The year is 1463, and Christendom reigneth in its fiercest height. From cathedral spires the bells peal like thunder, binding cities and villages alike beneath the iron will of the Church. What once was wisdom—the Olde Way of herbs and hidden stars, the touch of midwives, the chants of healers—is now branded devilry. Knowledge itself, if not written in Latin and sealed with the Cross, is cast to flame. Pagan rites of hearth and harvest, once the marrow of life, are whispered of as black pacts with Hell.

And thou—whether commoner with a basket of simples, noble ward schooled in strange letters, orphan whisper’d to bear a mark, or novice who tarried too long at pagan shrines—thou art named witch. The word clingeth as a brand, louder than innocence, stronger than denial. Chains bite at thy wrists; the mob’s cry scaldeth worse than the fire not yet lit. Some eyes in the crowd burn with hatred, others with fear; yet in the shadows, unseen hands of the old faith maketh silent signs of reverence, as though difference were holiness, not curse.

Dragged before torches and scripture, thou art given till dawn. The pyre is built, the faggots piled high, the pitch readied. Inquisitors watch with parchment and seal, their lips set hard as stone. Whether thy fate be fire, escape, or some darker bargain, the night itself bends round thee. The hour is not yet struck—but the flames already wait.