Melly and Ashtoria slowly pushed their way into the crowd. The sound of people pressing against one another blended with murmurs that echoed in the air. Above them, heavy clouds loomed, and the weight of the overcast sky made the atmosphere even more grim.
Melly tried to pierce through the wall of bodies with her gaze, her ears catching fragments of overlapping conversations.
"Such a pity… they say she's cursed," whispered a middle-aged woman, covering her mouth with her shawl.
"It's not just talk! Didn't you hear? A week after she married the village chief, that old man dropped dead! If that's not a curse, then what is?" retorted a young man, his voice brimming with conviction. He was one of those secretly paid by the chief's wife to smear the woman's name.
"Ah, don't be foolish!" barked another man, an old villager leaning on a cane. "I know for certain it was the old chief's wife who spread that rumor. She's jealous because her husband adored that woman more than her. Why do you think she and her children are the loudest ones demanding the woman's punishment, when the chief's death had nothing to do with her?"
A young woman nearby leaned closer, whispering anxiously, "Hey, don't speak too loudly. If they hear, you might be dragged away with her."
Melly swallowed hard, her eyes darting quickly from face to face. The atmosphere was growing heavier, hotter.
"She used to be a widow. Her husband died, and her daughter supposedly disappeared," the young man spoke again, lowering his voice a little. "And then, not long after, the old chief married her. Tell me that isn't suspicious."
"Bah, nonsense again," cut in a white-haired elder, his wrinkled face stern. "I've lived longer in this village than you. Everyone knows the chief had long been obsessed with her. He's the one who killed her husband. I even heard from people at the market that her daughter was kidnapped by the chief's men, used as leverage to force her into marriage."
"That's right! Exactly!" chimed in a middle-aged woman. "I've seen it with my own eyes, the chief trying to flirt with her in public more than once. But she always refused."
Voices rose and tangled into a chaotic hum.
"I heard the chief actually died of old age, but they're blaming the woman on purpose!"
"Everyone in this village knows the chief was filthy! And his wife is worse than anyone!"
Among the noise, sympathetic tones began to slip through, different from the scorn that had filled the air before.
"Poor woman…" whispered an old granny, covering her mouth with trembling hands.
A middle-aged man nodded slowly. "Her late husband was a good man. Never caused trouble, always kind to everyone. And then he… vanished without a trace. We all know it was the chief, but who dares to speak out?"
A young mother cradling her child lowered her gaze, her voice thin. "Her husband murdered, her daughter stolen, then forced to marry the man who destroyed her family. If it were me… I'd have taken my own life long ago."
A village girl bit her lip, eyes glistening with tears. "She isn't guilty of anything. But look at how people treat her. It feels… unbearably cruel."
"Shhh… not so loud," urged another man nervously. "If the chief's family hears, we'll be accused of siding with the cursed woman. But… I also can't stand to watch. She doesn't even fight back when they treat her like this."
Melly froze where she stood, her heart hammering. The words of the villagers crashed in her head like waves, colliding with each other, leaving her thoughts in chaos. She didn't know who to believe, didn't know whose side to take. All she knew for certain was the crushing weight in her chest she couldn't put into words.
The woman stumbled forward, dragging her steps like a corpse forced to walk. Her face was pale, drained of all light, her eyes empty, staring ahead without direction, as though every emotion—anger, hatred, even fear—had long since died.
Standing in the crowd, Melly felt her chest tighten. She glanced left and right, catching glimpses of faces bowed with pity, yet unmoving. Her voice cracked softly as she asked, "If you all pity her, why won't anyone help?"
No one answered. Some lowered their heads deeper, others clenched their teeth, clearly not out of indifference, but because fear chained them harder than compassion. A few turned their faces away, as if not seeing absolved them of guilt.
Beside her, Ashtoria watched with cold eyes. It wasn't pity she felt, but something else—a faint vibration, because she had once stood in a place not so different.
But the longer she looked into the woman's empty eyes, the more disgust she felt. To Ashtoria, nothing was more repulsive than someone who had lost the will to fight, who accepted fate without even a flicker of fire within.
When they reached the square, the crowd thickened. At the center stood a great wooden post, sturdy and cold. The woman was forced against it, rough iron chains wrapping around her body. The harsh clang of metal rang out, sealing off her last chance of escape. A bucket of oil was poured over her, soaking her gown until it glistened in the fading light of dusk.
The villagers followed tensely. Melly and Ashtoria were swept along in the tide of bodies toward the execution platform. A man at the front shouted, his voice booming, "Today, we will cleanse this village of its curse! This cursed woman shall meet her punishment!"
Noise erupted, but there were no triumphant cheers. Only grim faces—fear, dread, resignation. Beside the executioner, another man stepped forward holding a blazing torch. Without hesitation, he pressed the fire to her oil-soaked dress.
In an instant, flames roared upward. Red-orange light devoured her, swallowing her whole. A scream tore through the air, so raw and piercing it made the crowd flinch. It wasn't only the cry of flesh being burned, but the howl of a life consumed entirely.
On the other side, the chief's wife stood tall, her posture dripping with arrogance. The middle-aged woman was painted in garish makeup, her outfit more fit for a brothel than for a noble wife. Her lips, painted bright red, curled into a cold, satisfied smile. At her side, her three sons stared on with smug delight, as if they had long awaited this spectacle.
The crowd pressed tighter. Some screamed in horror, others shielded their faces. But among them all, Melly's eyes remained wide open, fixed on the sight before her.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, silent and unstoppable. Each drop carried anger, fear, and pity all at once. Her body moved on its own, pushing through the throng, shoving against shoulders and arms that tried to block her. Until at last, the fourteen-year-old girl stood directly before the fire, in front of the entire village, who now stared in stunned silence.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
Ashtoria, watching from behind, did not try to stop her. Instead, she lifted her gaze to the evening sky. Heavy gray clouds swirled above the square, gathering as though to witness this moment. Slowly she lowered her eyes again, fixing them on Melly, who stood alone against hundreds of accusing stares.
A faint smile curved on Ashtoria's lips.