The crackling of flames echoed across the square, sharp and insistent, a chorus of snapping wood and rising smoke that drowned out the voices of the dying. Their cries, high, broken, pleading, curled into the air and vanished, devoured by the fire long before they reached the ears of anyone who might have cared. The scent of burning flesh lingered like a cruel perfume, thick and clinging, sinking into my clothes, my skin, the corners of my memory that I could never scrub clean.
I stood at the edge of the crowd, swallowed in a sea of faces twisted in awe, fear, or grim delight. None looked away. None wept.
Shrouded in black velvet, I felt like a shadow among shadows, my hood drawn low enough to veil me from recognition but not from guilt. The fabric brushed against my cheek, soft as a lover's touch, but it comforted nothing. It was warm, yes, luxurious, finely woven, but it couldn't ease the cold that settled deep in my bones. That cold had nothing to do with the wind. It was the weight. The quiet, suffocating weight of watching and doing nothing. Of knowing a name. On hearing it shouted before the fire swallowed it whole.
I could still feel the echo of that name, a ghost of sound that clung to me as surely as the smoke. I could still see the outline of the condemned, flickering behind the flames like a mirage. arms bound, back straight, face turned toward the sky with a defiance that broke me.
The crowd shifted. Someone laughed. Another threw a flower into the blaze. And I did what cowards do best. I stayed still. I said nothing. Because sometimes the cost of speaking is more than a single life. And sometimes silence burns just as hot.
A witch burned today.
I didn't know her well, just her name, Éloïse, and the gentle lilt of her voice. She had sold moonstone charms to travelers, whispered spells into the bark of ancient oaks, and sang softly to the stars when she thought no one was listening. Her magic was small and quiet, like a ripple on a pond. It wasn't enough to save her.
The townsfolk shouted curses as the flames climbed higher, their faces twisted with something far more grotesque than justice, an ugly marriage of fear and fervor. Spittle flew from cracked lips. Stones were clenched in white-knuckled fists. Children were lifted onto shoulders to watch, their eyes wide and unblinking, too young to understand, too old to forget. I clutched the hem of my robe, fingers trembling as if the fire reached for me too. The fabric bunched in my grip, damp with sweat or maybe tears, I couldn't tell. My knees begged to buckle, but I stayed rooted, as though by sheer will I might keep her from being reduced to ash.
"I curse you all," Éloïse said.
Her voice didn't tremble. It cut through the air like a bell at midnight, cold and clear, rising above the inferno that hissed and roared like a beast awakening. Her eyes, dark and unafraid, found mine through the smoke. "I curse this land and its hatred," she went on, her words rising with the flames. "You will pay, if not in this life, then the next. Your sons will bleed for your cowardice. Your daughters will carry the weight of your sins."
The crowd fell into a stunned, uneasy silence. Even the fire seemed to hesitate. And in that breathless pause, time broke. I saw her as she once was, barefoot in the fields, laughing, with sunlight caught in her hair like gold thread. I saw her healing the sick with fingers stained in crushed herbs. I saw her cradling a dying bird in her palms, whispering soft things only nature could understand. And I saw her now, engulfed in a pillar of flame, regal as any queen, unbent. Then came the jeers. Louder. Crueler. Like wolves tearing into the corpse of a fallen deer.
"Witch!" someone screamed.
"She asked for it!" cried another.
"Let her burn!"
But I only heard her words, echoing like a prophecy etched into the marrow of my bones. And as the smoke rose like a veil to the heavens, I felt something shift. They thought the fire would silence her. But curses do not die with the cursed.
I turned away, my vision blurring with tears that I refused to shed openly. The image of her figure, framed by fire, seared itself into my mind.She stood tall amidst the blaze, a solitary figure of defiance and sorrow, her eyes like dark stars flickering through the smoke. The heat had no power to soften the hardness etched into her jaw, no strength to mute the quiet dignity that clung to her even as the world around her crumbled. I wanted to look away, to forget. But her face haunted me, twisting and turning in the smoke, whispering curses and promises I could not understand but knew were meant for me. I could not escape the blaze inside, the fire of regret, of helplessness, of a promise I hadn't yet found the courage to make.
The townsfolk's voices rose again, bitter and ragged like wind through dead branches. Boos and curses spilled from cracked lips, thick with resentment and fear.
"Burn the witch!" one voice shouted, sharp and relentless.
"She's cursed us all!" hissed another, low and venomous.
Murmurs swelled, a tide of harsh words and trembling voices, some shaking with anger, others with dread.
"Her magic brought the blight…"
"…and death to our children."
"…it's the only way."
The crowd pressed closer, eyes dark with suspicion and spite, tongues quick to twist the truth into weapons sharper than any blade. But above it all, I heard the silence between the words, the unspoken question that hung heavy:
What price do we pay for burning one soul?
And still, she stood alone in the fire, a figure carved from both tragedy and defiance, her curse echoing louder than their cries.
That night, I wandered aimlessly through the forest, my feet treading silently over the damp earth, guided only by instinct and grief. The moonlight filtered through the canopy in silvery threads, weaving ghostly patterns on the forest floor, as if the sky itself was trying to stitch together what had come undone.
I held my hat in both hands, fingers curled around its brim like a mourner clutching a relic from the dead. It was once a proud thing, broad and dark, stitched with care, the mark of a healer, a guide, a guardian of forgotten rites. It had stood tall in the markets, in the meadows, in the courts of those who needed me. Now it hung limp and useless, tainted by fire and fear. I couldn't bear to wear it anymore. Not after today.
Not after Éloïse.
Her voice still echoed in my mind, sharp, unwavering, unshaken, carving through the silence even as the flames curled around her feet and the sky bled red with smoke. Every time I blinked, I saw her eyes, fiery, not from the burning heat, but from something far fiercer: fury, betrayal, and the quiet sorrow of knowing she had no one left to stand with her.
And I had done nothing.
A chill wind stirred, and leaves brushed against my shoulders, soft as whispered sighs, fragile reminders of a world still breathing despite the cruelty it harbored. An owl called out in the distance, a low, mournful sound that seemed to carry the weight of the night itself, as if even the creatures of the forest mourned what had been done.
These woods had always been my refuge, a sanctuary where the tangled branches and shadowed paths held secrets and solace alike. But tonight, even the trees seemed to lean away, their limbs stiff and cold, as if mourning alongside me or perhaps condemning me. Even the shadows, usually a balm for weary souls, felt heavy, alive with her name whispered in the wind, a haunting refrain I could neither escape nor silence. I was alone with that echo, trapped between the flickering light of memory and the darkness of my own silence.
I dropped to my knees near a stream, its waters black beneath the moonlight. My reflection stared back, ashen, hollow, no longer belonging to a healer or a witch, but to a coward wrapped in velvet and silence. I dipped the hat into the water, hoping it might cleanse something, anything. But it only came up soaked, heavy with everything I could not wash away.
Éloïse's chant echoed relentlessly in my mind, each syllable a sharpened thorn twisting deeper into my chest. Would they come for me next? Would the same cruel hands that bound her wrists and doomed her to the flames reach out for me, drag me screaming into the square, powerless and exposed, while the world watched and turned away?
The thought shattered something fragile inside me, and I sank to my knees in the clearing, the rough earth cool and steady beneath my trembling hands. The night air was heavy with the scent of smoke and sorrow, pressing down like a shroud. Tears welled in my eyes, breaking free in a quiet, unstoppable flood. They traced hot paths down my cheeks as I whispered into the dark, voice barely more than a breath, "I don't want to burn."
The words trembled on my lips, fragile and raw. The confession of a soul stripped bare, desperate to cling to even the smallest hope of survival.
Beneath my skin, my magic thrummed, a faint pulse like a heartbeat I could not silence. It was a reminder, sharp and persistent, of who I was and what I carried inside me, power and promise, but also a mark that made me a target. What use was it, this living fire within, if it could not shield me from the cruelty of men? If it could not stop the stones cast in hatred, the whispers that turned to shouts, the fear that bred violence?
I closed my eyes and tried to still the trembling, but the weight of what had happened, the injustice, the loss, the fear, settled heavy like a stone in my chest. The clearing around me seemed too vast, the night too silent, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next soul to be sacrificed to its cold, unfeeling hunger.
And in that silence, I knew: the fire that had taken Éloïse was not just the flames that consumed her body. It was the fire that now burned in me, fierce, restless, and aching to rise..
By dawn, I had made my decision.
I returned to my cottage, the hem of my robe damp with dew, and carefully packed away my tools of witchcraft. The obsidian scrying bowl, the enchanted quills, the bundles of dried herbs that hummed with latent power, all of it went into a chest that I locked tight and hid beneath the floorboards.
The last thing to go was my hat. Its wide brim had shielded me from sun and rain, from the curious gazes of strangers and the accusing stares of neighbors. But now, it felt like a beacon, a declaration of everything I wanted to hide.
I placed it gently in the chest, running my fingers along the soft fabric one last time. Then I closed the lid and stepped back, feeling both lighter and emptier.
The next day, I dressed myself in a simple gown, soft blue, like the morning sky just before the sun fully rises, embroidered with delicate patterns that whispered of innocence and quiet strength. I tied a bonnet firmly under my chin, its ribbon a pale promise to conceal what I wished hidden.
Before the mirror, I paused. The reflection staring back was almost a stranger, a softer face framed by modest clothes, eyes shadowed with a new, fragile weariness. The sharp edges of who I was yesterday had dulled, replaced by something quieter, more careful.
But the change was deeper than fabric and ribbons. Inside me, something had shifted, subtle but profound, like a slender branch bowed beneath the weight of fresh snow, bending but not breaking. It was a heaviness born of loss, of silent fear, but also of something harder to name: a fragile resolve taking root, a slow reckoning with the life I must now live.
If they wanted me to be normal, then I would be normal.
I would bake bread in the early morning, the scent of rosemary and flour masking the smoke that still clung to my memory. I would line jars of salves and tinctures neatly on my shelves, offering herbal remedies with a practiced smile and lowered gaze. I would nod politely at the baker when I passed him on the street, my voice gentle, my hands steady, my eyes never lingering too long.
I would become the picture of quiet simplicity. harmless, forgettable. I would learn to move like mist through the village, soft and unremarkable, until no one looked twice at me. Until no one remembered what I had been. Let them believe I had folded myself into their world like a pressed flower in a book, pretty, faded.
But deep down, I knew it wasn't that simple.
As I walked into town, basket in hand, the weight of the previous day still clung to me. The villagers bustled about, their lives unchanged by the horror they had witnessed. A young boy chased a dog down the cobblestone street, laughing as he went. A woman hung laundry on a line, humming a cheerful tune.
They acted as if nothing had happened.
I paused by the market stall where Éloïse used to sell her charms. The space was empty now, the wood splintered and broken, as if they'd wanted to erase every trace of her existence. A shadow passed over my heart, but I forced a smile and approached the vendor next to it.
"Good morning," I said, my voice steady, pleasant, well-rehearsed. "Do you have any rosemary today?" The vendor blinked at me for a moment, as if trying to place something that had slipped just out of reach. Then he smiled, warm and easy. "Of course, Mireille. For your remedies, I assume?"
"Yes." I accepted the bundle he handed me, the scent sharp and clean, almost enough to chase away the lingering smoke in my mind. I tucked the sprigs carefully into my basket, their green tips peeking out like secrets, then offered him a polite nod.
"Thank you."
I moved on, my steps even, practiced. No tremble in my hands. No weight in my words. Just another woman buying herbs on a quiet morning in a town that had already forgotten how it burns its witches.
By the time I returned home, the sun stood high in the sky, golden and unrelenting—but its warmth never reached me. It stopped at my skin, unable to melt the cold knot lodged deep in my chest.
I set the basket on the table, its contents still fragrant with morning. My hands moved on their own, sorting sprigs of rosemary, thyme, and lavender with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Each motion was careful, deliberate, an act of control in a world that had stripped me of it. I had chosen this life. Or perhaps it had been chosen for me, carved out in the space left behind by fear. I would play my part, wear soft dresses, offer remedies and smiles.
But as I worked, I felt the question curl around me like smoke:
How long could the illusion hold?
How long before someone remembered? Before a whisper turned into a murmur, a murmur into a name, and a name into a sentence? Would the flames come for me, too, in the end?
I paused, the rosemary still in my hand, its scent sharp and green. The silence of the cottage answered nothing.