unnaturally. The pitch ropes hissed, resisting the spark that should have taken immediately.
The priest faltered mid-verse.
The villagers felt it then—not fear exactly, but pressure. Like standing too close to a cliff edge without realizing it until the ground gave that subtle warning creak.
Caelum stepped into the light.
No announcement.No declaration.
He simply was there.
The square went quiet in a way prayer had never managed.
People turned slowly, eyes drawn not by motion but by absence—the absence of noise around him, the way space seemed to make room. Silver hair framed a face too calm for a man walking toward a burning.
Seraphaine followed, a half-step behind.
Someone whispered, "Witch."
Another voice answered, "No."
The priest lifted his symbol, hand shaking. "You—stop! In the name of—"
Caelum's gaze lifted.
The Red Gaze unfolded—not fully, not unleashed, just enough.
The priest's breath hitched.
Words caught in his throat as blood thickened in his veins, heart stumbling over its own rhythm. He did not fall. He simply… could not continue.
Caelum stopped three paces from the pyre.
He looked at the girl.
She stared back, eyes wide now, hope flickering dangerously.
"Do you know what they're accusing you of?" Seraphaine asked gently.
The girl nodded once.
"Did you do it?"
"No."
Seraphaine sighed. "Of course you didn't."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Step away," a man shouted. "That woman—look at her eyes!"
Seraphaine turned her head slowly.
The Red Gaze met the mob.
Several people recoiled. One woman dropped to her knees without understanding why. A man made the sign of the cross so fast his fingers tangled.
"Eyes don't make witches," Seraphaine said. "Fear does."
The torchbearer lunged.
He never reached her.
Caelum moved.
Not fast.Not slow.
He drew Threnody across his palm.
Blood spilled.
The blade awakened.
Red veins bloomed through the steel, light caught beneath its surface. The sound it made was subtle—a hum felt more than heard, like the world inhaling sharply.
Caelum struck once.
The torch fell in two pieces.
No flame.No heat.
Just a clean division, as though fire itself had been judged unworthy.
The square erupted.
Someone screamed. Someone ran. Someone tried to pray and found the words slipping away.
"Beast!" the priest gasped, clutching his chest.
Seraphaine stepped closer to Caelum, her presence aligning with his. The Veinscript along their throats pulsed faintly, synchronized.
"This is where they scatter," she murmured.
"Yes," he agreed. "Or they try to be brave."
A bolt flew from the crowd.
Caelum did not deflect it.
It stopped midair.
Blood thickened in the archer's arms, muscles locking as his own veins betrayed him. The bolt dropped harmlessly to the dirt.
Silence followed—heavy, stunned.
Seraphaine leaned close to Caelum, her voice low enough only he could hear.
"We shouldn't stay."
"No," he said. "We shouldn't."
He turned to the girl.
"Run," he told her.
She hesitated.
Seraphaine knelt, cutting her bonds with a quick flick of her blade, blood feeding steel briefly.
"Run," she repeated. "And forget us."
The girl ran.
The crowd surged—not toward the pyre, but away from it.
Caelum and Seraphaine did not chase.
They stepped back as one, retreating toward the treeline as panic overtook conviction. By the time the first brave soul thought to pursue, the square was already emptying.
In the forest, shadows welcomed them.
Seraphaine paused, breath steady. "They'll hunt us now."
"Yes."
"They'll bring better men."
"Yes."
She smiled faintly. "Good."
They moved deeper into the trees.
When the village lights faded completely, Seraphaine stopped and turned away from Caelum.
He did the same.
The Red Mimesis took her first.
Her form folded inward, bones reshaping with quiet inevitability, blood memory rewriting flesh. Wings unfurled where arms had been, blackened like dried blood. A raven took her place, eyes gleaming red before it launched silently into the air.
Caelum waited.
Then his blood answered.
Silver hair vanished beneath pale fur. Limbs lengthened, spine realigning into the lean, powerful shape of a wolf. Red eyes burned briefly before dimming, presence fading.
Two hunters vanished into the night.
Behind them, the village smoldered—fires unlit, prayers unanswered.
And somewhere far away, something ancient took note.