They tied me to a stake.
Not metaphorically. Not romantically. Literally. Wood pole. Rope burns. Pile of kindling arranged like it had been auditioning to burn sluts since dawn.
Middle of the town square, of course. That cobbled hellhole of hay, sweat, and moral outrage. Half the village pressed in, faces eager and wet with holy fervor. Children on crates. Crone with a rosary. Chicken somewhere screaming louder than me.
Across the square, the Witchfinder was having the time of his life.
"Behold!" he roared, spittle flying. "The harlot of hell! The defiler of virtue! The sultry servant of Satan!"
He jabbed a finger at me like I'd personally pissed in his communion wine.
I bared my teeth. "That's Lady Sultry Servant, thank you."
Someone threw a turnip. Missed by a mile. Cowards.
Torch-boy stood nearby, wide-eyed and pimply, holding fire like it made him important. Probably some farmer's son dreaming of a reward and a pat on the head from Father God-Botherer over there.
"I demand a trial," I shouted.
"You had one!" the Witchfinder barked back.
"I was unconscious!"
"You confessed!"
"I was snoring! That's not the same!"
He waved his sermon stick like he was swatting demons. "She summoned the storm! The plague! The lustful dreams of our young men!"
"I merely starred in them," I muttered.
A murmur went through the crowd. A good third looked unsure. A few even looked guilty. One lad near the front went beet red and hid his face in his mother's apron.
Torch-boy twitched.
Kindling shifted.
I yanked against the ropes. Nothing but smoke, splinters, and the rising certainty that I was about to become roast of the day.
And then—because of course—someone in the crowd shouted:
"She's innocent!"
Another voice joined in: "Let her go!"
Then another: "Witchfinder's lost his marbles!"
Just as quickly, a counter-roar: "Burn her!" "Witch!" "Don't fall for her tricks!"
Half screaming for me.
Half screaming at me.
The town was split like bad cheese, and I was the creamy middle about to melt over a fire.
Perfect.
Absolutely perfect.
I took a deep breath and screamed back: "Listen here, you sanctimonious sheep-fondlers! If I were a witch, you'd all be toads by now!"
The crowd gasped.
The Witchfinder frothed.
Torch-boy's hand trembled.
And I thought, very quietly to myself:
Three days ago, I walked into the wrong town...
The sun was high. My feet were blistered. I smelled like a goat's armpit and dreams gone sour.
I knew it the second I passed under the crooked archway carved with saints that looked suspiciously like tax collectors. There was something in the air—too tense, too still. The kind of silence you only get before a thunderstorm or a very public execution.
I should've turned around.
Instead, I headed for the inn.
The Blessed Cask, it was called. Liar of a name if I ever heard one. Nothing blessed about a place with shutters nailed shut and a pitchfork hanging over the door like a warning sign.
Inside, the stink of fear and unwashed righteousness hit me like a punch.
The inn was packed.
Not with drinkers, but with townsfolk clinging to each other like sheep sensing a wolf. At the center, standing on a table as if it made him holy, was the Witchfinder. Black robes. Big cross. Bigger voice. The kind of man who got hard from shouting.
He was already mid-rant.
"She walked on the Sabbath! She looked a man in the eye! She spoke out of turn!"
And then they dragged her in.
The girl.
Young. Blonde. One of those delicate beauties that looks like she's never farted or had a bad hair day. Dirt on her face. Blood on her lip. Hands bound.
She screamed, "I'm not a witch!"
The crowd booed.
I watched from the doorway, frozen.
I know witches.
I've known real witches. Hell, I've bathed with two. Once shared a bottle of toad oil with a swamp crone who taught me how to uncurse a limp dick with a spoon and three aggressive prayers.
This girl?
She was no witch.
She was terrified. But holding her head up. Eyes blazing. Scared, but defiant. Brave, stupid girl.
They dragged her past me. Out the door. Toward the square.
And the stake was already there.
Already charred.
Already waiting.
Gods.
I should've walked away.
I almost walked away.
But then she looked at me.
One second. One heartbeat.
And I shouted—godsdamn me—I shouted:
"She's not a witch! Let her go!"
Silence.
Then a hand on my arm. Then two.
Someone snarled. "Another one."
I was yanked off my feet.
Dragged. Cuffed.
Witchfinder roared, "The Devil's whore defends her sister!"
I kicked. Screamed. Bit someone. Called them all inbred cow-fondling mouth-breathers.
Didn't help.
Rope. Chains. Dark room. Smell of mildew and sweat and coming doom.
Welcome to the dungeon, Saya.
You fucking idiot.