“Tell me again what happened at the mine,” Alaric asked. “From the very beginning.” Anna nodded and began to speak. Alaric was surprised. He’d expected silence, or perhaps a furious tirade. Instead, she had met his gaze and replied, “Ask what you will,” before obediently recounting her tale. It was not a complicated story, but it was a sad one. Anna’s father was a miner, and he had been deep inside the North Mine when it collapsed. The moment the news broke, she and the other miners’ families had rushed to the site to help with the rescue. The mine was a treacherous place, rumored to be a monster's lair, a maze of tunnels branching in every direction. With no one in command, the volunteers scattered upon entering. By the time Anna found her father, only her neighbors, Susan and Ansgar, were still with her. Her father’s leg was crushed beneath a full ore cart, pinning him to the ground. But he wasn’t alone. Another miner was hunched over him, patting down his clothes, searching for coin. When the looter saw them, he grabbed a pickaxe and charged, knocking Ansgar to the ground. Just as he raised the pickaxe to strike her, Anna killed him. Her neighbors swore they would never speak of what they’d seen. With their help, Anna managed to rescue her father. But the very next morning, before dawn had even broken, her father hobbled out on his crutches and reported to the city guard that his daughter was a witch. “Why?” Alaric couldn’t help but ask when she reached that part of the story. Balthazar sighed from behind him. “For the gold, most likely. There’s a reward of twenty-five gold royals for discovering and reporting a witch. To a man with a crippled leg, that’s half a lifetime of wages.” After a moment of silence, Alaric asked, “Your opponent was a grown man. How did you kill him?” At this, Anna laughed, a sound with no humor in it. The torchlight wavered, its reflection dancing in her eyes like sunlight on a disturbed lake. “Exactly as you think,” she said. “I used the power of the devil.” “Silence, you vile sorceress!” the warden shouted, though everyone could hear the tremor in his voice. “Is that so?” The fourth prince was unfazed. “Show me.” “Your Highness, this is no joke!” the Knight Commander interjected, his brow deeply furrowed. Alaric stepped out from behind the knight’s protection, moving toward the cell one slow step at a time. “Anyone who is afraid is free to leave. I’m not forcing you to stay.” “Don’t panic! She wears the God’s Locket of Retribution around her neck!” Balthazar announced, as much to reassure himself as the others. “No matter how powerful the devil, his strength cannot break God’s blessing!” Standing before the cell, Alaric was now only an arm’s length from Anna. He could clearly see the dust and bruises on her cheeks. Her features were still soft with youth, but her expression held no trace of childishness. There was no anger there, either. It was a jarring emptiness, the kind Alaric associated with seasoned soldiers returning from a hopeless war. He had seen it in the faces of orphans who had suffered hunger and cold, but it wasn't quite the same. Those children were often hunched and broken, their heads bowed in defeat. Anna was not. From the moment he arrived, she had held herself perfectly straight, her gaze slightly raised, calmly meeting his eyes. She wasn’t afraid of death, Alaric realized. She was waiting for it. “Is this the first time you’ve seen a witch, my lord?” Anna asked. “Your curiosity could get you killed.” “If it were truly the devil’s power, you wouldn’t be in here,” Alaric replied calmly. “And it wouldn’t be me who should fear death, but your father.” The light in the dungeon suddenly dimmed, the torch flames shrinking as if starved for air, flickering as tight, suppressed embers. Behind him, Alaric heard a chorus of sharp breaths and frantic prayers, punctuated by the muffled thud of someone stumbling in panic. Alaric’s heart hammered against his ribs. He felt as if he stood on a precipice. On one side was the world he understood, governed by common sense and immutable laws. On the other was a new, incredible world, shrouded in mystery and the unknown. And the door to that world was standing right in front of him. This is the God’s Locket of Retribution? he thought, his eyes fixed on the crude ornament around her neck. It was nothing more than a red iron chain holding a sparkling, translucent stone. If her hands weren’t cuffed behind her back, couldn't she just snap it with a sharp tug? He glanced back at the terrified men mouthing their prayers. Then, in one swift motion, he reached through the bars, seized the pendant, and pulled. The chain snapped with a faint metallic ring. The locket clattered to the stone floor. The move was so sudden it even startled Anna. “Go on,” Alaric whispered. Are you a liar? An alchemist? Or are you a real witch? If you pull out a set of vials and start mixing acids, I’ll be sorely disappointed. A sharp hiss filled the air, the sound of water flashing to steam on a hot forge. The damp stone floor beneath Anna’s feet began to crackle. A blazing flame erupted from her feet, engulfing her in an instant. The ground she stood on glowed. At the same moment, the torches lining the walls flared, erupting in a brilliant white light as if fed a sudden rush of pure air. For a heartbeat, the entire dungeon was bathed in daylight, the glow drowned out only by the terrified screams of the onlookers. As the witch stepped forward, the column of fire moved with her. She reached the edge of her cell, and the dozen iron bars separating them became pillars of incandescent light. Alaric was forced to retreat, the searing air biting at his skin. This wasn’t the ambient warmth of summer; it was the sharp, directional heat of a furnace. The side of his body facing the fire felt scorched, while the other was ice-cold. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. She truly doesn’t fear fire. The Assistant Minister’s words echoed in his mind, and only now did he truly understand them. She is the flame itself. How could she fear what she is? The iron bars quickly glowed from crimson to a brilliant, pale yellow before they began to melt and drip like wax. The temperature had to be well over fifteen hundred degrees. To achieve that without any sort of insulation was beyond anything Alaric could imagine. Like the others, he had backed away, pressing himself against the far wall. The radiant heat alone was enough to kill a man, let alone set clothes alight. Anna’s rough prisoner’s smock had already vanished into ash, her body now a silhouette within a raging inferno. Alaric didn’t know how long it lasted, but eventually, the flames subsided as quickly as they had appeared. The torches on the wall burned quietly again, as if nothing had happened. But the scorched remains of Anna’s clothes, the shimmering heat in the air, and the prison bars—now twisted and dripping like black, demonic sculptures—told everyone this had been no illusion. Besides Alaric, only the Knight Commander remained on his feet. The others had collapsed, and the acrid smell of urine fouled the air near the warden. Anna now stood outside the cell, naked, the shackles on her arms gone. She made no move to cover herself, her hands hanging loosely at her sides. Her eyes, blue as the sea, had returned to their former tranquility. “Now your curiosity is satisfied, my lord,” she said. “Will you kill me?” “No.” Alaric stepped forward, shrugging off his heavy coat and wrapping it around her shoulders. His voice was as gentle as he could make it. “Miss Anna, I want to hire you.”

Chapter 4: A Father's Cruel Lie