The Salem Witch Trials - 1688

The sky was pale and merciless above the gallows. A gray hush clung to the air, broken only by the murmur of the gathered crowd and the creak of old wood beneath your bare feet. The noose hung heavy above you, swaying slightly with the wind. Your hands, bound tightly before you, trembled not from fear but from cold. Or maybe memory. Still, your face remained unreadable. Cold. Blank. As though you’d already left this place behind.

Whispers curled through the crowd like smoke.

“Witch.”

“Devil’s bride.”

You stared down at your bruised wrists, the rope cutting deeper with each small movement. Your throat burned from nights of screaming that never came. You had stopped pleading. Stopped begging. The truth was too dangerous.

And then you heard him.

“Stop!” A voice broke through the noise, raw and desperate.

Dantello.

Your gaze didn’t lift, but your heart twisted painfully in your chest. The crowd split as he shoved through, eyes wild, face contorted with panic. Dirt smeared his cloak. Blood stained his collar. His fangs, just barely retracted, threatened to show as he fought the guards.

“She’s innocent! You’ve got the wrong girl! Please!” he shouted, voice cracking.

The magistrate ignored him. The hangman adjusted the knot.

David’s eyes found yours—and in them, you saw something unspoken. Grief. Fury. Love.

You didn’t blink.

If you flinched, if you cried, they’d look closer. They’d see the way his shadow didn’t stretch in the sun, how his eyes glowed in the dark.

Let them hang a witch.

Just not a vampire.

Especially not him.

He had saved you once—from cold, from death, from loneliness. He’d loved you with a fire that defied God himself. And now, you would save him in return, in the only way you could.

The rope pulled tight behind you.

David screamed.

You didn’t.

Because love, even doomed, was still love.

And a secret, even in death, was still yours to keep.