The echoes of the old woman’s screams still clung to the air, a phantom wail that refused to fade even after her charred remains were nothing but ash scattered by the wind. Aira was deeply traumatized. She could still see it—the way the flames licked at the frail body, the way her flesh blackened and curled, the way the villagers cheered, their faces twisted in cruel excitement as if they were enjoying some grand festival.

  The horror of it all gnawed at her, poisoning her thoughts like a festering wound.

  She barely ate. She barely spoke. When her mother called her name, she responded out of habit, not out of will. But she wasn’t here. She was still there—trapped before the pyre, watching a kind and innocent woman burn alive for a crime she did not commit.

  And no one—not a single soul—thought it was wrong. Except for her.

  She could not escape it, no matter how hard she tried. It haunted her in every shadow, in every whisper of the wind. At night, sleep was not a refuge but a prison. When she closed her eyes, the nightmare came.

  The flames roared higher than the sky. The old woman’s voice rose with them, a screech of agony that stabbed through Aira’s skull. The air smelled thick with burning flesh, a stench that curled in her nose and clung to her skin. Her eyes burned, but she could not look away.

  The old woman turned toward her—her lips parted, her blackened tongue trying to form words even as her throat melted away. And then, suddenly, her face twisted, shifting into something else.

  Aira’s face.

  Aira woke with a silent scream, her throat too tight to let the sound escape. Her body was drenched in sweat, her hands shaking as she clutched her blanket. She tried to breathe, but the scent of charred flesh still lingered, as if it had followed her from the dream.

  Even in the daylight, the visions did not leave her. The sound of a crackling fire made her stomach twist violently. The scent of roasting meat made bile rise in her throat. When she saw the village priest dressed in his gold and white robes, she swore she could see embers flickering in his eyes, the glow of a pyre reflecting in his smug, holy expression.

  And then there were the villagers—the ones who had laughed and clapped as the woman burned. Their faces blurred in her mind, merging with the hungry faces of demons from her nightmares. She could not tell them apart anymore.

  Perhaps there was no difference.

  Not long after the noble’s visit—when a small group of nobles came each year not to see the suffering of their subjects but to inspect the crops they would take—a new problem arose: the village was struggling to pay its taxes.

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  The land had not been kind this year. The harvest was smaller than expected, the soil tired from years of abuse. But the nobility did not care. They wanted their due. And so did the church.

  The church demanded indulgences—coins to buy forgiveness for sins. People flocked to the priest, handing over what little they had, begging for salvation. The priest accepted their offerings with a smile, his own robes embroidered with silver and gold. The weight of their desperation never seemed to touch him. He took the coins, muttered his prayers, and dismissed them like they were nothing more than flies buzzing around a feast.

  But Aira’s family had nothing left to give.

  The winter had been harsh, the fields had suffered, and their livestock had grown weak. Her father had already sold some of their meager belongings just to buy enough grain to last them through the cold months. They were on the edge of starvation.

  And the punishment for failing to pay taxes was unspoken, yet everyone knew.

  The noble’s men arrived days later, armed and impatient.

  Aira watched in horror as they dragged a man from his home, throwing him to the dirt. He begged for mercy, pleaded for another chance. His family sobbed, clutching at the soldiers’ legs, but their cries were ignored.

  The noble’s men did not kill him.

  No. That would be too kind.

  Instead, they beat him in front of the village, breaking bones and splitting skin, until his face was nothing but a swollen, unrecognizable mess. His screams echoed through the village, yet no one stepped forward. And when they were done, they left him there, a bleeding, gasping wreck.

  No one helped him.

  Because helping him would mean defying the nobles. And defying the nobles meant suffering the same fate.

  Aira’s stomach twisted as she turned to look at her mother. Her lips trembled, her hands shaking as she clutched the hem of her clothes. Her mother’s face was blank, void of any emotion, but Aira could see the fear in her eyes. The silent terror of a woman who knew that next time, it could be their family suffering that same fate.

  As the soldiers left, the villagers returned to their routines as if nothing had happened. The man’s own family eventually came to drag his broken body back inside their home, but no one spoke of what had transpired. No one dared to voice their anger. Even the children, who had initially cried at the sight, were silenced by their parents, ushered inside and told to forget.

  Because this was normal.

  This was how the world worked.

  Aira clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood. Her breathing was shallow, her body trembling with helpless rage.

  She wanted to scream, to cry, to demand why no one fought back. But she already knew the answer.

  Fighting back meant death.

  She knew that the nobles, the priests, and the powerful ruled over them without mercy. They were nothing but worms to be crushed underfoot. This world was made that way. She had made it that way. And she had never thought of what it would truly be like to live in it.

  It was a world where the poor existed only to serve, to suffer, to endure. Where their bodies belonged to the nobles, their faith to the church, their lives to forces beyond their control. A world where justice did not exist, where fairness was a joke, where suffering was the only constant.

  And she was trapped in it.

  She was powerless.

  For now.

  But that would not always be the case.