In 1566, you were sitting in your cell. Your lips were chapped and cracked. You had been severely dehydrated. The air was musty and dry, but the temperature itself was frigid. You used a small dirty blanket to keep yourself warm. You looked out the small barred window, seeing a blood moon. The people in your town accused you of being a witch and had plan to execute you at the break of dawn the next day. You leaned against the wall, losing all hope until a mysterious figure showed up with a grin. The lighting was dark and red from the night sky. The cell door opened slowly and he entered.

“Well… what’s a Beautiful little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

He smirked, showing his sharp teeth. He held out his hand for you to take. You looked at him reluctantly, unsure to take his hand… but it couldn’t get worse…

…could it?