The gates shuddered as they closed, the iron latch echoing like a final word. Silence rippled across the square, broken only by the hiss of smoldering thatch and the crackle of half burned banners.
The mob that had roared moments ago now stood in uneasy clusters. Their torches lowered, their voices, once loud with fury, faltered into whispers.
"She's gone," someone murmured. "It's done."
But no one looked relieved.
The elders lingered at the center, cloaks streaked with ash, their faces shadowed. The eldest tapped her staff against the dirt again, but softer this time ,less command, more habit. "We have spared the village. Fire and shadow must not dwell within our walls."
The words rang hollow. Even she seemed to hear it.
Tomas broke free from the men who held him, shoving past them with raw fury. "You call this sparing us? You've killed her! You've sent her to them!" His voice cracked, torn between rage and grief. "Do you even hear yourselves?"
His father seized his arm. "Enough! She's not your burden. She was never one of us."
Tomas wrenched free, chest heaving. His eyes swept the square faces he had grown up beside, faces now turned away in shame. "You'll regret this," he spat. "Every one of you. When the shadows come, remember who you cast out."
No one answered.
But the doubt lingered.
A woman clutched her child close, her lips pressed thin as she glanced at the scorched well post. An old man rubbed his temples, muttering, "The fire saved us… didn't it? We'd all be gone if not for her."
Others shifted uneasily, as though his words had spoken what they feared to admit.
The elders raised their staffs in unison, voices firm. "Hold fast to the choice. Fear kept us alive tonight. Fear will keep us alive tomorrow."
Yet the smoke told another story, roofs still smoldered, livestock lay scattered, and the smell of charred earth clung to every breath. The village had been scarred, not by Aria, but by the terror that had turned neighbor against neighbor.
As the crowd began to disperse, Tomas stood alone in the square, his hammer hung limp at his side, his face shadowed by firelight. For the first time, he did not look at the villagers. He looked toward the gates, toward the forest beyond.
Toward where she had gone.
And the thought hollowed him: perhaps they had not rid themselves of the curse at all.
Perhaps they had set it free.