March 13, 1692.
In every corner of the country, witches are being thrown into burning pits of fire, their skin scorched until it crumbles to dust. Kings, dukes, commanders, priests, all conspiring with one another to bring death to any threat coming...
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IT HAD BEEN two days since the uprising of the chaos in Evanora's land. But it was her land. Her soil. She would not allow her ground to be tainted with blood as long as she was alive.
She stood outside of the doors of her castle with her people huddled together in groups ahead of her on the hill. A frail woman was stood behind Evanora, her arms secured behind her back with thick ropes. Seraphina uncomfortably hovered on the side, her palms clasped together, unsure where her mother was going with this.
A sea of faces looked up at her, their eyes twinkling in expectancy. Evanora spun around and made her way towards the woman, the sound of Autumn leaves crunching beneath her boots. The frightened woman hunched her shoulders forward, tilting her head away from the crowd. Evanora lifted her hand and brushed the woman's knotted hair behind her ear and suddenly the crowd gasped. The sound of a blade slicing through her loose locks cut through the air. Yet, it was not her hair. But instead, the rope.
Murmurs erupted through the crowd, the people at the front frantically spun around and whispered what they had just witnessed. Evanora raised the rope in the air for those who could not see and the crowd was silenced. Seraphina bolted towards the woman and wrapped her in a shawl, holding her close.
"Now, I am not going to demand for a confession of who did this to her. But, what I will demand is for you to look at her." The woman's knees trembled and her bottom lip quivered as hundreds of eyes were glued on her. "Can you not see that we are no different?" Her voice echoed through the air as her glassy eyes scanned every visible face. "Then, why are we killing our own?"
"We are cleansing our land!"
"Our own?"
"Witches," a voice spat, "are not our own."
"Burn her!"
"Enough," someone in the crowd raised their hand, "enough." A man emerged from the ocean of bodies and planted his feet at the head of the crowd. His dark hair, as dark as the midnight sky, was untamed, and a fire sparked in his green eyes. "I think that you have all forgotten that this is your Queen and she can put a stop to all of this just as quickly as it started. Go to your homes, everybody. There will be no murders in our country."
Men and women, girls and boys all shuffled away from the crowd. Some looked back with gratitude and some scowled. Seraphina guided the woman into her home to provide her with food and water.
"Jonathan," Evanora managed to choke out, "you're here."
Jonathan Blackwood glided towards her, pulling his sister into a tight hug. She buried her face into his chest, and, finally—for the first time in a long while—she cried. Her muffled sobs drummed into his chest, quickening the beat of his heart. He lifted his hand and ran it through her hair, inhaling a shaky breath, before pulling away.
