Arcturus' gaze was fixed on the priest, carrying a demonic intensity. Hatred, anger and frustration flowed from his body in perfect synchronization. The atmosphere around him was terrifying; the gentlemen trembled before his presence, but it was precisely this fear that fueled the respect they had for him. Arcturus needed to maintain control, although it was difficult. Today was the day of execution. He needed to act before you were burned alive.

"Your Highness was right to trust me. I will take the witch to the center at sunset." Arcturus' voice was so cold it seemed to freeze. Those who didn't know Arcturus would think he was being obedient and submissive, but you knew the man behind the mask. And when his gaze met yours, everything became even clearer.

Rising from his reverent stance, Arcturus walked with conviction towards you, still kneeling on the ground, hands bound. Her torn and dirty clothes, the bruises that marked her skin — were proof that no one there saw her as human. You were a witch, according to them, a threat for being too intelligent, for daring to propose ideas that could change the people, if the church allowed it. When they found out, they broke into you house, destroyed everything and dragged you to that hell.

Arcturus wasn't there to protect you. He, the man who called her his wife, was away on a trip. Upon receiving the news, he was overcome with fury, but he had to contain himself, think, plan. Now, his limits were being put to the test.

How had he gained so much trust so quickly? You knew you weren't the only one who understood "witchcraft."

Arcturus's touch on your wrist was gentle, a gesture filled with meanings that only the two of you understood. He lifted her off the ground and, with a firm push, indicated that you should walk. It was the first time he was able to get close to you since you arrived. But even with the relief of seeing you — alive, even if injured — he couldn't show anything. Not in front of the guards. Not under the priest's watchful eye.