𝖛𝖎. violence of the dog days

july, 1693

𝕿he thought of being buried underground - trapped beneath the cold, unfeeling earth, alone and forgotten - was the most terrifying thing Evangeline could imagine. The idea of ceasing to exist, of being reduced to nothing more than bones and silence, sent chills down her spine.

Because of this fear, funerals unsettled her deeply. The somber atmosphere, the endless speeches about "peaceful rest," and the finality of it all - she hated every moment. And now, at her own mother's funeral, Evangeline couldn't bring herself to watch as Deborah Thorne's casket was slowly lowered into the ground. Instead, she lingered at the back of the cemetery, her hands clasped tightly, her head bowed, and her gaze fixed on the dewy grass beneath her shoes.

Deborah hadn't been a good mother. In truth, she'd been distant, cold, and profoundly selfish. But Evangeline couldn't hate her, not completely. She couldn't bring herself to wish death upon even the worst person, let alone the woman who had raised her. No one, not even someone as flawed and narcissistic as Deborah Thorne, deserved to be ravaged by illness. No one deserved to become fodder for worms.

So Evangeline stood there, hands trembling but silent, offering what little respect she could muster.

She didn't know what made her turn when she did. Perhaps it was instinct, a pull she couldn't explain. Maybe it was the faint glimmer of sunlight catching on something in the grass behind her. Whatever it was, her eyes shifted, and she saw it: a small bird, limp and lifeless, lying in the grass just out of view of the other mourners.

Evangeline hesitated. She couldn't explain why, but her chest tightened at the sight. A flood of emotions - grief, anger, frustration - welled up inside her. She'd had enough. Enough loss, enough suffering, enough of feeling powerless as everything around her fell apart.

Her movements were slow and deliberate as she crouched and scooped up the bird, cradling its fragile body in her palms. It felt so light, so small - too insignificant for the world to notice its absence. Her fingers curled around it, and a single, unspoken wish rose from her heart.

Live. Please, just live.

A warmth spread through her hands, starting as a faint flicker and then building into something bright and undeniable. A golden-white glow seeped from her skin, enveloping the bird. For a moment, it felt as though time itself had stopped. And then, impossibly, the bird twitched. Its tiny chest rose and fell. With a flutter of wings, it sprang to life, taking off into the sky in a blur of feathers and light.

Evangeline blinked, her hands still outstretched, the warmth fading from her palms. She barely had time to process what had happened before a voice - sharp and suspicious - cut through the quiet.

"What was that?"

Her heart dropped. She turned her head slowly, the weight of a hundred gazes falling on her all at once. One of the mourners, a middle-aged man with a weathered face, stood frozen, his eyes wide as they darted between her glowing hands and the bird now soaring into the distance. Others began to turn, whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire.

"Did you see that?"

"Her hands - what did she do?"

"She's a witch."

Accusations flew, their voices rising in volume and intensity. Evangeline stumbled back, panic clawing at her throat. She hadn't meant for anyone to see - hadn't even fully understood what she had done herself. But it was too late now.

Evangeline died on a perfect, sunny day.

The warmth of the afternoon seemed cruelly ironic, its golden light bathing the scene in an almost serene glow as though mocking her impending fate. One moment, she was kneeling in the grass, breathing life into a lifeless bird, and the next, she was being dragged away by rough hands, her cries falling on deaf ears.

The men hauled her through the field, their grips ironclad despite her frantic thrashing and pleading. Her screams echoed across the open expanse, raw and desperate, but they were met with nothing but stony glares and murmured prayers.

"I'm not a witch!" she sobbed, her voice hoarse. "Please, I didn't mean- I didn't-"

Her words dissolved into choked cries as she was forced toward the waiting stake, a jagged pole driven firmly into the ground, surrounded by neatly stacked firewood soaked in pitch. The bitter smell of it stung her nostrils as the reality of her fate loomed closer.

Her knees buckled, but the men yanked her upright, dragging her to the center of the pyre. Rough ropes lashed her wrists together, pulling her arms painfully above her head as she was bound tightly to the stake. The coarse fibers bit into her skin, cutting off circulation, and her heart hammered against her ribs like a wild bird desperate to escape its cage.

The crowd gathered, their faces a mixture of fear, anger, and grim determination. Some clutched rosaries, muttering prayers under their breath. Others stared wide-eyed, their expressions equal parts revulsion and fascination. Mothers shielded their children's faces, while men stood stoic, their hands resting on the hilts of pitchforks and axes.

"Evangeline Thorne," one of the townsmen intoned, his voice cold and devoid of sympathy, "you have been sentenced to death on the count of witchcraft."

"No," she croaked, shaking her head weakly. Tears streamed down her face, her throat burning from the screams she had already spent. "I didn't do anything. Please, you have to believe me!"

The man ignored her, raising his voice for all to hear. "May God have mercy on your wretched soul."

A woman in the crowd began to weep softly, but no one moved to stop what was coming.

The torch was lowered, the flames licking eagerly at the kindling. Smoke rose first, a thick, acrid cloud that stung her eyes and clogged her lungs. She coughed violently, her body convulsing as she struggled to draw a breath. The first tendrils of heat followed, wrapping around her legs like molten chains, biting into her skin.

The fire leapt higher, hungrier, and the pain became an all-consuming thing. It seared her flesh, blistering and peeling, the agony so intense it stole her voice. She bit down on her lip, tasting blood as she fought the urge to scream, but it was useless. The pain was a tidal wave, drowning her in its relentless surge.

Faces in the crowd blurred, their features melting into shapeless shadows as the heat warped her vision. She could hear the crackling of the flames, the distant murmurs of prayer, the quiet sobs of someone who still had a shred of humanity left.

Her body writhed against the ropes, instinctively trying to escape even as the fire climbed higher, engulfing her torso, her arms, her face. Her strength ebbed away, replaced by a chilling numbness that crept through her veins.

Her final breath was a shallow gasp, barely audible above the roar of the flames. As the world faded into darkness, her thoughts fractured, scattering like ash on the wind.

The crowd lingered only long enough to ensure their grim work was done. They watched the flames devour her, their collective silence broken only by murmurs of relief and satisfaction when her body slumped lifeless against the charred stake. The fire burned high, a cruel beacon under the cloudless sky, but when the flames finally began to wane, the field emptied.

One by one, they turned away, leaving behind the smoldering remains of the pyre. Soon, there was nothing but ash, embers, and the still figure of what they believed to be a lifeless girl.

But Evangeline saw her.

A woman stood far in the field, just at the edge of the horizon. Her green cloak billowed slightly in the breeze, the color stark against the golden grass. She did not weep, nor did she pray. Her expression was flat, unreadable, yet there was something in the set of her shoulders that carried both authority and quiet promise.

The woman's presence sent a shiver through Evangeline - not of fear, but of an inexplicable calm, as if this stranger held the answers to questions Evangeline hadn't yet asked.

Even as her vision dimmed, fading into the void between life and death, Evangeline's awareness clung stubbornly to that image. The woman watching her - waiting.

She should have been gone. Her body lay in the ash, blackened and cracked, unmoving. Her mind floated in a cold void where no pain could reach her, a space that felt like eternity and an instant all at once.

But something deep within her resisted.

A primal, desperate fear surged to the surface - the terror of ceasing to exist, of being nothing. She didn't want to die. She couldn't. That thought, no larger than a flicker, burned with impossible strength. It was enough.

The spark within her grew, feeding on her desperation, her rage, and her unwillingness to surrender. It consumed the void, igniting something ancient and wild inside her.

Her chest heaved violently, dragging in a ragged breath. Heat surged, not from the dying embers around her, but from within-a relentless inferno that spread through her veins like molten fire. Her fingers twitched against the ash, her body convulsing as the energy built, spilling outward in waves that made the embers flare to life once more.

Her eyes snapped open. They glowed faintly, golden-white, like the embers of a dying star refusing to be extinguished.

Pain flooded back, sharp and unrelenting, as her broken body began to rebuild itself. Skin knit together, blackened flesh sloughed away, and bone reformed beneath the relentless surge of power. It was agony, but it was life. It was existence.

When the process was done, Evangeline lay still for a moment, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Ash clung to her newly healed skin, and the faint crackle of dying embers echoed in the otherwise silent field.

The woman in green was gone.

Evangeline rolled onto her side, coughing up soot, her lungs burning with the effort. Trembling, she pushed herself to her knees, her hands digging into the warm, ashy ground. Her fingers - once charred stumps - were now whole, unblemished, and steady.

She stared at them in disbelief, then down at herself. Her skin was smooth, untouched by flame, yet the acrid smell of smoke and death clung to her like a shroud. Around her, the remnants of the pyre smoldered, a grim reminder of what had been intended for her.

Tears welled in her eyes, hot and unrelenting. They fell freely, carving streaks through the soot on her cheeks. She was alive. But the world had wanted her dead.

Her hands clenched into fists, ash and dirt smearing across her palms. She looked to the empty field, her heart hammering as she replayed the moment she'd seen the woman. Who was she? Why had she been watching?

Evangeline sat there, trembling and alone, surrounded by the ruins of her death. She was alive, but the truth of what had just happened clawed at her.

The crowd had turned their backs on her. The fire had failed to claim her. But she had not escaped unscathed. Whatever she was now, it wasn't the same as before.

She didn't know if it was a blessing or a curse.