The roar of the mob was a physical thing, a crushing wave of sound that vibrated through the very stake she was bound to. "Burn the witch!" "She deserves to die!" Each word, distinct yet blending into a furious chorus, felt like a whip lashing her skin. Acrid smoke, already curling from the bundled kindling at her feet, stung her eyes, blurring the sea of enraged faces. Her wrists ached against the taut ropes, the rough hemp biting into her flesh.
How could it have come to this? A ghost ache pulsed in her side, a phantom pain from the deep gash she'd taken when the Demon Queen's claw had almost found its mark. She could still feel the bone-deep exhaustion of endless nights spent poring over ancient texts, of training until her muscles screamed, all to devise the strategy that had saved them. And this was the thanks: the crackle of dry wood beneath her, the rising scent of imminent immolation.
Her gaze swept over the angry, hateful faces, searching, desperately. She looked for the familiar set of shoulders, the flash of a certain sword hilt. He had promised. *Always.* His words echoed in her memory, a cruel whisper against the din of the crowd. But the space where he should have been, the spot where she always expected to find his steadfast presence, remained terrifyingly, irrevocably empty.
A choked sound, half-sigh, half-humiliation, escaped her lips. To be extinguished like this? A forgotten flicker, a life snuffed out by the very people she'd bled for? Her head, which had been held defiantly high, dipped. For a moment, the fight drained from her, leaving only a hollow, pitiful emptiness, but then a cold spark ignited deep within her eyes. Her lips, dry and cracked, twitched, not with fear, but with a chilling resolve. If this was how her story ended, a tragic, forgotten hero, then a new one would begin. A whisper, silent but absolute, formed in her mind: *Let them burn me. If I ever claw my way back from this, I won't just walk away. I will become the shadow they fear, the monster they forged.*
A shiver, not from the cold, but from the terrifying conviction that had just settled in her soul, ran down her spine. Oh, they would remember this day. They would remember her, not as the hero, but as the consequence. And they would regret it, until their last, dying breath.