The courtyard boiled with fury. Torches hissed in the night wind and the roar of the people was deafening.
"Witch! Witch! Off with her head!"
Dragged forward by iron-clad guards, the count's daughter stumbled, her once-proud silk gown shredded and filthy. The cobblestones scraped her bare feet raw, her long black hair, tangled and wild, clung to her tear-stained cheeks. She thrashed against the chains cutting into her wrists, her voice shrill and desperate.
"I am no witch!" she cried, eyes wide with terror. "You blind fools, this is a lie—fabricated treachery! I am innocent!"
The crowd jeered, drowning her pleas in their hunger for blood. Rotten fruit pelted her, stones split her lip, but she only screamed louder, fighting against her fate as they forced her up the wooden steps.
Upon the dais, the royal family loomed. The king sat stiff with cold face, the queen's eyes unreadable behind her jeweled veil. But it was the princess who drew the woman's gaze—the princess who leaned forward slightly, her lips curled in a cruel smirk. Her eyes glimmered with malice, savoring every shred of her enemy's despair.
"No… no, please," the condemned whispered, her voice breaking. "Father... Mother... Brother.... Sister..." Her voice break as she saw her family behind the Queen.
Her knees buckled as the guards shoved her down to the block, where she was tied in a tree, beneath are sticks and branches. Splinters tore her skin. She tried to struggle, to scream again, but her strength failed her. She could only stare up through the blur of tears.
And there, above her—unmoving, relentless—was the princess. Watching. Smiling. As if she had waited her whole life for this single moment.
The executioner stepped forward, torch raised high, its bright red fire glinting in the mid air. The people's chant louder.
"WITCH! WITCH! WITCH!"
"BURN THE WITCH!!!!"
The woman sobbed, her voice cracking in a last, futile cry. "Mercy—please! I am no witch! I—"
The princess gave a slight tilt of her head, a signal sharp as a dagger.
The flaming torch fell.
There was a spark of fire, then another. The dry wood caught quickly, flames curling hungrily up the pyre. Smoke thickened, rising into the night air, carrying the scent of pitch and ash.
She stood bound to the stake, her black hair whipping in the wind. For a heartbeat, her eyes searched the crowd—wide, unyielding, shimmering with terror she refused to voice. Then the fire kissed her gown.
A screeching scream tore from her throat, piercing through the night, cutting past the jeers and the murmurs. Her body strained against the ropes, twisting, writhing, as the fire climbed. The nobles watched, some with grim satisfaction, others with averted eyes.
The flames consumed velvet and flesh alike, their roar drowning her cries until only the crackle remained. When silence finally fell, it was broken only by the hiss of embers and the hollow echo of a life snuffed out beneath the name of justice.
The count's daughter—villain, traitor, accused witch—was no more.