Aldric lifted his sword, the sun catching on the blade. “If you move, I’ll cut her throat before the beast can touch me,” he said.
Moab met my gaze. There was no fear left in either of us. I nodded, the tiniest motion, and he returned it.
Then the men hauled us to our feet, dragged us through the mud and the torchlit corridor, the ropes burning every step. The villagers spat and jeered, but we kept our heads high.
***
The march back to Ashburn was a lesson in how long a body could suffer before the soul went numb. The ropes bit deeper with every step, raw hemp digging grooves into my wrists. The ground alternated between frozen mud and jagged frost, each uneven patch a new invention of pain. My left ankle screamed with every stride, but I kept moving. If I fell, I knew they’d drag me. If I stopped, I’d lose sight of Moab.
They kept us apart, two lines of men, four to each prisoner, the rest fanning out ahead and behind to keep the path clear. I watched him from the corner of my eye, the way he moved, his head up, gait easy despite the bruises and the way his hands had gone blue from the cold. Even bound, he looked like he’d chosen this, as if he was walking himself to the gallows just to see what it felt like.
Brother Tomas led the parade, his black robe picking up every stray thorn and bramble, his face pinched in a look of exaggerated sorrow. Every so often, he’d stop, turn to us, and mutter a prayer under his breath, just loud enough that thewords hung in the air: deliver us from evil, smite the demon, purge the unclean.
The village began as a smell before it became a shape, wood smoke and pig shit and the sour stink of yesterday’s cook fires. Peasants watched from behind warped shutters. A child, maybe six, stood in the road with a dog under one arm, mouth wide as a barn door. When he saw Moab, he dropped the dog and ran.
Mothers clutched their sons tighter, the braver children pointing and calling out names—“Wolf-man!” “Witch-girl!”—while their elders glared and spat on the ground. The church bell started up, a slow, methodical clang that rolled through the streets like the warning of a coming plague.
Sir Aldric rode ahead, every inch the conquering hero. His cloak was new, deep burgundy lined in sable, the fur still glossy with its own grease. He never looked back, but he didn’t need to; the whole show was staged for him. Men would kneel as his horse passed, then rise and shout the news down the line, until it seemed that every soul from here to the river was waiting to see what the devil would do.
The guards pressed us harder, their hands not gentle when they shoved my shoulder or caught Moab in the small of the back. The pain was constant now, something I wore like a second skin. But it wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst was the silence between Moab and me. I wanted to say something, anything, but the eyes of the crowd were a noose around my neck. He managed to catch my gaze once, his eyes more gold than brown in the half-light. I tried to tell him I wasn’t afraid, that we’d survived worse, but the words wouldn’t come. I settled for a slow, deliberate blink. He gave me the smallest nod, as if he’d been waiting for the cue.
At the edge of the town, Brother Tomas halted the procession and gestured to the guards. “Strip them of their demon’s garb,” he ordered. I felt hands at my back, yanking the coat off myshoulders, the furs peeled away, leaving only the threadbare shift beneath. Moab’s jacket was torn free, revealing the dense net of ink on his arms, the wolf’s head snarling at the crowd like a curse.
The people gasped, then murmured, then shouted. “It’s true,” someone screamed, “he wears the mark!” They threw handfuls of dirt and, once, a clod of frozen dung. Moab caught it in the side of his face. He didn’t flinch.
The parade resumed, and now every step was watched, judged, and catalogued. The bell was still tolling, and it took me a moment to realize it was a summons. Every man, woman, and child with the use of their legs had filed into the main square, forming a sea of faces, some familiar, most not. At the center, a scaffold—hastily built, the beams still showing the raw marks of the saw. Above it, the flag of Ashburn, blue and gold.
We reached the platform. The guards forced us up the steps, the wood flexing under the weight. My knees nearly buckled, but the arm behind me shoved me forward, making me stumble to the top. There was a stake at the far end, already ringed in kindling and tar. The symbolism wasn’t subtle.
Sir Aldric dismounted, his boots striking the planks with the same cold precision as his words. “For the crimes of witchcraft and sedition, you will be judged. The sentence is death, but mercy may be granted if the spirit repents.”
I heard a gasp, then a sob—high, thin, muffled. I scanned the crowd and saw Lady Elise, my mother, standing at the edge of the assembly, hands clasped so tight I thought the bones might snap. Her face was a mask. No tears, no fear, just the blank stare of someone who had lost the ability to mourn.
Brother Tomas mounted the platform, lifting his arms for silence. He intoned the charges, voice rising and falling in a practiced litany, consorting with devils, practicing the black arts,inciting rebellion against the natural order. When he finished, he gestured to Moab.
“Let all see the beast’s mark,” he declared. “Let all see what hell brings forth.”
They shoved Moab to his knees, then forced his head down so the tattoo stared at the crowd like an accusation.
“Repent,” Tomas hissed. “Confess your crimes. Beg for your immortal soul.”
Moab looked up, the blood running from his temple, and for a moment I thought he might spit in the priest’s face. Instead, he spoke softly, so only I could hear. “I’m not the one who needs saving,” he said.
The crowd gasped again. The guards tightened their grip. But the way he looked at me, steady, unbroken, was all I needed.
“In three days’ time, the fire will be set. Let all bear witness,” Aldric said.
The bell tolled once more, the echo rolling over the hills and back again, a promise of what was to come.
I saw my mother turn away, her hands shaking.
The cold bit deeper, but I did not shiver. I stood with Moab, our backs straight, and waited for the end.
They walked us to a cage that appeared to be too small for two grown bodies, and they’d built it in a rush—nothing elegant, just welded rods and bolts still flecked with slag. The hinges squealed as they shoved us in, the door slamming home so loud the crowd outside flinched. The noise echoed across the stone walls of the courtyard, then died, replaced by the wet, ugly murmuring of a hundred mouths.
Inside, the stink was thick with piss, rust, and a deeper rot where old blood had dried and then been soaked again by rain. Moab was the first to move, testing the bars with his shoulder, then both hands. The metal gave a little, but not enough. He made a sound in his throat, the kind of noise animals make intraps, then sat hard on the floor, dragging his knees up to his chin.
