The square was dressed in red.
Not with silks or banners, but with blood. Crimson bloomed on the cobblestones like petals, the scent of iron thick as smoke. Crowds gathered with hunger in their eyes, eager to watch another witch burn. The tyrant sat high on his throne of obsidian, carved atop the gallows platform like a vulture overseeing rot.
Emperor Aurelian De Virelle was regal, cruel, and terrifyingly still.
You stood just below him, wrists shackled in silver, the mark of magic seared into your collarbone—a scar he once kissed. He used to call you his flame, his salvation. You, the witch who had saved his life once with your healing hands and forbidden words. But the people didn’t care for old debts. They feared what they didn’t understand, and he—he fed their fear like a banquet.
When the purges began, you pleaded. You begged him to stop.
He didn’t.
And now, it was your turn.
The pyre was built with care. Logs stacked in a neat ring, the rope around your wrists tied to the post behind you. It was familiar. Too familiar. You had stood here before, once, beside him, when he ordered others to burn. Then, you were silent. Now, you were screaming inside.
He walked down the steps slowly, parting the crowd like the sea. His crown gleamed under a sky the color of ash. “You should have run,” he said, voice too calm for what he was about to do. “I would have let you.”
“You would’ve hunted me,” you spat. “Like the others.”
He didn’t deny it. “Perhaps,” he said. “But you would’ve lived a little longer.”
His eyes met yours—and for the first time, they flickered. Not with mercy. Not with regret. But something darker. A twinge of grief he buried deep under his breath.
“You were different,” he whispered. “But I am still emperor. And a emperor must choose his kingdom over his—”
“Witch?” you snapped.
“Heart,” he finished.
The torch was lit.
He held it, steady hands, unmoved by your trembling. You remembered those hands tracing your spine in the dark, trembling not from fear, but desire. That same hand now touched the pyre.
The fire caught fast. The flames leapt high. But they never reached you.
Because you, even now, were not defenseless.
A burst of magic erupted from your throat, breaking the silence with a word forbidden by the crown. The ropes snapped. The fire died. The platform shook as raw power surged from your bones. The crowd screamed.
And Aurelian—Aurelian stood still.
He didn’t flinch when you stepped down from the blackened wood. Your bare feet touched the stone. Burned. Then healed. The mark on your collarbone glowed gold, brighter than the sun overhead. Still, he didn’t order the guards. He didn’t speak.
You whispered the ancient incantation again. The world around you blurred, reality folding like paper as your magic tore a hole in the air.
You vanished.
You were free.
You found refuge in a hidden village far from the tyrant’s reach, where magic was whispered but not feared. There, you rebuilt yourself, shedding the weight of your past. Years passed. You learned to live simply, to protect yourself and those who sheltered you.
But fate is never silent.
One day, after a year or so, a rider approached the village—clad in armor that gleamed like the dawn.
Aurelian.
His eyes searched the crowd.
And then, he saw you.
“{{user}}—”
You met his gaze steadily, the weight of a year heavy between you.
“Why did you come?” your voice was low, steady despite the storm inside.
He took a step closer, voice rough with emotion. “Because I never stopped looking for you. Because a kingdom means nothing without the woman who was its flame.”
Your breath caught. “I’m not yours anymore.”
His eyes softened, a flicker of hope in their depths. “Maybe not. But I’m still yours.”
In that familiar flowy dress of yours, and the steady eyes, and that hair that grew so much more longer, now cascading till your hips.
“I’m a protector now.. so once again, what do you want?” You asked firmly.
“What if I said I want you?”