Chapter Text
Under the night of the new moon, the town square of the capital was lit up in celebration.
Lanterns made of colored crystals from Anchordeep were strewn up for the occasion, splashing a rainbow of yellow, oranges, and pinks across the ground below that danced along with the fire encased inside. Between those lanterns, red flowers had been strewn up, their brilliant red color shining and sparkling, even in the darkness of the night.
Through the smell of ash and burning flesh that filled Salem’s lungs, the mouth watering aromas of Anura’s finest cuisines that they never knew that they longed for somehow manege to reach them. With a breath that made Salem’s lungs threaten to collapse, they slowly lift their head. Through lidded eyes and vision blurry with dried tears, they watch as a young lad picks up a lady, spinning her in the air to the tune of an orchestra hired to play for the event. The ladies sparkly dress fans out, nearly catching on one of the smoldering embers. Oh, and how satisfying it would have been to see if it had caught on fire, to see that spider silk burn away into smoke.
With another wheezing breath that makes Salem’s eyes tear up, they tear their gaze away from the two. But there is little else to look at in the cacophony of citizens dancing and drinking. There is little they wish to look at, little that will cheer them up, not when everyone one is doing the exact same thing. Celebrating the executions of the last true witches, the last lambs, in the lands.
To Salem’s misfortune, they were not included amongst those drinking Anura’s finest wine, dressed in Silk cradle’s greatest silk, or dancing with handsome gentleman. Instead, upon them it had been bestowed the dishonor of being the object of the peoples celebration. Salem now had the honor of being the last Lamb, or, allegedly, the last true witch.
The memory of the night of their capture is as fresh as the smoke in their lungs.
It had been another sleepless dark night spent in the quiet of their home. As if still there, they remember how they had been curled up in their bed. Pressed against the wall, with a blanket wrapped over their head as they stared off into the shadows that seemed to stare back with a drooling maw, their only protection from the sharp teeth being a candle that was slowly dying on their bed-side.
They had felt childish. A grown adult yet they had been cowering away from the dark, wishing for the arms of their father.
They had been grateful yet startled when a frantic pounding at their door cut through the silence, scaring away the angry shadows, “Sa- er, Samuel? you must come out!” The familiar voice of one of the village elders accompanied the knocking, screaming out the wrong name and begging for them to come out.
The urgency in his voice pushed them up, and perhaps had sparked their curiosity as well. Visitors was not something they were used to. On occasion they would get a lost traveler, but someone who they used to know. Well, that came as a surprise.
They had bothered not with taking the candle, knowing the way to the door even in the dark of their home. The blanket though, that came with them, acting as a shield against the cold night air as they opened the door.
When Salem opened the door, they already did not have high hopes for the encounter. But their eyes being met with the small, wrinkled old man covered in cuts and blood, and their nostrils assaulted with the smell of smoke, was possibly below the bar.
“Samuel!” The elder cried, hands flying up to grasp Salem by their wrists. Tears streaked down his face, his eyes wide in shock, “The old faith has found us, you must flee,”
Salem’s name was not Samuel. Somehow, through all of the smoke and the blood and the pathetic sniveling, that was one of the very first things their mind had grasped onto in that moment. A part of them had wanted to voice that out loud, to question why someone they had known all of their life, why someone who had been at their birth, did not know their name.
And even now, they still did. But as the elder let out a strangled cry and blood mixed with spit splattered onto Salem, they knew they would never be able to.
Slowly, the elders hands slipped from their wrists, his body going limp against the grass below as blood spilled from the wound. Behind him, and now in front of Salem, stood a guard clad in steel, blood stained the armor, seeping through the cracks.
“S- sa-” The elder gurgled out, body spasming around the blade as his words died in his throat. Salem’s gaze stayed locked on the guards helmet, on the green eyes that stared back at them from the eye hole.
The guard yanked the sword out of the elders back, carelessly placing a foot on his back to do it. A blood-curdling scream wrenched its way out of the elders throat at the action, and Salem’s grip on their blanket fell away. They stumbled back, hoof getting stuck on their blanket as they fell to the ground. Halfway into their home and halfway still under the light of the moon.
From the moment that Salem had hit the ground, they realized that there was no point in trying to escape. Not when they looked up to meet the guards eyes and saw past him and to the smoke in the sky, when they finally realized why there had been that ashy sting in the air. As the sound of horses beating against the ground began growing closer, the guard gave a pitying laugh, stepping over the corpse and reaching for Salem with a bloody and burned hand.
That wound must hurt. Salem thought as they were grabbed by one of their horns and forced to their feet. All sympathy for the guard left at the action as they were dragged forward, over the body of the elder and towards the oncoming horses. They hissed in pain, though their horns were small, their was just barely enough leverage for the guard to pull.
“Wait!” Their voice had been raspy, not being used very often in their solitude.
“Quiet, witch,” The guard snarled out at them, throwing them to the dirt.
They hit the ground with a cry. Rolling onto their back and rubbing between their horn and their aching head.
“I- I’m not-”
“I said quiet!” The guard screamed, launching his foot into their side.
Salem gasped in a breath at the assault, the wind leaving their lungs as they rolled onto their side, instinctively trying to protect themself, though the damage had already been done.
They had barely noticed the hoof-beats stopping until voices filled their ears.
“This doesn’t look like the elder,” A new voice spoke from high above their head. The voice was light and feathery, tickling their ears. The voice sent a shiver up their spine, despite the gentle tone, something felt dangerous about the way the voice spoke those words.
“My apologies, reverend deacon Focalor,” The guard says, seeming to sense the danger in the new presence voice as well as his tone turned more respectful, “I believed the elder to be a threat, so I disposed of it,”
The voice, belonging to Focalor apparently, responded, “Those were not the orders given, we need six witches alive,”
The guard cleared his throat, Salem could see his feet shuffling from their spot on the ground.
“I have reason to believe that this witch may be of value,” Salem would’ve laughed at the words if they were in a different situation, “It was hidden away in the woods, amongst the trees where any would have trouble finding them, and that elder seemed desperate to warn it of us,”
Focalor’s response was a drawn out hum. Her metal boots met the ground with a loud clang, ringing through-out Salem’s brain. Slowly, all most as if just to put Salem on edge, Focalor circled them. Sticks crunched under her feet until she came into view, standing still for a moment. Salem dared not to look up at her, almost scared for what they might see. After a few beats of silence, Focalor seemed to get impatient. A rough hand was shoved under their chin, gripping their face and pulling them upwards to meet the gaze of many eyes.
Salem had felt their breath leave their body as they were met with what seemed to be hundreds of little black eyes. All of the eyes were trained on them, nestled in between dark blue fur. What looked to be four horns protruded from its head, web spun between them creating a pretty pattern. Fangs split her face apart, dripping with the blood of something that Salem didn’t want to think about.
As if she weren’t a horrifying beast herself, Focalor’s face twisted into a sneer, “Bind it’s hands and take it with us, it’ll do,” Like a wooden puppet with its strings cut, Salem had been dropped to the ground.
“Yes, reverend deacon Focalor,” A few voices mumbled together, people that they had barely noticed approaching.
They should’ve tried to fight, at the very least to make it seem as if the elders death hadn’t been for nothing. But as their wrists were grabbed by rough hands and a sword was forced to their throat, they found the mere thought of the endeavor pointless.
Just as had been commanded, shackles were forced onto Salem’s wrists. Tightly pulled together with a chain that was made for little flexibility. Their ankles went next, making it so on their own they could only walk at a snail’s pace. They were forced to their feet then, a guard on either side of them, holding an elbow each.
Their head had hung low, eyes fixed to the floor. And after a few moments of their having been no communication or orders to move, Salem lifted their head. Focalor stood in front of them, all of their eyes blinking at once as if waiting for something to happen. Salem squirmed under her gaze, possibly more uncomfortable being watched by her than being in the guards careless grasp.
“You may have been right, this Lamb might be special” Focalor finally spoke up, waving a hand dismissively in the air, “Keep a close eyes on it, let’s hurry, we’re missing Vephar’s show,”
The walk back to the village was a long one, longer than Salem ever remembered making in the past. Despite what Focalor had said about hurrying, it felt as though they were moving slow on purpose. But maybe that was because they were tugging Salem along with them. As they had neared, the smell of smoke in the air became stronger, stinging Salem’s eyes. Their arms twitched, longing to wipe the tears away.
From the stench of smoke alone, and the armored guards, Salem could’ve easily assumed what their home village looked like. But seeing it in person had been so much worse.
All around where once tall and proud houses stood, there lay crumbling embers and debris. Many of the Lamb’s who had once lived peacefully in the small settlement were now charred bodies beneath Salem’s feet. Though in the town, there were still few lambs left alive. There were a few outliers, some trying desperately to flee from the fire, but guards were hot on their heels. And then it seems there was a resistance, few lambs were still left standing and fighting, valiantly casting out spells and attempting to stop the attackers. Despite the fact that they were outnumbered.
Salem had been pulled away from the sights, dragged towards the center of the town. Where there once was statue of a cat-like deity, there was but crumbled stone. And underneath it, five lamb prisoners, all shackled by their wrists and ankles like Salem.
“Put the lamb with the rest, and have the village cleaned up by daylight so we can leave,” Focalor spoke, getting off of her horse.
“Yes, reverend deacon Focalor,”
The guards had wasted no time in shoving Salem down alongside the other lambs. It has been an uncomfortable position, stone dug into their bag and the lamb next to them had been shaking and sobbing the whole time. Salem didn’t move to comfort them, a part of them wanted to, but they didn’t think they would’ve been able to. Not when they were both being forced to bear witness to the decimation of the place they were born.
As Focalor has planned for them, the guards finished up by the first peaks of the sun above the horizon. The handful of Lamb’s who had fought, had fought well, down to their last dying breaths. And by daylight, a few corpses of the guards littered the town. The Lamb’s that had fled had been caught and slaughtered for their cowardice, for their will to live, or at least Salem assumed so as the guards began to re-group and count their numbers.
Vephar, Salem found, seemed to be a terrifying guard with as much authority as Focalor. He was another type of bug that made their skin crawl, with to many eyes and sharp teeth that clicked together in joy at the sight of the shivering Lambs. If he had been the one in charge of the towns decimation, then it was no surprise they had lost. With his multiple arms, it seems that any opponent would be at a disadvantage.
“The bishops will be pleased with our harvest,” Vephar rumbled, antennae swiveling and eyes narrowing at the lambs.
“The bishops will only be pleased if we are there on time, so lets move,” Focalor spoke in a sing-song voice, snapping her fingers.
The guards worked with quiet efficiency. Salem was the first to be grabbed from the group, dragged up by the chain linking their wrists together. Under a deafening silence, they were dragged over to a wooden carriage where iron bars were in place of real windows or curtains. Roughly, they had been shoved inside, and they needed no more of an incentive to push themself as far into a corner as they could. One by one, the other Lamb’s joined them, slumping into their seats weakly. They all had seemed to be much more drained then Salem felt at the time, though perhaps that was the trauma of being there when the attacks first began. Naturally, Salem couldn’t, and would never, fault them.
“They’re going to kill us,” The Lamb sitting across from Salem had hissed, her voice was weak and brittle, sounding like she herself would crack and shatter at any moment.
“No need to spell it out for us,” Another Lamb spoke up, gritting his teeth at her.
“Quiet in there!” A guard yelled, hammering down on the door next to Salem’s head with their fist. They flinched back at the sound, silently leaning against the Lamb next to them for a moment before straightening their back.
The rest of ride was spent in silence, no one wishing to invoke the wrath of the guards once more. The atmosphere in the carriage was bitter, feelings of resentment and anger hanging in the air along with the sound of muffled sobbing. It was a miserable ride, one where only Salem’s thoughts accompanied them. Their thoughts of their end. As soon as they had been forced into the carriage, they knew where the destination was. The capital, the shared territory of the bishops. And as was said, they were all going to be killed.
Salem doesn’t remember most of the ride to the capital, they were remember it was bumpy. Their captors didn’t seem to care if the lambs were in any discomfort. For none of the ride could they tell how far along they were, the guards voices were muffled unless they were yelling through the walls, and Salem didn’t care enough to check for daylight through the cracks. When they reached the capital, that was something Salem could tell.
The carriage had passed over something bumpy, and then the shouting started up. It was difficult to make out anything in the mess of unfamiliar voices. Some were celebrating, praising the brave guards who had come home safely and uninjured. Others were jeering, screaming chants of “burn the witches” or “Cleanse their souls”. The other Lambs flinched away from the carriage walls, away from the promises of death.
There next destination had been a holding cell. A small, grimy room that they had been shoved in with the Lamb that had been sitting across from them. After being roughly shoved to the ground, earning a scrape on their chin, Salem found they nearly missed the carriage, even if it had given them splinters. Salem had made room for the other Lamb by pressing themself up against the farthest wall away from her, watching silently as she did the same.
“You’re that hermit,” The lamb wheezed out after a few minutes of silence, coughing after her sentence.
Salem curled up further in response. They didn’t recognize the lamb, and they were sure she didn’t recognize them. That was answer enough.
The lamb scoffed, rolling her eyes and letting her head fall against the wall next to her, “Did your plan not go how you wanted it to?”
“Please, don’t blame me for this,” Salem pathetically rasped out after a few seconds, moving their gaze to the ground.
Spit landed next to their hoof, and they flinched away with a shudder, “Accursed being,” The lamb hissed out. Salem did not give her another response, turning onto their side to avoid her gaze instead.
Like in the carriage, the passage of time was unknown to Salem. There was no window in their cell to indicate the cycle of day and night, nor did the guards feed them. Salem did not sleep much either, instead watching the shadows dance through the bars of their cell. Little happened around them in that time, guards passed by regularly to check on them, though never did they stops to chat. Salem did not talk to their cellmate either, leaving her to mumble pleas and prayers to the god of magic.
Eventually, their time in the cell came to an end. They didn’t bother struggling like their kin did, to tired and hungry to bother. They allowed themself to be led along by the guards, following their orders as they were commanded to walk down a street.
It had been similar to when the carriage had arrived, but that time Salem could see the disgusted faces and cruel smiles. Again came the citizens shouting for their deaths, praising their bishops and cursing the god of magic. Some of the citizens even threw stuff at them, rotten food and stones that caused their blood to drip to the stone below.
The guards had stopped them at the town square. As was expected, the sight that awaited them were six stakes stuck into the ground, surrounded by hay bales. Perfect for burning. Held back by guards and barricades, more citizens stood around. Some were standing, trying to get the best view possible, while some were sitting at tables and chairs that had been set up.
At the front of the line, Salem was the first to be dragged forward. The treatment was harsh as the shackles were taken off and replaced by flammable rope. They didn’t resist as their body was pressed up against one of the wooden stakes either, knowing it would be futile to attempt to run in a crowd so big. For a brief moment, they made the mistake of locking eyes with the guard doing their ropes. Pity and guilt.
They tore their gaze away from the guard, an uncomfortable feeling rising up in their stomach. Their eyes wandered up to the sky, but something else had caught their interest. On a terrace high above the crowd, four figures seemed to stand out. They were all wearing matching outfits, black robes with a gold trim. And yet they couldn’t possibly look more different from one another.
On the far left there was what Salem had assumed to be a worm from his thin body structure. Though he was an abnormal looking worm, covered in foliage and with long, black antlers that protruded from his head. Tightly wrapped around his head was a bloodied bandage, an upside down triangle was painted on where his eyes would be. And around his neck there seemed to be a pendant, it was black, with a bright green eye engraved into it. The worm was leaning over the railing, a black claw the only thing keeping him from toppling over. He seemed to be sickeningly excited, desperate to take it all in as his antlers swayed from side to side.
Next to him, an orange frog stood, holding onto the back of his robe and pulling him back ever so slightly. The frog had two sets of large, black eyes that seemed focused on the conversation she was in. Similar to the worm, she had a bandage as well. Hanging off of her neck like a scarf, a bloodied bandage wrapped tightly around a neck wound. Over top it, another black pendant with a yellow eye stood proud. Next to the frog there was a smaller figure, dressed in a black cloak that left nothing to be seen. Though Salem could not see any distinguishable features of the figure, they seemed to be talking in the frogs place. Based on how they turned to her every so often before continuing to speak.
Though the other two seemed to be content on standing, to the frogs right a blue squid sat in a chair, surrounded by what Salem assumed to be his servants. The squid was looked to be an odd one. Paranoid from the amount of people by the way his eyes flitted around yet lax under the attention of his servants. His injury seemed to be of his ears, two bloodied bandages wrapped around each one. They looked to have been ripped off, perhaps that’s why the squid was so anxious. Around his neck was a pendant with a blue eyes, in a way, it looked nervous as well.
The squids servants were dressed similarly to the frogs servant, though their hoods were pulled down. They all were aquatic creatures as well, much like the one they were attending to.
One of them looked to be a green jellyfish, with three yellow eyes and what looked to be sharp teeth mixed in with his tentacles. Though he seemed to be wounded as well, stakes stuck out of his head, and something black oozed down, but no one seemed to be concerned. The jellyfish knelt to the floor, his head laid on the squids lap, a strangely intimate show of affection.
Feeding the squid grapes off of a platter, a blue octopus stood off to the side. Another abnormal looking lad, with sharp white things growing out of the side of his head. He seemed delighted to be doing such a job. Sharp teeth peaked through a smile, four yellow eyes narrowed in bliss.
The third and final attendant was even odder. With an orange complexion and what looked to be tree branches sticking out of their head. Red strings strung between said branches, weaving a pattern similar to Focalor’s. It was hard to tell if their three eyes were sunken in, covered, or closed from the distance. But Salem could see the sharp teeth in their mouth. With another elated expression, they seemed to be giving the squid a shoulder rub.
The final figure was a purple spider. Similar to the worm, they were looking over the terrace, four eyes scanning over the crowd as if searching for something they had lost. One pair of hands were clasped together, almost as if in a prayer of sorts. A pair of arms under that were holding onto the terrace railing, nearly tight enough to break it. Around the top of the spiders head, bloodied bandages were tightly wrapped. And again they wore a pendant with a purple eye.
There was something familiar in the pattern to Salem. Four pendants, four injuries. It had been painfully familiar, on the tip of their tongue as they stared at the purple eye. Stumped on the answer, they allowed for their eyes to wander back up to the spider’s face, curious as to see if they had found what they were looking for.
The air seemed to leave their lungs as they locked eyes.
Salem couldn’t seem to tear their gaze away, and for a few moments, the spider only blinked at them. Salem had begun to feel their body growing cold, shivers being sent down their spine. It was as if the spiders eyes were their web, and Salem had gotten themself stuck.
The spider brought their clasped hands closer to their chest, and slowly mouthed the words, “May the god of magic be with you,” The spider finally looked away after that, seeming to be satisfied in their search as they turned to the others on the terrace.
The words left Salem to sit in confusion. The god of magic, the deity of witches that the old faith had been trying so hard to erase the image of. An attempt that seemed to be in working in their favor so far. It was common for witches to question the stories of their god, to question if he had forsaken them. If so many witches had trouble keeping their faith alive, then Salem doubted a citizen with front row seats was so genuinely devoted either. But, as much as Salem would’ve liked to ponder the strange spider, the rest of their kin were soon tied to their wooden stakes. Meaning that the execution could soon commence.
What Salem had assumed to be yet another servant of those on the terrace stepped out from the crowd. They had been dressed in the same black robes as the other servants, though theirs were more raggedy and used. The servant seems to be an orange scorpion of some sort, though their tail seemed to have been skinned down and injured.
“Siblings of the pendants!” The scorpion shouted out, spreading their arms wide. The crowd turned silent, all attention turning towards the scorpion, “Tonight we are gathered underneath the new moon, on the night of the damning, to commemorate the cleansing of the last witches,” Salem had to hand it to them, they had a powerful voice. The citizens seemed to agree with them as they had clapped, erupting in cheer and excitement.
With a swipe of their claws, the crowd fell into silence, “My siblings, for this hallowed occasion under the new moon, for the first time in years the four bishops of the old faith have all gathered in a singular place, let us revel in their presence, and share their grace,” The scorpion turned around, arms spread wide before bowing. Bowing right in front of the figures in the terrace.
The citizens followed their lead, turning to where they had and bowing with their arms spread wide. Salem’s eyes had wandered back up to the terrace, finding all of the figures to be sitting in their seats with a sort of air of grace that Salem hadn’t noticed before. Perhaps Salem should’ve gathered that earlier, that the four noble figures being tended to by servants were the bishops. But there was little that Salem had been taught about them.
They were said to be siblings, four siblings blessed by the gods above and told to carry out their will in their place. The worm, Leshy, the disciple of chaos and bishop of Darkwood. The frog, Heket, the disciple of famine and bishop of Anura. The squid, Kallamar, the disciple of pestilence and bishop of Anchordeep. And the spider, Shamura, disciple of both war and wisdom whilst ruling over Silk cradle. It was said that the bishops had ruled over the lands for century’s, having been granted immortality by their gods in exchange for eternal servitude. And now, the bishops were seeing to it that every witch in the lands were executed, bringing what they called a new era of peace.
A loud croak echoed from Heket’s throat and the servant next to her stepped forward, “Before us stands the last true witches in the lands, all others we have hunted down and cleansed,”As Salem had thought, the servant had indeed been speaking for Heket.
Kallamar spoke next, confidence and anxiety battling in his tone, “With these final sacrifices, the prophecy will be impossible to fulfill,”
“The heretic who lies bound to his mortal form will be condemned to eternal captivity,” Leshy added, barely trying to hide the amusement in his tone, earning him a look from his sister.
“And the old faith shall be preserved,” Shamura finished, voice solemn and eyes back to wandering the crowd, “May all of your souls be cleansed and forgiven of sin,”
At the words of Shamura, Salem noticed as guards began to light torches, getting ready to throw them into the hay bales. Salem’s eyes had stayed locked on the fire, their soon to be death. Salem had felt the situation a tiny bit unfair. Being publicly executed in one of the most painful ways simply for being an outcast. They hadn’t even gotten to plead their case.
It had been an odd feeling at that moment, staring down their death. In the past they had always envisioned death as a scary and sad thing. But now they only felt bitter. Bitter at the bishops, the guards who had imprisoned them, the Lambs who had shunned them, even the elder who hadn’t been able to get their damn name right. Ok, maybe that last one had been uncalled for.
“May their souls be guided home!” The scorpion yelled, yanking Salem from their thoughts. The citizens joined in, screaming the phrase and clapping.
And just like that, the torches were thrown and the fires were lit.
Agonizing pain. Those are the exact words that Salem would use to describe the next few minutes of their life. Admittedly, the fire had been slow to reach their body. But when the first few flames began to lick at their flesh, lighting up their hooves and melting through their wool, it was absolute torture.
At first they had grit their teeth together, trying to hold back their screams and tears. But as they heard their kin’s dying noises, their wails and prayers, they caved. They had sobbed from the pain, their vision going blurry as their tears met the flames below with sizzling cracks. They had screamed their throat raw, that being the only noise to reach their ears beside that of the scorpion preaching in the background.
Eventually though, the burning came to an end. Slowly the fire had begun to naturally die down and the screams of the other lambs faded out, leaving only the sound of Salem’s heaving and the citizens beginning to celebrate.
Salem doesn’t quite understand how they can celebrate next to fresh corpses, weather corpses of those they hated or not. It is a scary thing to them, the hate and cruelty that those under the bishops rule have allowed themselves to be consumed by. And now, all Salem can do is watch, waiting for the moment where they’ll succumb to their injuries.
With the last bit of their strength, Salem raises their head, using it to look towards the terrace. They are not surprised to see the bishops celebrating as well.
Leshy and Heket appear to be arm wrestling over a table, ignoring a server holding heavy plates of food. Kallamar is the only one of the bishops actually eating, though surprisingly he is joined by his servants. Shamura’s eyes no longer search the crowd, as it seems the spider has given up on their search. Instead they look into a glass of wine, swirling it around. They seem to be less excited then their siblings.
Their vision begins to grow blurry, though it takes them a minute before they realize that tears are the cause. They allow their head to fall back down, the action sending shocks of pain down their spine. The flames were beginning to die down, leaving in their wake charred skin, clumped wool, and little fabric covered in ash. Strangely, they were in less pain then they thought they should be, a numbness having settled over their body, perhaps to signal that the end was near.
Black spots begin to cloud their vision as the sounds of laughing become a faint hum in the back of their mind. So, this really is the end of Salem’s life. They’d try to think back to any pleasurable moments in their life, so they could go out with a happy final memory, but they decide that the effort of having to go back so far would be useless and allow themself to begin slipping into what feels like the beginning of a slumber.
Just when the promise of an eternal rest is in their grasp, a small red flame dances across their vision. The flame seems to clear the spots from their eyes, the air returns to their lungs and they take a deep, yet wheezing, breath. Silently, Salem glares at the flame. They were tired, and already had fire promised them a rest, and now this flame had no place to take that away.
“Witch,” A deep, oddly cat like, voice spoke.
Salem narrows their eyes at the flame, unsure if they were just hallucinating or if the flame was speaking to them. Seeming to notice it had their attention, the flame left their sight, swiftly darting to the right. For a brief moment, their eyes followed the flame, only to be distracted by a cat that sat amongst the regular orange flames.
It was a black cat, with some of the fluffiest fur that Salem had ever seen. Though it was a regular wild cat that sat on four paws, it was abnormal. It stared up at Salem with three red eyes that seemed to hold as much intelligence as an average person, or perhaps more. The red flame that had flown off flew to the cats side, joining another red flame, the two swirled around the cat. And then, just like the bishops, there was a pendant around the cats neck. It had a red eye on, piercing just as the cats own.
“There you are,” The cat spoke with a pleased tone, startling Salem, “Witch of mine, fear not, for though you are on the brink of death, I still have need of you,” The cat stalked closer to Salem, embers flicked dangerously close to his fur and yet he remained unscathed.
“Those foolish bishops thought they could keep you from me by cleansing you, but little do they know of a witches true power, I will give you life anew, but at a price, all I ask is that you make a blood pact with me, but you needn’t worry, this pact will be in your interest as well as mine, Lamb, together you and me shall strike fear into the bishops hearts, and we shall get revenge for all of the witches that were unfairly slain, do we have a deal?”
The cat prattled on words that seemed to go into one of Salem’s ears and out of the other. But two words managed to swirl around their brain. Blood pact, and life. A blood pact was similar to a contract for witches, only if either party broke the contract, both would die. A black cat accompanied by two red flames was offering Salem a blood pact in exchange for healing them. So they could either die now, or they could they die later.
Without a single thought more, their mouth seemed to move on its own, “Y. . .es,” Came a raspy and broken reply.
If cat’s could smile, then this cat certainly was, “Wise choice, due to your predicament I shall take the liberty of doing this part for you”
The cat brought its front leg up to its mouth. Using its teeth, it tore open its flesh, letting blood drip down. Seeming to be satisfied, the cat sauntered forward. It pressed its wounded paw up to what should’ve been Salem’s leg, but just looked to be a mangled mess.
“This blood pact shall last until the bishop Shamura has fallen, during this time we will work together in a partnership, and we will do everything in our power to ensure the other does not depart from this world, lest this pact fail, do you understand, Lamb?” The cat’s red flames seem to grow brighter as he talks, as if they had been fed fuel. And yet, the red flames do not burn the cat, nor do they burn Salem. Instead, as the red flames lick at Salem’s legs and climb up their body, they feel comforted, once again being invited into a slumber.
Salem nods, their movements slow and sluggish as the red flames stop just below their neck.
“The pact has been sealed,” Satisfaction fills the cats voice as he meets Salem’s eye, “Now take the red pendant which I once wore, with it you will command unspeakable levels of magic unknown to you before, and you shall strike fear into the bishops hearts,”
The pendant around the cat’s neck unclasps itself, the black pupil slowly turning to meet Salem. The pendant flies into the air, turning around and pressing snugly against Salem’s chest. They hear the clasp click shut behind their head, and the flames begin to rise once more. The last thing they feel is a feeling akin to frostbite and a pressure in their chest, as if something is worming its way inside among their heart and lungs. And then, their senses leave them.
Salem doesn’t know how long they black out for, but when they come to, its all at once.
No longer are they tied to the stake, instead perched upon a table that had previously held food. Few citizens remained in the seats, crying and begging Salem not to harm them. Most of the citizens seemed to be fleeing the area, accompanied by guards trying to keep track of the numbers.
Salem’s eyes catch onto their hands, stained with blood that didn’t belong to them. And, sprawled out underneath them, with a gaping hole in the side of their head. Was the body of a guard. They gag, nausea rising in their stomach.
“Did- no, no,” Their barely able to get a single word of the question out as they cover their mouth, tears well up in the corner of their eyes.
“Witch,” The voice of the cat speaks, right next to their ear from where he seems to perched on their shoulder, “Do not cry over a worthless devotee of the old faith, and if you do not wish to die for a second time, then I suggest that you raise your hand and cast,”
“Wha-?” Salem begins to ask, though their question is cut off as they are charged.
A guard slams into them, knocking them from the table and throwing them to the ground. They cough as they made contact with the ground and scramble to get up, but the guard is faster then them. They’re grabbed by the wool on their head, and the sharp edge of a blade is pressed against their neck.
“Cast!” The cat commands them from elsewhere, having fallen off on the bumpy ride down.
Salem seems to become hyper aware of their heartbeat as they stare at the guard in front of them. There’s a cacophony around them, and yet Salem’s brain can’t help but pick out every little sound. Feet desperately moving against the cobble to flee. The familiar voice of Focalor and Vephar shouting out commands. That strange cats voice yelling at them. Flames crackling and sizzling.
Their hands seems to move on its own. They feel something swirling in their chest, worming its way around their heart and lungs. It feels hot and passionate. Like warming themself up by the fireplace, cooking a pot of soup, watching their candle die out. It feels like fire. One of their hands reach out towards the guards head, and suddenly, their vision is consumed by an inferno.
They let out an unflattering scream as they scramble away, failing to get up and opting to shivering on the floor like a wounded animal. The guards limp body falls to the ground, hands twitching as the flames continue to eat away at them through their armor.
Salem feels like vomiting.
“How interesting,” The cat says, circling around them and stopping at their side, “What did I tell you earlier, do you wish to become a regular corpse?”
“What have I done?” Salem shakily asks, not taking their eyes off of the guard.
“There is more backup coming, stand and fight, witch,”
The words break Salem out of their stupor, causing them to turn and look at him, “Fight? How?” They ask, the panicked desperation in their voice causing the cat to take a step back.
“How do you think, witch,” The cat hisses, as if the answer is the most obvious thing in the world.
“Do you mean with that?” Salem asks.
They flap their hand in the direction of the guard, meaning to gesture to their body. But then their hand alights with fire. They let out a scream, waving their hand in the air, but that does nothing to extinguish the flames. Similar to the cats red flames, they don’t hurt, but nor to they put them into a comforting sleep. They look to the cat for help, but it just stares at them, a look of betrayal on its face.
“You cheat!” The cat suddenly hisses at them, ears flattening against his head and hair standing on edge, “You’re not a witch at all!”