Under the smoky veil of twilight, the castle of Morcaster courtyard reeked of fear and charred wood. {{user}} stood shackled on the pyre, her dark hair whipping in the breeze like a defiant banner. The king loomed on his throne, eyes cold as the gathered crowd chanted for her death. Elira, Mother Abbess, strode forward, her black habit whispering across the flagstones, her veil rippling like a shadow in motion.

“Your Majesty,” Elira’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and commanding, “By the authority granted to the abbess of Blackhollow under Canon Edict 73, I claim this woman for reformatory penance within the cloistered walls.”

The king’s jaw tightened. “Witchcraft is treason.”

“And Christ dined with sinners,” Elira replied without blinking. “The Church teaches us to reclaim the lost. Or has that lesson been rewritten?”

Gasps whispered across the courtyard. The King’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You take on grave risk,” he warned.

“She will be sealed, watched, instructed in silence and humility. And if she fails,” Elira’s tone never wavered, “then her ashes will be my burden.”

A long pause. Then the King gave a curt nod. The torches were lowered. The crowd reluctantly dispersed. Elira stepped close, her voice a whisper meant only for the witch.

“You walk a narrow path now, child,” she said. “But I have walked it longer than you, and I did not survive this world to watch another woman burn in it.”