Chapter 9 Waltz in the Ashes

High noon. The central square of Pyre City had become a sweltering pressure cooker under the relentless sun.

Lillian Wylde stood in the high inquisitorial box, feeling like a gilded corpse on display. She wore the emerald velvet gown, its collar high and suffocating, its corset cinched so tight she could barely draw breath. It wasn't just a garment; it was a suit of ceremonial armor.

And beneath that armor, her spine was slick with cold sweat.

"Don't tremble."

Linus Kerr stood half a step beside her. He was in full High Inquisitor regalia, his black cloak sweeping the floor, the silver sigils on his chest flashing with a lethal brilliance in the sun.

His voice was a mere ghost of a sound, intended for her ears alone. Simultaneously, a large, gloved hand snaked around her waist from behind. To any observer, it was a possessive, protective gesture.

Only Lillian knew that his grip was like an iron vice, pinching her waist with enough pressure to force her swaying body into a rigid, upright position. Pain was his way of keeping her grounded.

"Watch the square," Linus commanded. "No matter what you see, keep a smile on your face. Act as though you are watching a tedious opera."

Lillian turned her head with mechanical stiffness toward the center of the plaza.

Three black iron pillars had been erected there. Three "sinners," bound hand and foot, were kneeling atop mounds of oil-soaked faggots, their wailing muffled by gags. They were nothing more than petty salt merchants, yet they had been branded with the death-mark of "Heretical Complicit."

Directly opposite the execution stage sat the old man.

General Malles.

He looked like a benevolent grandfather, a string of prayer beads draped over his fingers. Yet, his clouded, piercing eyes were currently cutting through the crowd, locked firmly onto Lillian.

He was waiting. Waiting for her to scream, to vomit, to betray the primal, witch-born terror of the flame.

"Ignite," Malles said, a casual wave of his hand dismissing three lives.

BOOM.

Torches were tossed into the pyres.

Gold-red flames erupted instantly, the heat distorting the air into shimmering waves.

"ARGHHHHH-!"

Blood-curdling shrieks tore through the sky.

In that instant, Lillian's world went black. Time and space fractured. The square vanished, replaced by the recurring nightmare of her childhood. She could smell her mother's hair singeing; she could hear the rhythmic pop of flesh under high heat.

I'm going to die. I'm being burned alive.

The alarm of the Magic Overload shrieked in her mind. Her internal temperature spiked; her breathing turned into frantic gasps. Her knees buckled, and she began to collapse.

Just then-

The hand at her waist tightened with brutal force, nearly cracking her ribs.

"Fixate on me!"

Linus's voice was like an icy whip, lashing against her frayed nerves.

Lillian was wrenched around, her back to the pyres, her face forced toward Linus. In this position, his massive frame acted as a barrier, shielding her from the hellish vision behind him.

Her world narrowed down to a single focal point: the black fabric of his uniform, the silver buttons, and those deep-sea blue eyes, cold as a winter gale.

"Think of me," he whispered into her ear, his voice a cruel, seductive guide. "Think of how much you loathe me. Think of this gods-cursed collar. Think of how I locked you to my bed like an animal."

Hate. Yes, hate.

Lillian locked her gaze onto his. She remembered the humiliation in the rain, the biting frost of the Cold-Iron, the clinical, arrogant way he had looked at her in the bathroom.

This bastard. This tyrant.

Anger was a shot of pure adrenaline. It was hotter than the fire, more intense than the fear.

Lillian's pupils refocused. She stopped shaking because she was pouring every ounce of her strength into the singular thought of killing him. Her fingers clawed into Linus's arms, her nails nearly piercing the expensive wool of his coat to draw blood from the skin beneath.

To the crowd, it was a scandalous, romantic tableau-the handsome young Inquisitor and his beautiful consultant staring into each other's eyes amidst the flames, as if the agony and the fire were merely the backdrop to their tragic passion.

Even Malles narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing in irritation. He saw no collapse, only the woman's eyes burning with a near-fanatical "devotion" (which was, in reality, pure murderous intent).

"Well done."

Linus watched the color return to her cheeks, his lips curling into a satisfied, almost proud smirk.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned down and performed a gesture that shocked the entire square. He took the hand that was clawing at his arm, brought it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles through his glove.

"You look like a blade right now, Nightingale. Sharp and lethal."

Lillian shuddered. She couldn't tell if it was the heat of the pyre or the ghost of a touch from his lips.

Suddenly, a strange, rhythmic chanting erupted from the far side of the crowd. It wasn't the cheers of an execution; it was something more solemn, more primal.

Lillian turned her head instinctively.

At the edge of the square, a woman in flowing white robes, her feet bare against the scorched stone, was walking slowly through the masses. She held a staff inlaid with a massive, pulsing crystal. Wherever she walked, the frenzied citizens fell to their knees, some even kissing the mud she stepped over.

It was Agatha, the "Prophetess."

Agatha came to a halt. She ignored the pyres; she ignored Malles.

She tilted her head back, her gaze cutting through hundreds of yards of heat and humanity to lock onto Lillian. There was no mercy on her face-only a serpentine coldness.

Facing Lillian, she slowly raised her staff and made a single, minute gesture. She tapped her own neck, then made a slow "cutting" motion.

Lillian's pupils constricted.

"Who is she?" Lillian whispered.

Linus followed her gaze, his expression turning to stone. "That is the trouble we've been looking for," he said lowly, his arm tightening as he pulled Lillian fully into his shadow. "The 'Seer' who prophesied that you would be the one to burn this city to the ground."

"No." Lillian stared at Agatha's eyes-eyes filled with greed and calculation-and her witch's intuition screamed.

"She's no seer, Linus."

Lillian gripped his lapels, her fingertips white with the effort.

"I can feel it... the crystal on that staff... the frequency of its vibration... it's the exact same as the heart core inside the petrified corpse."

She looked up, her voice trembling but certain.

"The one who manufactured the 'Grey Death'... she is standing right there."

Linus narrowed his eyes, a lethal killing intent exploding in his blue gaze.

The execution was over. But in this moment, the real war had only just begun.