The world had forgotten the days of magic—or at least, it tried to.
The sky hung heavy with thick, gray clouds, churning in defiance—a reflection of the storm brewing below. A biting wind sliced through the open square, rattling the banners that hung limply from the stone walls of the execution chamber. The weight of history pressed down on every soul gathered here. In the distance, the toll of a bell echoed—a sorrowful reminder of the inevitable end, the final toll for a world that had learned to fear the unknown.
The crowd stood in silence, the sharp air biting their skin, their breath rising in visible clouds. Their eyes were fixed on the platform at the center of the square, where justice—however cruel—was about to unfold.
At the base of the pyre stood a boy, no older than eighteen. His hands were bound tightly behind him, and his head hung low, the weight of defeat bearing down on him. His body was unnervingly still, as if resigned to the fate that awaited him. A symbol of what had once been—and now, of what could never be again.
A woman in the crowd spat, her face twisted with disdain. Her voice cut through the cold air like a blade. "Hex-breather!" she shouted, venom dripping from her words. "IPID filth!"
The crowd murmured, some nodding, others avoiding the boy's gaze. The words stung, but they were nothing compared to what was about to come. To be accused of magic was to be marked for death—a brutal reminder of a time when magic had consumed the world, leaving chaos in its wake. The rulers had seen it, felt the destruction magic wrought, and so they made their laws clear: magic was an abomination. Any trace of it, no matter how small, was a crime punishable by death.
In this world, magic was not just forbidden—it was a death sentence.
Lyra's heart caught in her chest as her gaze fixed on the figure at the pyre. She knew him.
Aldrick Thorn.
The name echoed in her mind like a forgotten memory, but the instant their eyes met, everything came rushing back—laughter shared in sun-dappled fields, climbing over Mr. Taylor's fence to steal a glimpse of the nocturn owls as they soared under the moonlight. They'd been inseparable once. But as the years flew, they had grown apart, pulled by different paths, torn by a world that had changed, that had demanded more from them both.
How did it come to this?
Her mind scrambled for answers as grief, disbelief, and confusion churned in her chest. She had always seen Aldrick as a quiet soul, more inclined to observe than to act. He had never seemed the type to defy the laws of the land. Yet here he was, standing on the execution platform, condemned for something as intangible as magic.
The cold wind shifted, and the crowd stirred as the executioner approached, his long, black cloak trailing behind him like a shadow.
Aldrick lifted his head. His eyes locked with hers—deep, brown eyes filled with an unbearable defiance. There was no fear in them, no pleading. Only the haunting echo of someone who had already accepted the inevitable. The storm inside Lyra's chest roared, but she stood frozen, unable to move, unable to speak.
The executioner stood stoically, his face obscured by the shadow of his hood. His movements were methodical, practiced. With a steady hand, he drew the sharp, gleaming blade from its resting place, its edge catching the faint light. His gaze remained cold and focused on the task at hand. Without hesitation, he brought the blade down in one swift, practiced motion.
Lyra's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened as her heart seemed to stop, the air heavy in her chest. She fought against the swell of grief rising inside her, pressing her lips together in a desperate attempt to hold back the sobs. But the tears came anyway, blurring her vision as they streaked down her face.
The weight of the moment crushed her, leaving her breathless. Her body trembled, stiffening as every muscle fought to contain the tidal wave of emotion threatening to break.
Bile rose in her throat. Her stomach twisted painfully, the acrid taste filling her mouth as the world around her blurred. She gagged, her body convulsing as she fought to steady herself, but the next wave came without mercy, her chest tightening with each uncontrollable spasm.
Her legs gave way beneath her, and with a sharp gasp, Lyra collapsed to her knees, her hands splayed on the cold stone as the sobs tore through her. She barely registered the pain as her body curled in on itself, the agony in her chest matching the suffocating weight of the moment. There was no escaping it. No avoiding it. The execution was done. Aldrick was gone.
And she was left to carry the unbearable silence.
As the crowd fades, I remain frozen.
The echoes of their footsteps drift into the distance, and the weight of silence settles like a shroud over me. The cold wind bites through my skin, but it does nothing to numb the searing pain that tightens around my chest or dry my tears.
I should have done something. I should have stopped it.
Heat radiated through my body, my face flushed with rising fury. At the injustice, at my helplessness. I try to steady myself.
Focus. Calm down. But the weight of everything—Aldrick, the execution, the chaos—feels suffocating.
Thoughts whirl, chaotic and sharp. The air around me shifts, growing heavier, almost as if it's pressing down. I can't breathe. My pulse quickens, my heart pounding louder in my ears. And then, suddenly, a crack. A sharp, splintering sound. I look down, horrified, as the cobblestones beneath my feet begin to crack, fissures forming, spiderwebbing out in every direction.
I stumble back, eyes wide, my hands shaking as I try to pull them away. But it's as though the ground itself is responding to me, shifting in time with the frantic rhythm of my heart.
What's happening?
The earth beneath me trembles.
Then I hear it. A voice—cutting through the chaos.
"Hey, you need to calm down."
I snap my head up. A stranger is there, his gaze sharp and focused on me, but there's no recognition in his eyes. His voice is calm but laced with urgency. His tone—someone trying to keep control of a situation spiraling out of hand.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, the world seems to blur at the edges. I feel the ground beneath my feet shake again, the air thickening.
"Telling an angry woman to calm down never works, you dolt." The second figure, rougher and more impatient, cuts through the panic.
I don't know if he's speaking to me or to the other man, but I barely register the words.
The first man's gaze shifts between me and the trembling earth beneath my feet. He steps closer, his voice low but firm. "She's losing control. We need to get her out of here."
I can barely make sense of their words. My breath is shallow, my hands trembling, but somehow, I manage to force out a question.
"What's happening to me?"
The second figure grumbles, running a hand through his hair. "That's what we're trying to figure out, sweetheart."