The fire had long swallowed her scream,
and still—
Silas stood.
The villagers left with soot in their mouths,
but only two shadows lingered in the clearing:
one mourning,
one watching.
Verin's voice broke the stillness like a wineglass dropped too gently:
"Aren't you going home?
It's late, even for a ghost."
Silas didn't flinch.
His eyes were on the tree—
charred and cracked where innocence once begged for mercy.
His voice was a breath dragged through ash:
"I fear home might make it worse."
Verin scoffed,
like a god mocking prayers.
"So dramatic."
Silas turned then—
not fully, just enough.
Tears balanced like daggers in his eyes,
but his face was colder than any grave.
"Why is it," he asked,
his voice velvet over broken glass,
"that you are always near where sin begins?"
Verin's smile was a wound stitched in silk.
"Who knows?
Maybe God sends me as a witness."
He shrugged, as if the world's decay was nothing new.
Silas didn't answer.
He turned, footsteps quiet as shame,
and Verin followed—of course he did.
The guilty never stray far from those they poison.
The walk back through the forest was a silent sermon:
the sinner too calm,
the savior too tired.
No birds sang.
Even the wind seemed to hush its breath.
Then the village rose before them,
as if nothing had happened—
as if a girl hadn't burned to please their gods.
Men who once trembled at the curve of a woman's smile
now smiled like boys with clean hands.
Their laughter rang bright,
like church bells over buried screams.
Silas watched them.
And for a moment, he looked like a statue carved to mourn.
He turned away—
not in defeat, but something quieter.
He walked toward his house,
dragging the weight of a soul that wouldn't sleep tonight.
Or ever, maybe.
Then he saw her—
Evelyn.
A sin in a girl's dress.
Cousin by blood,
sister by soul.
She was speaking to Verin, of all people,
and when she saw Silas, she smiled.
A real smile.
The kind that could get her killed.
Silas only nodded—
because what could he offer in return?
What can a boy born from frost give to a flame?
They went home.
But the silence had changed now.
It wasn't rest.
It wasn't peace.
It was the quiet before something else.
Something worse.
Something that waits
in the dark of tomorrow.
Next Day ^-^
Silas had only meant to leave for a while.
A white shirt hung loose over him like a veil of peace, his black trousers whispering quiet against his legs—
he looked like someone who didn't know his world was already bleeding.
He called her name. Once.
"Evelyn."
The house answered with stillness.
Twice.
No footfall, no laugh, not even the sound of her humming that cursed little song.
Something in him shivered.
The kind of silence that felt like it had teeth.
He stepped outside, into the throat of the village, where laughter once lived,
but now even the dirt seemed afraid to stir.
He asked around—faces turned away.
Some said no.
Some said nothing.
Until an old woman, with lips dry like brittle leaves, whispered:
"They took her.
Towards the forest."
His heart didn't drop.
It cracked.
Not with a sound, but with a weight.
He ran.
His breath was fire in his lungs.
His shirt clung to him like it knew it wouldn't be clean again.
And when he reached the forest—
Oh god.
There they were.
The men.
Sitting like dogs that had already tasted ash.
The tree.
Still black from yesterday's sins.
And Evelyn—
Evelyn tied to it, head bowed, dress torn, wrists red.
She wasn't moving.
She looked like she'd already been halfway to the fire.
And when the men saw him,
they stood.
Not in guilt.
But in quiet amusement.
As if they knew.
He had arrived just in time
to lose everything.
And then he saw him.
Verin—smoking like a king draped in shadows, a cigarette burning slow between fingers that held power like a secret.
His eyes met Silas's, flickering with that cold, dangerous amusement.
"What's happening here?" Silas asked, voice tight like a blade pulled too soon.
A man laughed, voice cracked and cruel.
"Can't you see? A witch is getting burned."
Silas's feet felt rooted in ice.
He couldn't move—not because of fear, but because every word twisted inside him like poison.
"She isn't a witch," he said, breath sharp.
A scoff cut through the silence.
"She was showing off—too 'intelligent' for her own good."
That was her crime.
That she dared to be sharp in a world that feared the light.
Silas's voice cracked, disbelief bleeding through the anger.
"Intelligent... that's her sin?"
"Yes," another voice confirmed like a death sentence.
Verin stepped forward, eyes scanning Silas like a predator sizing prey.
"Well, since you're here—do you want to burn her yourself? Or shall we finish the job?"
Silas's hands clenched, trembling.
"You won't touch her. She's not a witch."
Verin's smirk deepened.
A slow, cruel smile, tasting the thrill.
Then—
The fire blossomed.
Flames licking, hungry and alive.
But she didn't scream.
Silas stood frozen—
Watching as her skin turned to ash, as the smoke swallowed the last of her breath.
No screams. No prayers.
Only silence.
And when the fire died,
they all left.
Even Verin.
Gone.
Leaving behind only the ghost of a girl who burned like a secret too bright for this world.
Silas fell to his knees.
The sky above him didn't weep.
Only he did.
Ashes clung to his fingers,
slipping through the cracks like time
—or memory.
The tree still smoked.
The ground still burned.
But Evelyn was no longer there.
And maybe she never had the chance to be.
His hands trembled as he reached for the ground
like he could gather her back,
but all he held was grief.
And he crumbled—
soundlessly, slowly—
into the dirt that had become her grave.
Then came the breaking.
The soft, quiet kind.
He struck himself, not out of punishment,
but desperation—
as if pain could rewind fate.
His palm met skin,
over and over—
each time a prayer,
each time a curse.
Blood bloomed on his cheek like guilt that finally found a voice.
His body shook, not from cold,
but from the unbearable weight of being the one left behind.
Two hours later,
he returned not as a boy,
but as a ruin.
His white shirt was no longer white.
His eyes were cracked glass.
His leg refused to carry him properly—
the stumble in his step matching the silence in his soul.
When he reached his home,
he didn't expect light.
But it was there.
A cigarette burned in the dark.
And at the center of it—Verin.
He sat like a man watching a masterpiece collapse.
Silas stood in the doorway,
the flickering light casting him in soft gold—
he looked like something holy,
even if hollowed out.
Verin spoke first.
Voice like velvet cut on the edge.
"Finally decided to come home?"
Silas barely answered.
His voice was dust.
"What are you doing here?"
Verin exhaled smoke.
It curled around him like a smirk.
"Checking on you."
Silas scoffed, too tired for rage.
"To mock me?"
Verin raised an eyebrow.
"Whatever helps you to sleep."
Silas turned away,
his silhouette sharp,
his sorrow sharper.
"Go home.
I don't need anything from you."
He stepped inside.
But Verin's hand stopped the door.
"Is this the way to treat your guest?"
And Silas looked at him,
eyes so tired they seemed ancient.
"Don't call yourself that."
"Are you going to let me in or not?"
Verin's voice, low and lazy, curled into the night like smoke. One brow arched, gaze amused—as if this was all a game he already knew the ending of.
Silas said nothing. He just stepped aside, shoulders dropping as if surrendering to exhaustion rather than agreement. He walked in like a ghost dressed in skin, slumped into the nearest chair, eyes falling shut—because if he opened them too long, the world might bleed again.
Blood slid slowly down his forehead.
A soft, crimson river.
Unbothered. Unstopped.
Verin entered behind him, the door closing with a click too gentle for the weight it carried. He stood for a moment—arms crossed, gaze fixed on Silas like he was watching a painting decay.
"You're not going to clean your wounds?"
Silence.
Silas didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just sat there—breathing like it hurt.
Verin stared at him. Admired him.
As if ruin was beautiful.
As if blood was the most honest color.
Then—knocking.
Three sharp taps that split the air like a blade.
Silas flinched.
Verin noticed. Of course he did.
"You've got visitors at this hour?" he murmured, checking his watch like this was casual.
"I don't know," Silas muttered, voice barely there. He rose to his feet, bones aching, soul bruised, and walked to the door.
He opened it—and there she stood.
A girl. Soft eyes, soft voice, plain dress with a beauty too gentle for this world. She bowed her head slightly.
"Sorry for disturbing you at this hour…"
Silas nodded. A gesture, nothing more.
She stepped forward, words trembling on her tongue.
"I heard what happened… and it was all because of Verin—"
But her sentence broke like glass when her eyes caught him.
Verin.
Sitting in the chair.
Legs spread.
Smile like a scar.
Staring at her with a gaze too calm, too cruel.
The girl paled.
She shrank back.
Silas turned sharply. "Verin what? Did he do that?"
The girl's lips trembled.
"Yes," she whispered. "He told them to drag her. He watched while they spit on her name. Laughed when they called her filth. He—he didn't stop any of it."
And she fled.
Like innocence always does.
Quiet. Hurried. Ashamed for surviving.
Silas shut the door.
Slowly.
Carefully.
As if anything louder might break the last thing left inside him.
Then he turned.
And Verin was still sitting there.
That smirk still carved into his face like it belonged there.
The devil content in his cathedral of ruin.
Silas marched toward him, fists clenched, heart in his throat.
"Why?" he demanded, voice shattering. "Why would you do that?"
Verin chuckled. Low. Unbothered.
"Because," he said, "I felt like it."
Silas's hands were in his collar before he could blink.
"You destroyed her life—because you felt like it?!"
Verin didn't flinch. Didn't fight.
He looked into Silas's eyes like he was watching stars collapse.
"Yes," he said, again. Quiet. Cold. Certain.
As if cruelty was his language.
As if burning people was art.
And Silas—Silas was just now realizing
Verin wasn't a human
Silas loosened his grip on Verin's collar.
Fingers slipped. Rage cracked into grief, and his knees folded beneath him like paper collapsing in rain.
The floor met him with no softness.
He knelt. Not in prayer. Not in surrender. But in something far older. Something like a scream that never learned to use its voice. His palms trembled against the wood. Blood smeared beneath him, his own. He blinked once—twice—and the tears came not in sobs, but in silence. Like a storm ashamed of being heard.
"…Why?"
The word left him like breath from a dying fire.
Verin didn't answer at first.
He only looked at him. Not cruelly, not kindly. Like one studies a painting they don't understand, but can't look away from. Like one watches wings burn mid-flight.
And then—
"This is only the beginning, princess."
His voice was calm. Sweet even. A lullaby held between teeth sharp enough to cut God.
Silas looked up—but barely. His body was giving out. His bones whispered of sleep. His skin bore the story: torn, stained, and trembling. He tried to rise, once, twice. His legs gave out. He crumpled to the floor, exhausted, unconscious—his body folding into itself like a final verse left unread.
Verin watched him for a moment.
Not with triumph. Not with guilt.
But with that same unbearable gaze. Like Silas was something sacred and damned all at once.
Then, with a gentleness that mocked every sin that led to this moment, Verin knelt. He gathered Silas into his arms—blood and bruises and all—and carried him as if weightless.
He washed the wounds.
Bandaged the bleeding.
Wiped the dirt from his skin like he was dusting off a sculpture he ruined himself.
And when the first light began to climb over the edge of the earth,
Verin left.
No sound. No trace. Like the lie he was.
Only the faint scent of smoke remained.
And Silas, asleep in pain too deep for dreams.
Morning cracked open like an old wound.
Silas awoke, not from sleep, but from collapse. He didn't stretch. Didn't blink much. Just laid there, breath shallow and body aching. His clothes were still the ones from that night—dried blood, soot, soil—the scent of smoke still clinging like guilt. But his wounds were cleaned. Bandaged. Tended to by hands he didn't remember.
He bathed in silence. The water was cold. He welcomed it.
Then, in the dim light of the house, he dressed—simple linen shirt, black as a stormed-out sky, sleeves loose, the collar buttoned to his throat. Over it, a long vest, charcoal gray, and wide black trousers tucked into worn boots. The kind of clothes a boy might wear when mourning a sister burned for being born a girl.
He did not enter the kitchen. Hunger was for the living.
He sat on the couch—if that's what it could be called—a worn bench with cushions that sagged with the weight of his absence.
And he just… looked.
At the ceiling.
At nothing.
At everything he couldn't unsee.
Later, he rose only to water his plants. He did this every day. It became his only ritual. He would pour water into their roots like he wished someone had done for Evelyn's.
Days passed like ghosts.
He never left the house. Never spoke. The villagers stopped wondering. He was no longer Silas. Just absence shaped like a man.
But Verin noticed.
The village rotted onward. Sins multiplied in the soil. But not from him. Verin, the boy made of grins and gasoline, began to slow. The fire didn't burn the same when no one watched it. The cruelty lost its flavor without Silas flinching at its edge.
For one week, the village held its breath. No witches burned. No girls vanished. No truth was punished.
Until—
One morning, Silas left his house.
He walked to the market. His clothes were cleaner now—still black and white, still draped in mourning—but he moved like a ghost dragged by gravity. The women whispered, eyes soft with pity. The men didn't look at him. Or they looked too long. Verin stood in the corner shop, but Silas walked past him like wind past a corpse. Bought his knife. Left. Didn't speak. Didn't turn.
That night, Verin came to the door.
He knocked once.
A pause.
Then the door creaked open, and Silas stood there—not cold, not angry, just... gone. His eyes had no shape. His skin no fire. He saw Verin, registered his presence, then turned and walked away. Left the door open behind him like it didn't matter.
Verin stepped inside. Closed it with care.
Silas sat. Verin watched him, still. The bandages had been removed. The bruises faded. But Silas looked no more alive than before. And to Verin—he looked like a relic. Like an angel who had been prayed to too hard, too long, and forgotten what he was.
Then Verin said it:
"The villagers are planning to destroy you."
Silas didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Only spoke with a calm that terrified more than rage ever could:
"Villagers, or you?"
Verin chuckled. But it was dry.
"Not me. Villagers. But don't worry… I have a plan."
Silas turned his head. His eyes weren't angry. They were just… tired.
"No need," he said quietly. "I'm leaving this village anyway."
The silence that followed shattered something.
Verin stared. And for the first time in too long, he didn't smirk.
"…You're leaving?" His voice lacked its usual color.
Silas nodded once. Nothing more.
Verin looked at him like he might reach out, but his arms stayed folded. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then—
"Aight,Bet."
He turned. Walked out. Left without slamming the door.
And Silas got up. Closed it behind him. No sadness. No relief. Just a click of wood meeting wood.
He didn't lock it.
But he didn't care.
Because everything that needed breaking had already been broken.
The next morning, Silas stood before the threshold of his house, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, dust still clinging to his boots. The sky looked gray enough to mourn. He was ready to leave the village—ready to vanish like breath in cold air.
But then—they came.
A slow trickle of villagers, faces he knew too well, lined up like spectators before an execution. One of them stepped forward.
"Come with us."
Silas didn't argue. He didn't nod. He simply let the bag fall at the doorstep and followed. There was no fight left. Only limbs, moving. Like a dream inside a nightmare.
They stopped in front of a house—Verin's.
A man smiled, proud and sheepish. "He's here, Verin."
And Verin, lounging in his chair like a crowned lie, looked up with a smirk carved in marble.
"Good."
Then he turned to the others, voice dipped in sugar and false grief.
"Please… don't hate me. I'm doing this for all of you."
The villagers smiled back, radiant in their blindness. "Of course not, Verin. You're like our god. Why would we ever hate you?"
Silas watched it all, eyes dull, voice flat. "Can I go now?"
Verin turned to him, and his smile widened with dangerous glee.
"No. You can't." A pause. "We're getting married."
The world tilted.
Silas stared. His silence wasn't shock—it was disbelief that refused to waste energy.
Verin's gaze was direct, unflinching. "Yes. I'm marrying you."
He didn't say it softly. He said it like a threat dressed in silk. He said it like he knew exactly what power meant in this place.
Silas's voice finally cracked the silence. "Don't joke. Both men can't get married."
And a villager shouted behind him, "Exactly. It's a sin! But so are you. You don't believe in God, you defended witches—so you'll die like one. As a sinner."
Murmurs of agreement fluttered through the crowd like flies over a corpse.
Silas's teeth clenched. "Stop with this nonsense."
Verin's eyes burned through him, gentle only in mockery. "What nonsense? I'm sacrificing myself for them. For our god-fearing village."
Silas spat the words. "Fucking hell."
But it didn't matter. The villagers were already preparing the mock-ceremony. There were no prayers. No flowers. Just smiles that dripped rot and the scent of smoke still lingering in the soil.
And so—they were "wed."
Not in love.
Not by faith.
But by the sharp knife of manipulation, and the twisted relief of a village desperate for someone to blame.
When it was done, Silas turned to leave, to at least walk back to the ruins of his home.
But Verin called out casually, like they were lovers after a celebration. "Where are you going?"
"Home."
"No," Verin said smoothly. "Your things are already at mine."
Silas scoffed. Of course they were.
He followed in silence, dragged by a thread of disbelief so fine it almost felt like surrender.
When they arrived, Silas paused at the door, looking at Verin with exhaustion pressed into every bone.
"Why are you doing this?"
Verin tilted his head. "Doing what?"
"Don't act innocent."
Verin stepped forward—close. Close enough to feel his breath, but not touching.
His voice dropped into silk-laced poison. "Because it's fun."
Then he turned, walking toward his room like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just rewritten someone's fate for sport.
Silas stared at his back, mind numb with rage he couldn't hold anymore.
He dropped onto the couch, body sinking like a body into a grave. His eyes closed before he could even finish his exhale.
And sleep took him—harsh, dreamless, and far too kind.
-To be continued -