My limbs were cold. As if ice were being pressed against them. And it was dark. Where was I? Where was Hannah? In winter I'd always clung to Hannah to keep warm. Though in summer it would become too hot to sleep in the same bed.

  So cold. My limbs felt as though they might snap off from the cold. No, that wasn't it. Coarse rope was cutting into both hands. My face was wet. Water. And was this my blood? Me? Who was I again... Why was I in such a place?

  "Bradley Patel."

  Darkness. The smell of iron and blood. Searing pain. I'm scared... so scared...

  Torchlight reflected harshly, mercilessly illuminating my eyes. A groan escaped my lips. My eyes were forced open, gradually adjusting to the light. Unfamiliar large implements, the stagnant smell mixed with iron. Both hands burning with pain. I wanted to rub my body. But I couldn't. Sharp pain in my wrists. Rope as thick as an arm was tightly bound. I stood on tiptoe to prevent the rope from cutting in deeper. I couldn't sit or lean against anything.

  Bradley... yes, I am Bradley. On a holiday morning, I was summoned to the Domigan family's hall. Everyone in the family was gathered. Unexpected visitors had arrived. Unknown men. Antoine had said there was nothing to worry about. Fetch Lora, he'd said. What happened after that? We were called in one by one, and then...

  I recognised a familiar door ahead. This was a room in the village meeting hall. But it looked different from usual. The shutters were drawn over the windows, allowing almost no light in. I couldn't tell if it was day or night. The room was dark and difficult to see clearly. I could make out a wooden structure resembling a bed. But something was wrong with it. Small gears and handles were attached at both ends. Who would sleep there? What was it for?

  "Awake, are you? Are you all right?" A fat man tossed aside a bucket he was holding and addressed me. Awake? What was he saying? Why was I being subjected to this? I tried to speak, but instead only a wheezing sound escaped my throat. My feet were cold. I realised I was barefoot. My feet were wet. From head to toe. My entire body was soaked as if drenched with water. I felt dizzy with confusion and fear. My legs gave way and I nearly collapsed, but the ropes binding my hands only dug in deeper, causing blood to flow.

  "You're confused. It's all right, calm down. There's nothing to worry about. Just be honest," the fat man said in a reassuring tone. What was going to happen? What did I need to be honest about? Instead of speaking, I nodded repeatedly. "That's good timing," a tall man showed a ledger to the fat man. "I couldn't make out the first part. Let's start again from this section." The men nodded to each other.

  A man wearing a hooded robe stood before me. "Your name." It took me several seconds to understand that I was Bradley. Just as I was about to answer. A sound cut through the air. Impact. Like being struck from above on my back. After a momentary pause, a terrible pain like my back was on fire engulfed me. Hot. The agony was so intense I forgot to breathe. Tears distorted my view of the men.

  "Too soon," said a man's voice.

  "It's quicker this way," said another man's voice.

  "There are rules. Three times each."

  "Your name."

  This time I managed to squeeze out my voice. "Bradley Patel!" I wasn't sure if I'd actually made a sound.

  "Bradley Patel. Do you swear by God that you will speak no lies?"

  "I swear. I swear!" Just please stop wielding the whip.

  "You came to this village with your wife, Francesca Patel, relying on your relative, Antoine Domigan."

  "Yes." That must be right.

  "Since when?"

  Since when? I didn't know the exact date. What should I do? The man with the whip was behind me. If I didn't answer, would he...? No, please.

  "Between half a year and a year ago," my mouth moved independently of my thoughts.

  "Precisely."

  "About two seasons ago. Seven months, I believe."

  "Why did you come to this village?"

  "For a child. My wife and I had been unable to conceive. We heard there was a skilled healer in this village. Treatment. That's why we came."

  "Who is this healer?"

  This isn't real. I shouldn't be able to speak or move of my own volition. And yet. I caught sight of the man with the whip at the edge of my vision. My molars chattered loudly. The pain in my back suddenly seemed to intensify. I’m scared. So hurts. Is this a dream? I can't believe it.

  "Lo... Lora! Lora Mercier!"

  As Bradley answered, the man beside him began writing with his pen.

  "Did you know she was a witch?"

  At this point, I began to understand what was happening. This was a witch trial. An interrogation was being conducted to find witches. The men who had come to Antoine's house were judges or inquisitors. Someone had informed on them. Saying there was a witch in the village where Bradley lived. Who? And for what purpose? When the judges arrived, Antoine had said, "Fetch Lora." Had Antoine accused Lora?

  "God forgive me," Bradley whispered, then began speaking with resolve. "I did not know. That she was a witch."

  "Did she ask you or your wife for anything unusual?" the inquisitor asked.

  "She may have," Bradley replied.

  "What was it? Blood or hair, perhaps?"

  "Possibly."

  Hearing Bradley's answer, the man taking notes moved his pen. The incomprehensible questions continued.

  "How long has she been a witch?"

  "Have you seen the witch's mark?"

  "What day is it today?"

  Bradley answered each time. He never denied that Lora was a witch. From what I had seen, she had never drunk blood or burned hair or done anything of the sort. I think she was different from me and my mother. Just eccentric, prescribing herbs carefully. ("She's not a bad person") Francesca's words came back to me, and I felt deeply sad.

  "That concludes our questions about Lora."

  The seemingly endless questioning finally ended. Bradley secretly sighed with relief. Saved. Now he could go home. I could sense his relief. At the same time, I felt another concern growing within him. Francesca. Bradley was worried about her. Where was she now? Surely not... surely not being subjected to the same interrogation?

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Now then," the tall man's sharp voice brought Bradley back to himself. "How many years has it been since you became a witch?"

  "What?"

  The whip whistled. A scream erupted. The impact and pain as if my back had burst open and flown apart. Flashes of light danced before my eyes. Was this pain and scream mine? Or Bradley's?

  "Answer clearly."

  "I don't know. I don't know what you're talking about."

  "What was your reason for becoming a witch?"

  "I don't know what you're saying. I swear to God, I am not a witch!"

  The sound of the whip cutting through air. My back exploded. Something splattered onto the floor. Blood. And something soft.

  "What demons were at the witch gathering?"

  "I-I-I don't know."

  "Who was there? Did you eat pork?"

  "What are you talking about?! I don't understand! What are you saying?!"

  I heard the whip being raised. Bradley's legs shook uncontrollably with fear. But another man restrained him.

  "You are suspected of being witches."

  "Witches? We?" Bradley's throat convulsed as he struggled to keep it from trembling.

  "You participated in gatherings held in this village. You consorted with the devil, used sorcery to kill the village's cows, and stole their fruits."

  "Gatherings? Yes, there were rituals in the village. But that was..." Bradley swallowed hard. "...a prayer for the cows' health. Consorting with the devil? Nonsense! Why on earth!"

  "Someone witnessed it."

  Bradley was rendered speechless by the man's response. So it wasn't Lora who had been informed on as a witch? Who had done it, and why? I didn't understand anything. The pain spreading from my back throughout my body made coherent thought impossible. It hurt. It burned. It was agonising. It felt as if a serpent made of fire was crawling all over my body.

  You? Bradley suddenly realised something.

  "You participated in gatherings held in this village"... that's what the man had said. Were others also suspected? There were other rooms in the meeting hall. Was everyone in the Domigan family being interrogated?

  If so, then Francesca.

  "My wife? Francesca?" he asked, his voice strained.

  "We are proceeding with the process in order," the man answered solemnly.

  Bradley's fists clenched with strength. The rope binding his hands dug into his wrists, blood dripping down. His heart boiled in an instant, surging forth as if to consume me along with him. Anger. Bradley was furious from the depths of his heart. At whoever might be subjecting her to the same treatment. That flame of emotion spread rapidly within my heart as well. Unforgivable. Hateful. How dare they. My wife. Francesca.

  "If you lay a finger on her! Every last one of you—"

  Impact. A force so strong it felt as if my head might separate from my body. "My" scream was abruptly cut off. My body, flung backward, was held by the rope, swinging back and forth like a suspended insect.

  "Not the face," the interrogator restrained the other.

  "He might cast a spell," the man who held a rod about the length of an arm spat out. As I listened to the men's conversation, I exhaled forcefully through my nose. A large amount of blood splattered onto the floor. I breathed in through my freed nostrils and glared at the men. The pain shooting from my head to my back was almost enough to make me scream. But like a stormy sea, the fierce fighting spirit within drove my body forward.

  "Consorting with the devil? Killing cows? Don't be absurd. We have absolutely done no such thing!"

  As I became enraged, one of the men remarked with an "Oh?"

  "Shall we start with the boots?" another man placed something on the floor, producing a heavy metallic sound.

  It was a strange object. Four boards, too large and clumsy to be called "boots." Dozens of protrusions and screws were visible on the sides. With a nod from the tall man, the boards were attached to my feet, two on each side. As the man turned the screws, the boards gradually, slowly narrowed. Eventually, they fit perfectly around both feet, as if they had been made for me from the beginning. The protrusions on the sides of the boards pressed against my shins. Cold as ice. Goosebumps rose on my legs. I tasted blood from the saliva I had swallowed. The screws were still more than halfway out. Midway through the rotation. How much further could they be turned? What would happen if the screws were turned more? I vaguely understood. What was about to happen. No. I didn't want to understand.

  I heard the sound of something being arranged, a clattering. Water jugs filled almost to overflowing were neatly lined up. Many of them. Next to them I could see funnels. From somewhere came an acrid smell like a mixture of sulphur and lime. Implements I'd never seen before were arranged there. Some seemed familiar, perhaps tools used to bore holes in ship timber. The trembling wouldn't stop.

  "Let's first find the mark," the tall man readied a razor.

  "As you know, witches pretend to feel pain," another man checked a well-maintained leather bag. Several thin needles were precisely arranged inside.

  "Remove his clothes." The interrogation began.

  ***

  "Hey, are you all right?" A familiar voice.

  The fat man, I believe.

  "You've been holding up well for days."

  I couldn't see clearly, but he appeared to be wiping my body with cloth and rinsing away filth with water.

  "Such terrible things. In this condition..."

  I couldn't hear well, but there was a sound like someone sniffling. Silence. A hen was crowing in the distance. What day was it now? Which morning was this?

  "Just between us, there are multiple testimonies that you participated."

  I already knew that. Who? Whose lies had led to this? To us.

  "Is my wife?"

  "Wife? Ah, don't worry about your wife. She's already confessed honestly. That she participated in the witch Lora's Sabbath with you." The hen's voice could be heard again. The man continued. "But you only participated, right? The punishment could still be lighter now. This is merely a preliminary confirmation. She's already said so. To be honest, there's no need to continue your interrogation. We could stop right now."

  The hen crowed. No, listening carefully, it sounded different. A voice. Not a hen. Someone's laughter. Between bursts of laughter, the man asked with genuine puzzlement.

  "Hey, what do you think? Why are you being subjected to such terrible treatment right now? I don't understand. Where's the necessity in this?"

  Lies. Francesca would never say such things. She would never tell such lies.

  "Well, see you."

  I sensed the man getting up. Wait. I hadn't heard everything yet. Why tell such lies? Why? I heard the door closing. The laughter was so loud I couldn't concentrate on my thoughts. Who was laughing? I couldn't see. Couldn't find them. So noisy. Yet it sounded quite cheerful. I tried to imitate the laughter. But my dislocated jaw only made clattering sounds.

  A long time passed. Occasionally a man would come and bread would be offered. Forcibly stuffed into my mouth. Another long interval. The hen's laughing voice. After repeating this about ten times, the next interrogation began.