The wind howled like a creature in mourning, dragging Seraphina's cloak in violent flutters as she stood bound to the wooden post. Firewood surrounded her feet, soaked in oil, ready to consume her flesh. The sky above was heavy with dark clouds, and the distant cry of wolves echoed through the forested hills, haunting and foreboding.
"Witch!" someone screamed from the mob. "Burn the cursed thing!"
The crowd surged forward, torches raised high like burning fists of justice. Their eyes glowed not with fear, but with hunger. Hunger for blood, for punishment, for spectacle. Most of them didn't know her name, but they knew the story—a cursed girl with a mark, a girl who survived when others perished, a girl tied to a darkness none of them dared to understand.
The scent of pitch hung thick in the air. Seraphina tried to still her trembling limbs. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, a war drum that only she could hear. Her mark pulsed beneath her dress, radiating heat, as though it too was resisting the fire they meant to feed her to.
Memories of the Cradle, the eerie dreamworld where she'd seen her fate and the faces of long-dead goddesses, surged within her. Lucien had warned her: the world will reject what it cannot control. And now here she was, bound and sentenced by the very people she'd once protected.
A child from the crowd flung a rock. It struck her cheek. Blood trickled, warm and humiliating. She didn't react. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
High Priest Mathan stepped forward. His beard was white and meticulously combed, his crimson robes dragging through the muddy earth. He carried a black staff carved with runes, each of them soaked in years of blood magic.
"Seraphina of the Marked Line," he intoned, his voice rising above the crowd. "You have been found guilty of heresy, of consorting with wolves, of harboring dark magic."
"Your ignorance isn't my guilt," she spat, lifting her chin defiantly.
Mathan's eyes narrowed. "Defiance until the end. It is the way of witches."
The crowd roared in agreement. Someone threw another stone. It missed, but the gesture made Seraphina smile. They were afraid. They should be.
Mathan turned to the crowd. "Let the flames cleanse what the gods have cursed. Light the pyre!"
A dozen men stepped forward, torches in hand. The firewood hissed as flames licked at its edges. The heat rose quickly, curling around her feet. The first real pain seared up her legs. She bit her lip, tasting blood.
Suddenly, a howl pierced the chaos.
It was deep. Resonant. Ancient.
The flames flickered.
Then another howl.
And another.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Wolves.
The flames recoiled, flickering strangely. A ripple of unease washed through the crowd.
Then, from the forest's edge, they came. Massive beasts with glistening coats and eyes that shone silver under the darkened sky. One by one, they padded forward, silent and grim, forming a protective ring around the pyre.
The villagers screamed, some running, others frozen. A woman fainted. A man dropped his torch, which sputtered out in the mud.
From behind the wall of wolves, a figure stepped into view.
Lucien.
His cloak flowed behind him like wings, his shirt torn open, revealing the jagged scars of past battles. His eyes glowed black.
He didn't need to speak. The earth trembled beneath his feet.
"Let her go," he growled.
Mathan raised his staff, summoning light magic, but it sparked and fizzled.
"She is no longer yours to condemn," Lucien snarled, stepping closer.
A wave of power exploded from him, sending villagers toppling. The wolves surged, growling, snapping.
The flames on the pyre reversed, turning to smoke. The ropes binding Seraphina turned to ash.
She stumbled forward. Lucien caught her, his hands warm and trembling.
"You came," she whispered.
"I'll always come."
Suddenly, the mark on her back burned brighter than ever. The clouds above spiraled.
A crack of thunder tore through the sky.
And then, from the shadows, the Cradle Child emerged. Crimson hair. Bare feet. Eyes that glowed with eternity.
The child opened its mouth.
A scream poured out—not sound, but force. The air shuddered. Trees cracked. Light bled from the sky.
The villagers collapsed, some vomiting, some clutching their skulls.
Lucien shielded Seraphina with his body. "It's you. It's your soul calling to it."
Seraphina reached out to the child.
The scream stopped.
The child vanished.
Silence.
Mathan stumbled to his feet, robes smoldering. "Abomination! You will destroy us all!"
Seraphina stepped forward, her voice cold. "You tried to burn me. You tried to kill prophecy. You failed."
Her hands glowed with fire now—not mortal flame, but ancestral rage.
She turned to the unlit pyre. With a flick of her fingers, the wood ignited—brilliant and clean.
Not to burn a witch.
But to light the path.
The fire danced, flames swirling into symbols that twisted into a wolf's face, then a cradle, then a crown.
The villagers, terrified and broken, fell to their knees.
Lucien stood beside her. "What now?"
"Now," she said, turning to the forest, "we rise."
She took his hand. Behind them, the fire roared.
The witch had not burned.
She had been reborn.