Chapter 5: The Walk to the Pyre
The village was alive with whispers and tension, yet the sun had barely risen. Seraphina Vale's wrists were bound tightly, the ropes biting into her skin as she was led out of the council hall. The guards were silent, their eyes downcast, as if even they felt the weight of what they were doing. But the villagers—oh, the villagers—could not keep their hands or voices to themselves.
"Witch! Burn her!" one shouted from a doorway.
"She's cursed!" another cried, holding a child close to her chest.
Seraphina kept her gaze forward. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum, each beat echoing in her ears. Fear threatened to rise, a tidal wave of panic, but she pushed it down. She would not give them the satisfaction. Not yet.
The path to the pyre was lined with villagers, a narrow corridor of hatred and fear. Every step she took felt heavier than the last, as if the earth itself were conspiring to slow her passage. Some villagers stared with wide-eyed curiosity, others with trembling anger. Many avoided her gaze entirely, unwilling to confront the woman they had once trusted.
Her hands itched, not from the ropes, but from the ember inside her chest, pulsing softly like a heartbeat of fire. It responded to the fear around her, alive in a way she had not yet fully understood. She felt it stirring, wanting, waiting.
Lord Alaric walked ahead, his cloak brushing the cobblestones, his posture erect and commanding. He was calm, unnervingly calm, as if leading her to the pyre were a simple matter of law and order. Yet, she sensed the faint tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes. He was human. He could not completely mask it.
The square opened before them. The pyre loomed, a mountain of dry wood and kindling stacked neatly, waiting to consume her. Smoke from the nearby forges drifted across the square, mixing with the scent of straw and fire. The villagers' whispers rose, filling the air with accusation and anticipation.
A mother clutching a blanketed child took a step back when Seraphina passed. The child's wide eyes met hers for a fleeting moment. Seraphina felt a pang of sorrow. "I am not your enemy," she whispered silently, though the words were swallowed by the crowd. "I only ever wanted to help."
The guards tightened their grip on her arms, shoving her forward. Her legs ached from the ropes, and the coarse fibers bit into her wrists. Sweat prickled her temples, not from exertion, but from the fear and rage simmering beneath her skin.
The ember inside her began to pulse stronger, almost in rhythm with her heartbeat. She felt it coil around her chest, warm and insistent. It was a strange, thrilling sensation—like the first rush of wind before a storm. The fire wanted her. The fire wanted release.
She glanced at Alaric, walking a few steps ahead, overseeing the procession. His eyes were sharp, watching the villagers, watching her, but not meeting her gaze. He had signed her death. He had ordered her to the pyre. And yet, he did not seem fully prepared for the reality of it.
The villagers parted as the procession entered the square. Children clung to their mothers, hiding faces behind small hands. Men averted their eyes, unwilling to confront the accused witch. Only the council members remained stoic, watching from the edges with carefully measured expressions.
The pyre was closer now, every step amplifying the intensity of the moment. Seraphina could feel the heat of the sun on her skin, the dry scent of straw, and the sharp tension of the villagers' anticipation. She could hear the crackle of the kindling in the faint wind, like whispers calling her name.
A young boy ran forward, holding a small bundle of herbs. "She saved me once!" he cried. "She's not a witch!"
The crowd silenced him instantly. Mothers yanked children back, and whispers turned into angry murmurs. Even the councilors turned their heads, unwilling to acknowledge the boy's plea. Seraphina's chest tightened. She wanted to kneel, to lift the boy into her arms, to reassure him, but the ropes and the guards held her fast.
The last few steps to the pyre were unbearable. Every footfall was a drumbeat of judgment, every glance a nail in the coffin of her life. Her ember pulsed hotter, responding to the collective fear, to the betrayal, to the injustice. It whispered to her, a voice she could almost hear: This is not the end. This is the beginning.
She reached the base of the pyre. The wood towered above her, ready to consume her. The villagers circled around, forming a rough ring. Some shouted, some prayed, some simply watched, mesmerized. The guards knelt her onto the platform, pressing her face forward as the ropes dug deeper into her wrists.
Alaric approached, parchment in hand. His quill had already signed her death, but he had come to witness it, to ensure the law was carried out. He bent slightly, so his eyes were level with hers. For the first time in days, he looked directly at her.
"Seraphina Vale," he said, voice low, almost hesitant, "you have been accused, tried, and sentenced. Any last words?"
Her throat ached, but she forced herself to speak clearly. "I have done nothing wrong. I am not your curse. I am not your fear. And I will survive."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Some laughed nervously. Some gasped. Alaric's eyes flicked to the torch in the hands of the nearest guard. He had not expected defiance, especially not this calm, measured defiance in the face of death.
The torch flared as it was lifted toward the pyre. Seraphina's chest surged with the ember. Heat prickled her skin, but it did not burn. The fire twisted around her, reacting to the power within, and for the first time, she felt something real—something alive.
The villagers recoiled, stumbling backward. Whispers of witch, curse, monster ran through them. Fear replaced certainty. They had thought they would see her die, and yet she stood unscathed, poised, powerful in ways they could not understand.
Alaric's face darkened. The law, the parchment, his signature—it all meant nothing now. The ember pulsed, bright and insistent, a heartbeat of fire that refused to be chained.
Seraphina's lips curved slightly, just enough to hint at the defiance burning in her chest. She did not yet fully control it, did not yet understand its full potential, but she knew one thing: she would not die here. Not today. Not ever.
The torch touched the edge of the pyre. The fire hissed, licking the wood, and then, as if sensing the will within her, twisted away. Smoke curled around her, hot but harmless. The villagers fell silent, horror and awe mingling in their faces.
And in that moment, as the fire danced but did not consume her, Seraphina Vale knew the ember inside her had awakened fully. She was no longer a healer. She was no longer a victim. She was something else. Something powerful.
And the world would never forget her again.