Gray clouds covered the sky. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and sickness. In the distance, bells rang again and again to mark death. Every ring meant another body. Another house in mourning. Another family broken.
The sickness had changed everything.
People no longer shook hands. People no longer gathered.
They only feared.
Every hospital was full. Long lines of ambulances stood outside, engines running, carrying the dying. The dead were wrapped in white sheets and taken away so fast that families did not even get to say goodbye.
No one knew what to do or who to trust, but every human knew one thing, someone had to be blamed. And so they chose a twenty-two-year-old pale boy named Aeren, who no longer had anyone left in his family because everyone he loved had died to the cruel hands of this sickness.
The sickness was contagious and spread through any contact. His family once believed in a cult. To cure the illness, the cult made a so-called holy medicine and distributed it to everyone, but Aeren refused to take it. Because of that the cultists became angry. They threw him and his family out. His parents, frightened and desperate, blamed him and stopped talking to him. A few days later they became ill, and after some time they died.
Aeren, who had lost his parents just today, was kneeling in the middle of the old marketplace. His hands were tied behind his back. His clothes were dirty. His face was tired and wounded. His skin was scraped. His eyes were staring at the ground.
He had done nothing wrong. But in times like this, that did not matter.
A crowd had gathered around him. Men, women, even children. Some held sticks. Some held stones. Some held burning cloth tied to wooden poles. Their faces were full of fear and anger, not hate.
Someone in the crowd shouted, "Burn him and again God will be with us!"
Another voice joined, louder and shaking with emotion, "To please God we have to sacrifice him!"
A third person screamed, "He is a sinner! Kill him or else God will never help us!"
He heard many more such shouts. Aeren closed his eyes for a moment. These people did not hate him. They believed they were doing something good, and that was the worst part.
A quiet voice spoke from behind him, close to his ear. "Can you hear them?" it said softly. "They don't hate you. They don't even know you. But they want you to die, not because of what you did, but because they need someone to carry their fear."
Aeren opened his eyes. In front of him, the crowd moved closer. A woman was crying. A father held his child. An old man was praying. They all believed the same thing, that he was the reason God was angry.
"This disease is not an illness," a man shouted. "It is punishment! And people like him who trust science, who say doctors will save us, they are fools. They do not believe in God and they stop us from worshipping Him. They anger God!"
Murmurs spread through the crowd. "Yes…" "He speaks against faith…" "He denies the will of God…"
Aeren wanted to speak, but he already knew they would not listen. Fear was louder than truth. The sky darkened as the wind began to blow. Dust and ash moved through the street. The old buildings around the marketplace looked like broken teeth standing in silence.
Then a torch was thrown at his feet. The flame flickered. Heat touched his skin. The woman who threw it did not look away. Her eyes were firm with belief. "This is God's will," she said. "Your death will save us."
Aeren looked at her. He did not see evil. He saw certainty. People did not want him dead. They wanted the world to stop hurting, and they believed his death would fix everything.
Someone else spoke almost gently, "If we give him to God, God will forgive us."
Another torch fell closer. The air grew hot. Smoke rose. Aeren took a deep breath. His heart was beating fast now, not from fear, but from sadness.
"This is how gods are born," the quiet voice behind him said. "When people believe a death will save them."
The fire reached his clothes. Pain touched his skin. Still, he did not scream. He looked up at the gray sky, covered in smoke and clouds. If there was a god watching, would it be ashamed, or would it be silent?
The crowd stepped back as the flames grew. Some people cried. Some prayed. Some closed their eyes. They did not see a man burning. They saw hope.
As his strength faded, one final thought passed through his mind. He only wanted to live quietly.
The flames rose. The bells rang again. And another life was offered to fear.