They had taken my satchel, every root, every leaf, every tincture I had carried from the moors. My hands felt naked without the weight of them. The castle walls pressed close, thick with damp and silence, as if the stones themselves were holding their breath.
Word had spread fast, faster than reason could catch it. A woman seen by moonlight, a whisper of unnatural light at her fingertips, a child healed when no priest's prayer had worked. By dawn, truth no longer mattered. I was no longer healer nor guest, but omen.
From the slit in the tower window, I could see the courtyard below, men gathering, torches being lit though it was not yet dark. The MacKenzie banners stirred faintly in the wind, and above them, I caught the glint of Colum's chair being carried toward the great hall.
My heart sank. The time had come.
Outside, the storm rolled over the highlands, low thunder crawling through the clouds like the growl of some ancient god. Inside, I steadied my breath and whispered a prayer I no longer believed in.
They would call it a trial. But in truth, it would be a judgment already written.
And somewhere deep within me, beneath the fear, beneath the trembling, a strange calm began to rise, like smoke before fire.
The Trial at Leoch
The morning air was thick with peat smoke and fear. A pale, gray light spilled through the narrow windows of Castle Leoch, turning the stones into cold mirrors of judgment. The Great Hall was full, bodies pressed close, eyes sharp and unkind. Every breath I took felt borrowed.
My wrists were bound, the rope biting against my skin until it bled. I hadn't slept. All night I'd heard the whispers outside my door, witch, devil's mistress, spawn of the stones.
When they brought me before Colum MacKenzie, I thought I'd already used up the last of my courage. He sat tall in his carved oaken chair, the air of power around him heavier than the scent of burning tallow. His eyes were keen, the kind that saw through bone, hunting for truth or treachery.
"Ye claim to be naught but a traveler," he said slowly, his voice echoing across the hall. "Yet ye appear from the stone itself. Tell me, lass, what manner of creature crosses through rock?"
I drew a breath, fighting to steady my voice. "I am not a creature, sir. Only a woman who…"
Dougal's voice sliced through mine. He paced near the fire like a wolf scenting blood. "A woman who speaks of strange healings. Who carries powders and vials none here's seen. Who mends wounds with herbs that smoke like thunder." His gaze pinned me, sharp as a blade. "Tell me then, what are ye, if not a witch?"
The hall stirred, a collective murmur of fear. Someone gasped. Another made the sign of the cross.
"I mend, not harm," I said. My heart pounded, but I forced the words through the tremor in my throat. "Where I come from, we use what the earth gives us, air, water, elements. You call it sorcery. I call it knowledge."
A voice hissed from the crowd. "Knowledge not meant for man!"
Colum's face remained composed, but his tone had changed, measured, careful, and cold. "The clan's safety comes first. If danger follows ye, lass, then so must judgment. Those who come through the stones seldom bring peace."
Murtagh, who had stood silent until now, took a step forward. "She's nae harmed a soul, Colum. Saved a man from fever, she did. That's no witch's curse, that's mercy."
Dougal's eyes flared. "Mercy, or manipulation? Witches heal one day, curse the next."
The hall erupted again, voices colliding like waves. I could feel their fear rising, thick as the smoke in the rafters. No one wanted to understand me. They only wanted to name me, condemn me, and be done with their unease.
Finally, Colum raised his hand for silence. "At dawn, she shall face the test. If she be pure of spirit, the Lord will save her. If not…" His gaze found mine. "…the fire will cleanse what the stones have spat back."
That night, the cell was cold and damp, the air heavy with the scent of rot and rain. My thoughts wandered to the wind that took me, the stones that sang, and to Murtagh.
When the door creaked open, I half-expected a guard. But it was him. His face was shadowed, his jaw bruised.
"They'll burn ye at sunrise," he said quietly. "And I can fight men, but not fear."
"I know," I whispered. "That's why I'll fight another way."
I reached beneath my torn skirt and drew out two small vials, glass glinting faintly in the lamplight. Inside one, the distilled vapors I'd gathered near the springs; inside the other, a mineral mixture from the stones' edge. Together, they birthed a dense white smoke, harmless, yet blinding.
"It's not witchcraft," I told him softly. "It's… reaction. A meeting of air and earth. The kind of thing my teachers once showed me."
Murtagh's mouth curved in a wry smile. "Then let the devil take the credit, aye?"
I smiled faintly back. But my hands were shaking.
The Pyre and the Vanishing
Dawn came veiled in fog, the world gray and waiting. The air in the square was thick, not just with mist, but with dread. The pyre stood in the center, black wood glistening with pitch.
They led me forward, my wrists bound once more, my hair loose around my shoulders. I walked slowly, the sound of my steps swallowed by the murmuring crowd.
Dougal stood among the guards, his expression unreadable, duty clashing with something almost human. Above, on the rampart, Colum watched, the weight of the clan resting in his silence.
The elder raised his voice. "Ye stand accused of witchcraft and deceit. By the will of God and the hand of man, ye shall burn for your sins. Have ye any last words?"
I lifted my head. My voice came quiet, but clear enough to cut through the crowd's restless breath.
"Only this, fear burns quicker than truth."
And before the torch could touch flame to kindling, I moved.
I crushed the two vials hidden in my palms and flung them to the ground. A fierce hiss tore the air, followed by a surge of thick white smoke. It billowed upward, rolling and twisting like a living thing. The crowd screamed, men stumbling, women crying out prayers.
"She calls the spirits!" someone shouted.
"A witch! A witch!" another voice broke, hoarse with terror.
Within the chaos, I slipped through the haze, coughing as the fumes clawed my throat. The ropes fell away, Murtagh's blade had already done its silent work.
By the time the smoke thinned, the pyre stood untouched. The crowd was on its knees. And I was gone.
From the edge of the forest, hidden behind the trees, I watched as the villagers gaped at the empty platform. Colum's face was pale, his voice a whisper that carried even through the distance. "So… the witch returns to the wind."
I pressed a trembling hand against my chest. "It wasn't magic," I murmured, though my voice broke with disbelief. "Only knowledge misplaced in time."
Yet the forest wind curled around me, soft and knowing, and I realized, it didn't matter what I believed. The story had already been born.
Somewhere behind me, the people of Leoch were naming me.
The Witch of the Stones.
The woman who vanished in her own smoke.
And though I was still only flesh and fear and breath, that name would live longer than I ever could.
***
The forest took me in like a wounded creature, its shadows wrapping around me, its breath thick with mist and moss and the scent of rain. My heart still thundered from the pyre, from the screaming crowd, from the roar that wasn't entirely human. I could still taste the smoke, bitter, alive, and feel the heat against my back as the world believed me gone.
I should feel relief. Freedom. But instead, there's a strange hollowness gnawing at me. Somewhere out there, they whisper now, of the woman who vanished in fire, of the witch who commanded the smoke itself. I had only wanted to survive. Yet survival, it seems, demands a sacrifice far greater than life.
A myth is born of fear, not truth. And now I am no longer Elara Wyn de Roslin, healer of small wounds, reader of roots and herbs. I am something else, something the world must either worship or destroy.
I listen to the forest breathe, to the wind carrying faint echoes of my name. It sounds different now, heavier, older. Perhaps this is the price of power not meant to be touched. Or perhaps the gods, in their cruel humor, have written me into a story I can never leave.
Still, as I press my palm to the damp earth, I whisper a vow only the trees can hear: If I must be the monster in their tale, let it be one of my own makings.