Chapter 2: Whispers of Witchcraft
The square had emptied by the evening, but the whispers lingered like smoke curling through the alleys. Seraphina was confined to a small, cold room at the village hall. The guards' boots clanged against the stone floor whenever they passed her door, reminding her she was no longer a healer among her people—she was a prisoner.
She sank onto the wooden bench, her palms pressed to her face, her mind replaying the events of the morning. Whispers of witchcraft. Accusations. Fear. And worst of all, the look in Lord Alaric's eyes—a mixture of resolve and something she could not name.
Her hands shook, not from cold, but from disbelief. How could the people she had tended to, who had smiled when she brought healing herbs, now call her a witch? How could the life she had spent caring for others be erased by a single rumor?
A soft knock at the door startled her.
"Seraphina?" The voice was trembling. It belonged to Mira, a young girl from the village who often ran errands for her. "Please… I brought water."
Seraphina lifted her head, her hazel eyes weary but sharp. "Leave it here," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Mira placed the jug down silently, glancing nervously over her shoulder. "I—I don't want to get in trouble," the girl whispered.
"You're safe," Seraphina murmured. "But go home now. Let no one see you here."
The girl nodded and tiptoed out, closing the door with the gentlest click. Silence returned, but it was different now—it was a heavy, oppressive kind of silence, the kind that settles in when the world has turned against you.
Seraphina pressed her forehead to the cold wall, breathing shallowly. She could feel it—the fear of the villagers, the way it clung to the stone and drifted through the hallways. Fear had a weight, a pulse. And somehow, it pressed against her chest, whispering something she could not yet understand.
Hours passed like this, slow and suffocating. She was left alone with her thoughts, the only sound the occasional shuffle of a guard outside. She tried to think of the herbs she had prepared that morning, the way the children had smiled when she administered them, but even those memories were tainted now, colored with suspicion.
It wasn't just the villagers. Even the council had begun whispering, their words venomous yet coated with civility. They spoke in half-phrases and cautious glances, careful not to summon the wrath of the lord while still casting doubt.
"They say she spoke to the trees," one had murmured, "and they moved in unnatural ways."
"She healed too quickly. Too well. That cannot be natural."
"She cursed the boy. The child's death is proof."
Each whisper, each accusation, was a nail in the coffin of her reputation, a brick in the wall that now separated her from the life she had known. And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the betrayal, beneath the anger and the sorrow, something began to stir. A flicker, small and uncertain, but unmistakably there.
It was the ember.
Seraphina had always known that fire could warm and burn, give and take. But she had never known that fire could speak. That fire could awaken.
Her mind drifted to the pyre that awaited her. She had seen the preparations in the square: piles of dry wood stacked neatly, kindling ready to ignite, a torch waiting to light it all. They had chosen the spot carefully, where the villagers could watch, where the fear and judgment would be magnified.
And she had felt fear. Real fear, primal and cold. But she had also felt a strange resonance within her chest, something that pulsed like a heartbeat, something alive and waiting.
Her breathing became irregular. She stood suddenly, pacing the small room. Her fingers itched, and with a flick of her wrist, the candle on the table flared brighter, its flame dancing violently for a brief second before settling.
Her eyes widened. She had not touched it. She had not moved her hand close enough. And yet the flame had responded, twisting as if acknowledging her presence.
The realization struck her with both awe and terror. I… I am not like them.
She sank to the floor, hugging her knees, and thought of the boy. Of the child she had tried to save. A pang of sorrow twisted through her, bitter and raw. "I only wanted to heal," she whispered. "I never wanted this…"
The door burst open without warning, and two guards entered, dragging a chair behind them. "Sit," one barked. She obeyed reluctantly, suspicion curling like a serpent in her chest.
From the shadows stepped Lord Alaric, his cloak brushing the floor. He did not speak immediately. He did not need to. The weight of his presence was enough to silence her, enough to make the room shrink and the walls press closer.
"Seraphina Vale," he said finally, voice calm but sharp, "they say you speak to spirits. They say you call fire to your will. They say the boy's death was your doing."
"I—I am no witch!" she stammered. "I have healed this village. I have saved lives. I have done nothing but help!"
Alaric's eyes softened for a fraction of a second, then hardened again. "The people do not see your deeds. They only see the results of what they fear. You have a choice, Seraphina: confess, repent, and perhaps your life will be spared—or deny it, and they will do as they must."
A chill ran down her spine. Confess? Repent? For what? For being alive? For trying to help?
"I… cannot," she said, her voice breaking. "I will not admit to something I did not do."
Alaric's jaw tightened. He looked at her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire. Then he turned and nodded to the guards. "Take her to the council. Let them decide."
As she was dragged from the room, the ember inside her pulsed brighter. She felt it respond to the tension, to the injustice. She did not understand it fully yet, but it was hers. And one day, it would speak more clearly.
The council chamber was a cavernous room, dimly lit by torches mounted along the walls. The councilors murmured amongst themselves, their eyes sharp, their faces a mix of suspicion and curiosity. None spoke to her directly, but she felt their scrutiny like blades slicing through her.
"The girl is cunning," one whispered, leaning close to another. "Look at her hands. The way she trembles… she hides power we cannot see."
"Power?" another scoffed. "This is fear talking. Fear always dresses itself as strength."
Seraphina did not respond. She only watched, listening. Every whisper, every glance, every movement fed the ember within her. She could feel it growing, coiling like a living thing in her chest. It responded to their fear, their judgment.
When the council finally spoke, their words were measured but merciless. "Seraphina Vale, you stand accused of witchcraft. You have been witnessed performing unnatural acts. You are believed to have caused harm to the innocent. What do you say?"
Her throat was dry. Her hands shook. And yet, when she spoke, her voice was steady. "I say nothing that you have accused me of is true. I have healed, I have helped, I have served. And yet, you choose to punish me for your fear."
A murmur ran through the councilors. One leaned forward, a sneer curling on his lips. "Words mean nothing. Proof is required. And the proof of your guilt… is written in the death of the boy."
Seraphina's chest tightened. Proof? The proof of their fear? Of their ignorance? Her gaze fell to the floor, and in that moment, the ember flared fiercely. It made her heartbeat thunder. Her vision blurred slightly. The air around her seemed to hum.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and forced herself to remain calm. Whatever this ember was—whatever this fire inside her—it would wait. It would watch. And it would remember.
The council finally reached their verdict: she would be bound and delivered to the pyre at dawn. The villagers would watch, the fires would burn, and her life would be taken… or so they thought.
As the guards dragged her back through the silent streets of the village, the whispers followed her. Witch. Monster. Curse.
But she felt no fear anymore. Only the ember. Only the fire that was hers, growing stronger with every accusation, every betrayal, every whisper of witchcraft.
And somewhere deep within her, a vow formed:
I will survive. I will rise. And they will remember the name of the one they tried to burn.