It's not fair.

All Riddle had ever done from the moment he was born was follow the rules. He did not struggle out of his mother's iron grip on his life, allowing her to mould him as she pleased.

Though in this age, women were seen as below, his mother had carved her way into an irreplaceable position among the best healers in the country. Kings and nobles swarmed to her for cures to curses and illnesses, and with her boundless wisdom, she cured them. Few knew it was witchcraft, a technique passed down generations.

Riddle was next in line, being the only son, perfection was expected and nothing less. So how dare he, the noble Roseheart's son, commit such a sin— sully the family name! Witchcraft? Blasphemous. Burn him at the stake!

Riddle had always been careful, as per his mother's instructions. How the townsfolk had seen through his carefully constructed guise, he'd never know. Even as he looked into the eyes of the men tying him to the wooden stake in the plaza, all he could see was abhorrence. He is a monster in their eyes, and that is all he will ever be.

It's not fair. The boy stilled as fire erupted from the kindling below. All I ever did was follow the rules— so why?

Even if Riddle cast a spell, what was the point? He would merely prove the people right, and with no home to return to, have no reason to continue on living. His own mother, the one who had doomed him to his condemned existence, did not stand in attendance among the crowds of veiled faces. He no longer had a home or a purpose. All he could do was weep as his end neared