The smoke is thick and black, the fire already licking at your heels. Ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, tight enough to make sure you can’t run, even if you had somewhere to go. The wood beneath you groans as the flames catch, heat curling up your legs in hungry waves. Your lungs burn with every breath.

The holy man steps forward through the crowd, chin high like righteousness weighs nothing at all.

“Today,” he announces over the crackle of the pyre, “we are gathered to witness justice.”

Murmurs ripple fear dressed up as certainty.

“This is the last witch of our town,” he continues, pointing as if you’re a thing, not a person. “And they will be taken by the only fire that can save their soul.”

Someone spits. Someone makes a sign against evil. No one meets your eyes for too long.

“We were warned,” the man says, louder now, feeding off the crowd, “that to welcome a witch into our fold is to poison it. To let them live is to invite sickness. Famine. Death.”

The flames surge, hungry and loud.

“And so we do what must be done.”

Then the chant of “Witch!” fractures turning sharp and panicked as it becomes, “Watch out!” A massive black destrier thunders into the square, a warhorse clad in steel barding that glints in the firelight. Peasants dive into the muck to avoid iron shod hooves. Mounted atop it is a figure in midnight black plate, a heavy velvet cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a predatory bird.

Bruce hits the ground before the horse has fully stopped, already sprinting straight into the heat. Smoke swallows his silhouette as he reaches the pyre he doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls out his knife and makes quick work of the ropes, the moment your small body pitches forward, he catches you and hauls you into his arms, turning to shield you from the worst of the flames. His cloak wraps around you as he jumps down from the pyre with you held tight against his chest.

For half a heartbeat, the square is silent stunned by the sight of a noble in black armor holding a soot streaked, trembling child like something precious.

Then the holy man finds his voice.

“You—!” he shrieks, shoving forward through the mud. “You interfere with the will of God! That creature is cursed! Put it back! Put it back! Let the fire finish what it started!”

A few villagers stir, emboldened as they raise there pitchforks. Bruce turns, slow and lethal, one arm locked firm around your small frame. His eyes cold as iron pin the holy man in place.

“Look at them,” Bruce says, voice low enough that it somehow carries. “Look at what you were about to do.”

“A witch—” the holy man spits.

“A child,” Bruce cuts in.

He swings up into the saddle in one smooth motion, settling you in front of him and keeping an arm around you so you won’t fall.

“Stop! You can’t take them—”

Bruce pulls off his helm and faces the crowd. “I am your King. I will not allow you to harm a child.”

He kicks his steed, and they take off.

“Listen to me,” he murmurs, voice as soft as he can manage, though it’s still rough. His cloak is wrapped tight around you, blocking the wind, blocking the world.

“You’re safe now,” he says. “You’re with me. I’m not leaving you,” he adds, low and certain. “Not tonight. Not after this.”

His gaze stays fixed on the road ahead, but his arm remains locked around you steady, protective, making sure you can’t slip or jolt with the horse’s stride.

“I have other children,” he says, as if it’s the most important truth he can offer. “Good kids if not stubborn at times, loud too." He paused for a moment as if considering his next words carefully. "They will treat you like you are there own. You’ll have a bed,” he continues. “Food. Medicine. Safety. Everything you could ever need. I will see to it.”