Chapter 13 Scarlette #2
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 my shoulders, 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 in traps, then sat hard on the floor, dragging his knees up to his chin.
I stayed on my feet, refusing to cower, but the pain in my ankle was a black thread running up my leg.
If I let myself collapse, I doubted I’d get up again.
I scanned the walls, the windows above, the circle of torches set along the courtyard edge.
Faces everywhere. Old men, children, women with infants strapped to their chests.
Some stared as if hoping for a miracle, others with a sickly hunger that made my skin crawl.
Brother Tomas climbed a barrel and raised his hands for attention. The crowd hushed, as if a spell had been cast.
“These are the wages of sin,” he called out, voice cracking like a whip.
“Witchcraft! Consorting with beasts! Defying the law of God and man!” He pointed at me.
“She carries the devil’s tools. Herbs and powders, poisons for the weak-minded!
” He shifted, jabbing a finger at Moab. “And him—a beast, branded with the mark, a vessel for the dark!”
The crowd hissed and spat. A rock hit the cage and rattled down to my feet. Moab bared his teeth, but didn’t move.
Brother Tomas went on, voice rising with each word. “Let all see that evil wears a face, and evil can be caged! But only fire will cleanse it!”
Sir Aldric stepped forward then, his boots as loud as the silence that followed. “By order of the Lord of Ashburn and the Church, you are sentenced to burn. Three days hence, at the rising of the sun. Repent, and mercy may yet be yours.”
He didn’t bother to look at us after that, just turned and strode away, the guards clearing a path before him.
The crowd lingered. Some threw things, mud, pebbles, once a handful of spoiled meat.
Others just watched, eyes glittering with the thrill of it.
A few faces I recognized, kitchen maids from home, a stableboy I’d once rescued from a horse’s kick, even one of the girls who used to chase me around the millpond. None of them spoke my name.
As the light faded, the crowd thinned, but the cage grew colder. I slumped to the floor, drawing my knees to my chest to keep warm. My foot was throbbing, but I welcomed the hurt; it was proof I was still alive.
Moab shuffled closer, his movements slow and careful. He leaned against me, shoulder to shoulder, the heat of his body spreading through the cold iron.
“You alright?” he whispered, his breath just a ripple on my ear.
“I’ve had better nights,” I said, voice steadier than I felt.
He tried the bars again, this time using the heel of his boot to test a seam. Nothing. He hissed in frustration.
“You’ll break your foot,” I said.
He shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
We sat like that, listening to the torchwood spit and pop, the distant clang of hammers as the guards made ready for morning. Once, the bell rang again, a single mournful note that seemed to last forever.
“I’m sorry,” he said, after a long silence.
“Don’t be,” I answered. “I chose this.”
He nodded, as if that was what he’d hoped to hear.
Night deepened, the sky above the courtyard a slow swirl of cloud and distant stars.
At some point, I slept, or half-slept, the aches and cold pulling me under.
I dreamed of the oaks, of the circle, of running through the woods with the wolf at my side.
In the dream, the world behind us burned, but we didn’t look back.
I woke to the sound of boots on stone. Two guards stood by the cage, arms folded.
“Time for you to pray,” one sneered. “Or time to piss yourself. Either way, you’ll be ash tomorrow.”
He laughed and spat, but the gob missed and ran down the bars instead.
When they left, Moab moved close again, his lips almost brushing my ear.
“I’ll get us out,” he said. “I promise.”
I managed a smile, then closed my eyes and leaned into him, letting the warmth and the weight of his body press the world to the edge of the cage.
Outside, the torches burned down, their light crawling in long, crooked shadows across the courtyard.
We waited.
We were not afraid.