After swallowing the last of his fried egg, Alaric wiped his mouth with a napkin. “So, you’re worried the Ashen Covenant will hear she survived and attempt a rescue?” “Precisely, Your Highness,” Balthazar exclaimed, his fist hitting the table in frustration. “It would have been bad enough if the prisoner had died, but now she lives! If those fanatics will steal babies on the mere chance they might become comrades, what lengths will they go to for someone who has already fallen to devilry? With their recklessness, a rescue attempt seems almost certain.” Alaric was unconvinced. Something about the situation felt off. Why were his Assistant Minister and the Knight Commander so terrified of witches? The woman they had tried to hang was a witch, yes, but she was a slip of a thing, so thin a gust of wind might knock her over. If she truly possessed such dreadful power, why would she passively wait for the noose? The Church preached that witches were devils incarnate, beings the army itself could only fight at great cost. Yet this supposed “devil” had been captured by common townsfolk, tortured, and led to the gallows without showing a trace of this terrible might. “How was she caught?” Alaric inquired. “I heard that during the North Mine collapse, she exposed herself as a witch while trying to escape. The angry miners seized her then,” Balthazar answered. The North Mine… Alaric was almost certain that had happened the day before he’d woken up in this world. “How did she expose herself?” the prince pressed. “I, well… I am not certain,” the assistant minister admitted, shaking his head. “The situation was chaotic. Someone must have seen her use witchcraft.” Alaric frowned. “You didn’t conduct a thorough investigation?” “Resuming work at the mine was the priority, Your Highness!” Balthazar protested. “The revenue from that iron mine accounts for half this town’s income! Besides, the guards confirmed someone at the scene was killed by witchcraft.” “What kind of witchcraft?” Alaric asked, his interest piqued. “The head and most of the torso were… spread out. Melted onto the ground, like a guttered candle,” the minister said, a look of revulsion on his face. “Be glad you were spared the sight, Your Highness.” Alaric toyed with a silver fork, his mind drifting back to his own world’s history. Most victims of witch hunts were innocents, scapegoats for the Church to maintain power or for ignorant mobs to vent their rage. A few, of course, brought it on themselves—charlatans dressed in odd clothes, mixing strange concoctions and claiming knowledge of life and death. In truth, they had simply stumbled upon basic chemical reactions and passed them off as divine power. To a modern man, it was simple chemistry. In this era, it was a miracle. As for melting a person, the first thing that came to Alaric’s mind was a strong acid. But preparing such a thing would be difficult, and applying it thoroughly enough to produce that effect… it wouldn’t look like a burned-down candle. Other methods seemed even less plausible. So how had she done it? If it wasn’t a simple trick, but something more… That line of thought solidified his decision. “Take me to see her,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. The Assistant Minister stared for a moment. “Your Highness, you wish to see the witch?” Balthazar sputtered, scrambling to his feet so quickly he knocked over his untouched cup of milk. “Yes,” Alaric said, offering a small, unapologetic smile. He was beginning to appreciate the fourth prince’s imperious reputation. “That is an order.” He turned for the door, then paused. “One more thing. Why the gallows?” “What?” Balthazar said. Alaric repeated the question. “Why hang her? Aren’t witches supposed to be burned at the stake?” Balthazar’s expression was one of genuine puzzlement. “They are, Your Highness. But she is not afraid of fire.” The dungeon was small; a barren border town could not afford to maintain many prisoners. Most criminals were tried within days and either released or executed. In addition to Balthazar, the Prince was accompanied by his Knight Commander, the warden, and two guards. The dungeon comprised four levels, its walls built from massive granite blocks. It was Alaric’s first time in such a place. He noted that the deeper they went, the narrower the hallway became, and the fewer cells there were. It seemed they had dug an inverted cone into the earth and then lined it, layer by layer, with stone. Such a crude project naturally lacked a proper drainage system. A slick of grime coated the stairs, and muddy sewage trickled down toward the lowest floor. The witch, of course, was at the very bottom. With each level they descended, the stench in the air grew thicker. “Your Highness, this is too great a risk. Even though she is sealed with God’s Locket of Retribution, it isn’t entirely safe.” The speaker was Gideon. The moment he’d heard of the prince’s plan, he had rushed to his side, pleading with him the entire way to reconsider. It had all been for naught; even invoking the king’s direct command to avoid danger had no effect. The knight was clearly more than just a handsome face—he was a first-rate chatterbox. Alaric wished someone would sew his mouth shut. “You must look evil in the eye before you face it on the battlefield. I thought you knew that,” he said. “In addition to courage, one must also assess one’s own capabilities. Recklessness is not bravery,” Gideon rebutted. “Are you saying you dispense justice only when the enemy is weaker than you, and turn a blind eye when he is stronger?” Alaric challenged. “No, Your Highness, I mean…” Gideon stammered. “First you were afraid of a witch raid, and now you’re afraid to even see a young girl. My Knight Commander is a fearsome man indeed.” The knight, though eloquent, was no match for a practiced debater like Alaric and fell silent. Just as well, for they had reached the bottom of the dungeon. This floor was much smaller than the one above, with only two cells. The warden lit the torches on the walls, and as the darkness receded, Alaric saw the witch, huddled in a corner of her cell. It was late autumn, and the air in the dungeon was cold enough that their breath plumed white. He was wearing a fur-lined coat over silk and felt nothing, but the girl wore only a coarse linen shift that failed to cover her limbs. Her exposed arms and feet were blue with cold. The sudden light made her flinch, her eyes squeezed shut. A moment later, she opened them and looked directly at the newcomers. They were a pair of pale blue eyes, as calm as a lake before a storm. There was no fear on her face, no anger, no hatred. For a fleeting instant, Alaric felt he wasn't looking at a weak, emaciated girl, but at a raging, silent flame. The torchlight on the walls suddenly seemed dim. Leaning against the wall, the girl tried to stand. The movement was slow, as if she were afraid of falling, but she eventually managed it. She hobbled out of the corner and into the light. That simple motion made the men behind Alaric suck in sharp breaths of cold air and take two steps back. Only the Knight Commander held his ground, stepping in front of Alaric protectively. “What is your name?” Alaric asked, patting the knight on the shoulder to show him he could relax. “Anna,” she replied.

Chapter 3: An Unlikely Devil