Runaway Magic

five

I opened my eyes and, for a blissful moment, I forgot what I was waking up to. Then, Kenna barged in, her hands planted on her early-morning hips.

"Get up," she ordered, predicting my sleepy grumpiness, "Now!"

For once, I didn't just groan and roll back under the covers. I shot into motion, hurriedly running my fingers through my tangled white hair. Even a single strand out of place could be enough evidence for Mr. Kasumova to denounce me as a witch. It was stupid and misogynistic, but I couldn't risk looking anything less than perfect. This morning had to go smoothly, or it would surely be our last.

After we had both gotten dressed - with Kenna picking my outfit, of course - we raced into the kitchen. Mama was already there, pacing around in her sugar-dusted apron. A warm, cinnamony smell wafted through the air. When she got stressed, she baked. When I was stressed, I ate, so we made a good team. But my stomach was too knotted to even think of food.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of us standing around and waiting for our lives to come down crashing down, someone knocked on the door. All of the oxygen disappeared from the room as Mama wrenched it open.

"Mr. Kasumova," she said curtly. "Caellan."

Mr. Kasumova sighed. "Miri," he said, a pleading note entering his voice. "We're here for Sera, not you. Step aside, or we'll have to force you to." At his threat, two more men from the village melted out of the shadows. If I could see Caellan over their tall, muscular bodies, I would've stabbed him with my gaze.

Mama sucked in a sharp breath. She leveled her fury at the two men, but only Mr. Kasumova seemed affected. His expression wavered, clearly battling between the soft spot he had for Mama and the crime he thought I had committed. The men stepped forward before he had to decide, brushing Mama aside as if she was nothing more than a feather in their way. They grabbed me, roughly forcing my arms behind my back.

"Sera!" Kenna cried, her mouth rounded with shock.

I refused to look at her as her sobs filled the air, loud and ugly. Mama screamed and begged too, but it was too late them. The men had already dragged me out of the house, my body slack in their grip. As I passed Caellan, I made sure to spit at him. He flinched, his eyes following me with an emotion I couldn't decipher as the guards wrenched me away.

What hurt me the worst was seeing the faces of my neighbors as they watched our procession. Their expressions ranged from shock to fear and revulsion. Mothers pressed their children, the very ones I played with at the library while their parents were busy, against their legs, sneering at me. My friends from school stared at me in disbelief. The librarian watched me closely, her lips compressed into a thin line. But no one did anything. No one offered to vouch for my innocence or came forward to protest my imprisonment. Grimly, I realized I was completely and utterly alone.

Somehow, I managed to keep my head held high. Even though my hands were manacled behind me, I kept my face stony and impassive. Looking angry would only confirm my guilt. If I stayed calm, maybe they would let me defend my case. Then I saw the pyre constructed in the village center. If the guards weren't still dragging me along, I would've stopped dead in my tracks. In an instant, I was a kid again, gagging at the scent of a girl's burning flesh. Soon, that would be me. The village wasn't going to give me a trial, and they definitely weren't going to let me speak my mind. Anything I did or said was futile.

Numbly, I let the guards lead me to the pyre. The closer we got the stronger the memories rushed back: singed hair, tortured screams, sickly smoke. My breaths came in short spurts as they shoved me against the pyre, jagged wood digging into my spine. They trussed me up with rope and twine, binding my limbs so tight against the wood I felt like a butterfly pinned to a board. Except those butterflies were already dead when they were impaled. I wasn't. I was going to be burned alive.

A muffled sob caught in my throat. I tried to move but only hissed with pain as rope pressed against me, etching red lines into my skin.

"Sera!" a voice cried. The crowd turned at the sound, silently stepping aside as my younger sister raced to the front. "Sera," Kenna panted, her face shiny with sweat and tears.

The crowd murmured around her, their eyes narrowing at her outburst. If she didn't stop, I wouldn't be the only witch burning today.

More men from the village made their way toward her, weaving through the crowd. She struggled when they grabbed her, a panicked sheen in her eyes, but they only brought her closer. While a few men restrained her, another one handed her a match. With a jolt, I remembered why. They were going to make her set me ablaze. My own sister, the other half of my heart. Except a steely resolve had stolen across Kenna's face, and a faint smirk even twisted the corners of her lips upward. No one else was paying attention to her as she locked eyes with me.

Don't worry, she mouthed, gripping the match tight. As the rest of our village looked on, Kenna dropped the match at my feet.

And I burned.