Traverse

Chapter 7: The Witch's Struggle

Eimear couldn't help but notice the oppressive stares as she was dragged through the castle courtyard. Men's eyes lingered on her exposed legs, their gazes filled with a mix of confusion, disdain, and something darker—malice. The loose T-shirt she wore might as well have been a flag of foreignness, and her shorts, which revealed too much by this era's standards, made her feel naked under their scrutiny. She tugged at the hem, a futile attempt to cover herself.

The whispers followed her like a ghost.

"Is she shameless? A woman dressed like that?"
"She's a witch, for sure—look at her strange clothes."
"No decent woman would walk like this in public."

Eimear kept her head down, her pulse pounding in her ears. Her face burned with humiliation, but her wrists stung even more as the rope dug into her skin.

"Keep moving, witch!" the guard barked, tugging her forward.

"Witch..." The word made her flinch every time. How had things come to this? Just days ago, she had been chasing a lead to find Malorie in Westbruck, following scraps of clues. Now she was tied up and paraded like a criminal.

Malorie, she thought, her heart clenching. I need to find you. I don't care how impossible this feels—I'll do whatever it takes.

As they crossed the bustling courtyard, her eyes darted to the activity around her. Soldiers sparred with wooden swords, their grunts echoing. A group of stable hands wrestled with a restless horse, while a few young pages stood whispering and pointing at her. It was a place alive with purpose, but Eimear was painfully out of place.

The guard halted suddenly and shoved her forward toward a wooden post in the center of the courtyard. She stumbled and fell to her knees, her wrists throbbing as the ropes tightened. Before she could protest, another guard was tying her hands to the post.

"Secure her here until the lord arrives," the first guard ordered.

"You can't do this!" Eimear shouted, twisting against the ropes. "I'm not a witch, and I've done nothing wrong!"

Her words only seemed to deepen the unease of the onlookers.

"Do you hear her strange words?" one of the soldiers whispered.
"She's casting a spell, I'm sure of it," muttered another, stepping back cautiously.

Eimear's chest tightened. Strange words? She realized with a pang of fear that her modern phrases—You can't do this!—must have sounded alien and frightening to them. To these people, her language wasn't just unusual; it was unnatural.

"You'll bring the plague upon us!" a stable hand yelled, crossing himself.

"I'm not sick!" Eimear snapped. Her stomach churned as she looked around at the faces twisted with fear and suspicion. It didn't matter what she said—her words only fueled their terror.

A soldier sneered at her. "Not sick, eh? Then why do you wear such indecent clothes? Showing skin like a harlot and speaking in the devil's tongue."

Eimear's breath hitched. "It's just... it's just what people wear where I'm from!" She knew it wouldn't help, but the words tumbled out anyway.

"Enough!" a commanding voice boomed, silencing the courtyard.

A man in his thirties, with a cloak sweeping behind him, strode forward. His dark eyes were sharp, his presence demanding attention. The guards around Eimear straightened as he approached.

The man stopped a few paces away, inspecting her with a look that sent a chill down her spine. "So, this is the witch my men spoke of," he said, his voice calm but edged with authority.