Chapter 1: The Accusation
The morning mist curled lazily over the village, softening the shapes of the cobblestone streets and the timbered houses. Seraphina Vale walked briskly toward the square, basket in hand, carrying herbs for the sick. She had spent the night tending to the fevered children of the village, her hands raw and her back aching, but she welcomed the work—it kept her mind steady.
But today, the air smelled different. Thick. Heavy. Tense.
Whispers floated like smoke, threading through the narrow streets. Mothers hushed their children; the blacksmith paused mid-strike; even the birds seemed wary. Seraphina's stomach tightened.
"Seraphina," a woman hissed from the doorway of her home, her face pale. "They're saying… they're saying you cursed the boy last night."
Seraphina blinked. "Cursed? No. I… I treated him."
"Treating doesn't matter!" another voice cried. "He's dead! You—"
She felt the eyes of the village on her, accusing, suspicious, cold. Every face she had known since childhood now felt alien, shaped by fear and desperation.
The square came into view. A crowd had gathered. Murmurs rose and fell like waves. At the center, a figure in a dark cloak stood, authoritative and calm—Lord Alaric. The one who had once been her friend, the one whose words could decide her fate.
"Seraphina Vale," his voice rang out, steady and terrifying in its clarity. "You stand accused of witchcraft. Of bringing death to the innocent. What say you for yourself?"
Her mouth went dry. Her heart pounded like a drum against her ribs. "I… I am a healer," she said softly. "I have only ever tried to help. I never—"
"Silence!" he snapped, and the crowd hushed instantly, hanging on his words like fragile leaves in the wind. "The boy is dead. And there is more—rumors of strange happenings, fires that appear without cause, herbs and potions that twist the mind. These are signs. And you, Seraphina, are responsible."
Gasps ran through the villagers. Some cried, some muttered in disbelief, others stared at her with wide-eyed fear. Seraphina clutched the basket tighter, her knuckles white.
"Lies! All of it!" she protested, stepping forward, but the guards moved, forming a wall between her and the crowd. She could not reach them, and even if she could, would they hear her? Would they believe her?
A young girl in the crowd pointed at her, trembling. "It's true! I saw her at the boy's bedside. She was whispering strange words!"
Seraphina's chest tightened. "Whispering words to heal him, not to curse him!"
But the villagers had already decided. Fear had painted her guilty before a single verdict could be spoken. The whispers turned into shouts, accusing fingers pointed, and the crowd closed in.
Lord Alaric's eyes met hers. Cold. Unyielding. Determined. The man who had once smiled at her kindness now only saw a threat.
"Take her," he commanded. "Let her fate be decided by the council. Until then, she will remain in the square, so the village can witness justice."
Seraphina's knees trembled, but she lifted her chin. Fear burned in her chest, but something deeper stirred—an ember of defiance. She would not beg. Not for herself. Not for their forgiveness.
The villagers pressed closer, their voices rising in anger and accusation. Seraphina Vale felt the weight of centuries of superstition and fear pressing down on her. And somewhere deep inside, a faint spark flickered.
A spark that, if fanned, would become fire