The windows were shut, but the late afternoon light filtered through the crooked blinds, casting bent lines across the wooden floor. The room was simple — a bed against the wall, a chair stacked with books, Lana's backpack tossed carelessly on the floor.
She closed the door slowly, locking it out of instinct even though she knew no one would come. She kicked off her sneakers and sat on the edge of the bed. Her whole body felt tired, but the discomfort came from somewhere else.
The tattoo burned. Not like a surface wound, but a heat from within, pulsing slowly, forcing its way out.
She pulled her shirt up from the back, straining her arm until she could reach the side mirror on the wardrobe. The skin between her shoulder blades quivered faintly under the light, and the bluish outline of the tattoo now glowed with a greenish hue alive, almost moving.
A shiver ran down her spine. The reflection didn't match her movements perfectly. She turned her head and, for a second, the reflection took a moment longer to follow.
This is getting worse.
She pressed her forehead against the mirror. Her breath caught for a few seconds.
The mirror darkened.
Not from the light, but from a presence. Lana's image blinked twice then dissolved.
In her place stood another figure. Same facial structure, darker eyes, colder skin. Same body different soul.
The image smiled slowly, lips parting slightly, eyes empty of emotion.
She stepped back, stumbling once, almost tripping on the bedframe. The reflection returned to normal in the next second. But the feeling didn't.
She shut her eyes. Tried to breathe deeply. It didn't help.
The tattoo glowed again.
This time with enough force to project a faint green line through her shirt. She dropped to her knees, one hand on the mattress, the other gripping the base of her spine as if to keep something from escaping.
The room shook for a second. Slightly, but enough to knock a picture frame off the shelf.
Lana panted. Her hands trembled. Her eyes watered, but she didn't cry.
I'm not you. I'm not you. I'm not you.
The reflection in the mirror murmured something she couldn't hear.
Lips moving in another language. A deep, ancient tone. And even without sound, Lana understood every syllable. The voice was inside her head not outside.
She dragged herself to the wall and leaned her head against the plaster. Her fingers clenched into fists, nails cutting into her own palm.
The tattoo shone again, and this time, for less than a second, the room was covered in a faint green aura. The shadows on the walls moved without a visible source — and then vanished.
She didn't remember how she ended up sitting on the floor, but her knees were marked. Her feet numb.
Her breathing was fast, almost gasping.
Hah… hah… hah…
She leaned back against the wall and stayed there. Quiet. Shaking.
Darkness filled everything. The room disappeared. The cold wall was gone. She was somewhere else.
The smell was of wet wood and smoke that hadn't yet turned to fire. The air tasted like fear.
Lana looked around and saw no walls only tall pines and a cloudy sky. Her hands were bound, arms pulled back with rough rope, skin scraped to the point of bleeding.
Two women knelt beside her. One with dark, messy hair, pale skin, and a calm expression. The other red-haired, eyes full of rage, fixed on the villagers without blinking.
The shouts came before the faces.
"Damned witches!"
"You've poisoned the land with your unholy touch!"
The ropes tightened around her chest. Lana gasped but not with her own breath. It was as if her body wasn't hers. She was breathing through someone else's mouth.
"You'll pay with fire!"
A stone grazed the redhead's face. Blood trickled down her chin. She didn't look away.
"We have no regrets," the dark-haired woman murmured, voice too soft to reach over the yelling.
"We were free. Together."
Lana trembled. She knew this was a memory. But she didn't know if it was hers… or Isobel's… or both.
The villagers carried branches, torches, bundles of dry wood. The three women were dragged through mud to posts set into the ground, surrounded by black stones and dry hay.
"Daughters of the devil!"
"You made the cows' milk dry with your cursed herbs!"
"The children dreamt of snake eyes when you walked by!"
Nervous laughter. Hatred shaped into superstition. Fury shaped into a sentence.
The ropes bit into Lana's wrists. A knot dug into her skin. A man's hand yanked her hair hard, pressing her head against the post.
"Never again."
An old woman approached, dressed in rags, her mouth a ruin of missing teeth. She spat on the ground.
"Devil's bitch. You'll burn down to your soul."
The woman beside her tried to speak the redhead but choked on her own blood.
The flames began in rings.
First the smell hay burning, old wood crackling, skin catching fire.
The pain came next. At her ankles. Crawling upward in a spiral. Too fast to ignore, too slow to end quickly.
"AH—!"
The scream came from the woman beside her the brunette. She arched her back against the post, arms straining for freedom. But only her voice broke free. Her body stayed bound. Bound and burning.
Lana… Isobel… no longer knew which name shielded her there. She felt everything.
The heat melting skin below her knees. The smell of flesh bubbling open. Smoke filling her nose, choking her breath.
The redhead coughed blood and tried to speak again. Her eyes locked on Lana's with desperate fury, as if to pass on a message without words.
"I'm sorry… I couldn't protect you…"
Her mouth opened again, but her throat cracked before any sound emerged.
The flames swallowed her.
Lana screamed.
Not for her own pain but for the sight beside her. For the red-haired friend being devoured in seconds. Hair turning to ash. Mouth open in agony.
The crowd screamed louder.
"Burn the cursed!" "Fire to the witches!" "Free the village from the curse!"
The dark-haired woman still resisted. Her head drooped to the side, but her eyes — oh, her eyes were fixed on the crowd.
She smiled.
Even as her skin peeled. Even as smoke climbed her throat.
"If we die today… you'll dream of us until the end of your line…"
A crack. One arm came free. But it was too late.
The fire climbed the post, devouring her dress and chest. Her face vanished behind the smoke.
Lana looked at her own leg. The flesh was already split open. Her nerves screamed. She no longer recognized her feet only red shapes wrapped in flame.
"THIS ISN'T REAL!"
But it was.
The post burned with her. Her mouth tried to scream, but air no longer came. Smoke filled her lungs. She drowned in pain inside a memory that wasn't a dream.
The skin on her face began to sear. Her tears evaporated before they fell.
And still… she saw the faces.
Men with arms crossed. Women with headscarves and eyes without mercy. Children clinging to skirts, watching like it was theater.
And in every one… pleasure.
In the pain. In the smell. In the death.
Lana tried to move her arms, but the ropes were fused to her melting skin.
She shut her eyes.
The scream died in her throat, suffocated by smoke and despair.
Darkness fell like a thick wave, without sound, without light, without time.
The next world was cold.
Her body curled from the shock. Sweat-soaked sheets clung to her skin. Her muscles shook. Her heart pounded as if still bound to the post.
Her breath came in bursts. Short. Her mouth dry.
She sat up with a jolt.
Her eyes swept the room as if searching for flames. There were none. Only still, dark walls. And the distant sound of a car passing outside.
The mirror was still there.
Covered hidden beneath a T-shirt thrown over it. Something she didn't remember doing.
Lana touched the back of her neck. Her skin was cold, but the tattoo… still burned. Not like before. Now it was a muffled pulse, like a warning.
She pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to anchor her thoughts.
That… was just a dream.
But her mouth didn't believe it. Neither did her body. Nor her eyes, which still stung.
She rolled onto her side, clutching the pillow as if it could anchor some part of her in the present.
She stayed there for long minutes.
The room was safe. But the fire still burned inside.
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