Ashes of Her Name
They had buried the pyre too shallow.
The marsh wind stirred low and mean, dragging coils of smoke across the barren ground as Liora dropped to her knees in the pit. Ash clung to her skin, her hands raw and trembling. She clawed through the charred soil, fingernails split, breath catching in her throat.
Beneath the scorched earth, bones still held a faint, eerie glow—white veined with crimson, like candlewax warped by fire. She paused, her fingers hovering above them. Then she kept digging.
She didn't have long.
Laughter echoed from the village behind her, blurred and distant, like it was coming from inside a dream—or a nightmare. They were drinking. Toasting. Remembering the execution as a holy thing.
"Bless the flame," they had chanted. "Burn the blood clean."
She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled. Her mouth filled with iron. A scream clawed its way up her throat, but she swallowed it whole. Her mother's voice rose in memory: Even when they light the fire, you do not scream. That is power, Liora. And power must stay hidden.
Her hand closed around something buried beneath a rib bone—charred and cracked. It was soft. Warm. Impossible.
The heart-charm.
Wrapped in velvet the color of dried blood, embroidered with sigils only a witch would recognize. Her mother had hidden it inside her body before the burning. A final defiance. A whispered curse.
Liora held it tightly, chest heaving. She didn't cry. She didn't breathe. She only listened—to the wind, to the silence tightening like a noose.
Then came the sound that changed everything.
Footsteps.
Not soft. Not hurried. Heavy. Deliberate.
Boots, striking earth with iron.
She turned, panic flaring in her chest.
The village priest stood at the edge of the pit, torchlight painting his face in gold and shadow. His expression was unreadable—almost curious.
"What are you doing, girl?" His voice slithered through the dark. "That's sacred ground. Desecration's a sin."
She rose slowly, cradling the charm in her palm behind her back. "I was praying," she said, though her voice wavered. She sounded like a liar, even to herself.
"You pray on your knees," he replied, stepping closer, gaze narrowing. "Not like a thief, with dirt on your hands."
More footsteps followed. Shadows gathered at the edge of the pit—villagers, clutching cudgels and torches, whispering sharp-edged words.
"That's the witch's daughter."
"She was always strange. Just like her mother."
"She wasn't marked last time."
"She's twenty-one now. Old enough."
Liora backed away, heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel their hunger—how badly they wanted to see another girl burn. Her mother's voice whispered again inside her skull: Don't speak your true name. Don't cry. Fire is drawn to both.
She gripped the charm so tightly the velvet dug into her skin.
And then—
The wind stopped.
The smoke hung, unmoving. Torches flickered once, then extinguished all at once, as though snuffed out by invisible hands. A deep, low rumble rolled through the valley. Thunder, but not from any storm.
The marsh held its breath.
From the trees, they emerged.
Ten riders on skeletal horses, clad in armor blacker than night. Their faces were masked. Their swords hung at their backs, sheathed in bone. The villagers gasped. Some dropped to their knees. Others fled.
The riders didn't speak.
One dismounted. He held up a blade—the Bride's Knife. Curved, ancient, ink-dark. It glinted like obsidian under a moonless sky.
A scream broke from the crowd. "The Hollow King—he rises!"
Liora stood frozen, blood roaring in her ears.
Every story she'd heard as a child had warned her: They don't take girls from your village. That's the curse. That's the mercy. It won't be you.
But he came for her.
The tallest knight approached and offered her the knife. When he finally spoke, his voice was like gravel dragged through water.
"Your blood."
Not a request. Not a threat.
A rite.
The villagers backed away, silent now, watching. Hope and horror gleamed in their eyes like twin flames.
If she refused, they'd burn her as a witch.
If she accepted, she might be dragged to the Hollow King's bed.
She took the blade.
Her hand trembled, but she drew the edge across her palm. Blood welled up, dark and warm, and dripped into the ashes at her feet.
And the world responded.
The pit erupted with sudden, furious life—roses bursting from the blackened soil, thorns slick with her blood. The air shimmered. Smoke coiled upward in a spiral, carving symbols into the sky.
Ancient ones. Forbidden ones.
Gasps. Screams.
"She's the one," the knight said. His voice held no wonder. No praise. Only certainty.
"Burn her," the priest croaked, stumbling back, face bleached of color.
"No," said the knight.
He stepped forward, the others falling in behind him like silent shadows.
"She belongs to the King."