The Witch Queen

The men watched as the flames on the pyre grew higher and higher. Smiles of satisfaction plastered across their faces, as the edge of the white gown began to catch alight. The raven-haired beauty atop the pyre opens her eyes and staring into the hateful eyes before her. These poor humans didn’t know what they were doing, they didn’t understand anything other than greed and possession. They were hateful and unaccepting and that would be their downfall.

“You are the last of your kind and now you will plague us no more.” A voice shouted from somewhere near the back of the congregation.

If they think I am the last they have another thing coming. The raven-haired women thought to herself, sharing her knowing smile with the crowd. The smile on her face threw some of the men as they began to panic. Women are not supposed to smile when they are burnt at the stake. They are supposed to scream and writhe in pain, some even beg for mercy or forgiveness but certainly not smile.

The raven-haired women continued to smile as her flesh began to peel and the scent of her burnt hair filled the air but still, she felt no pain. She knew she would return to the embrace of the Night before descending back into the world of the living during the next cycle. She could feel the arms of Darkness reaching out towards her soul, readying to recall her home. As her time drew to a close, she rallied her strength for one last prophecy.

“You burnt the Witches and now. Now you are defenceless.” Her soul leapt from her mortal flesh into the two sets of arms reaching for her. Now she was home.