The Pire

When Peter opened his eyes, he wasn’t in the form of a beast, like before. In fact, he wasn’t in any form that he could truly discern. Townsfolk walked through his apparitional figure, as if he were nothing more than air itself. This version of Zemilharos wasn’t infested with Striga. In fact, it looked better than when he had first entered this town. The streets were clean, at least by medieval standards, and not a beggar nor strumpet walked the main plaza where the townsfolk had gathered.

At the heart of this formation stood a man that somewhat reflected his own image. Though he had dark chestnut hair, and a groomed beard, his enlarged forehead and green eyes reminded him of his own. He raised his hand, bringing the muttering townsfolk to silence. Several knights and noblemen insulated his near doppelganger from the commonfolk, as he stood besides a wooden pire. A young girl was rigged onto it, with black hair and fierce yellow eyes. Peter recognizes them all too well, she was the spitting image of a younger Lyana.

“It is no secret that our recent nights have been dark and full of terrors. We have searched far and wide for their source, but where we did not think to look was within our own walls. House Horvat, our High Priest has seen the raven feathers, the amethyst, all evidence of your house’s communion with the striga. You have cursed your own blood, and it is the Annointed's will that we must now return what was never meant to be taken by man. I, Bronmir Zrinski, Vojvoda of Zemliharos, must now sentence your remaining kin to the pire. Speak now, within the realm of public court, your final words of this verdict.”

A tall and slender woman stepped forward from the crowd, her deep crimson surcoat distinguishing her from the drab rabble in the fray. Though her similarly dark hair and yellow eyes were more than capable of doing that by themselves. “Your courts have failed us, our grapes die at the vine, my own husband, slaughtered during the uprisings on your watch. Yet, my own subjects starve while those within these walls grow fat from our contributions. I will not apologize for what I have done, but I beg you, spare my daughter. She has no knowledge of my dealings, if someone is to be punished, it is I.”

Silence overtook the crowd. Bronmir inspected the woman, then the men, women and children that surrounded her, sharing in her solemnness. He then looked at the young girl, bound and gagged, Her frantic gaze piercing him with their signature intensity. “Your words speak true, though your house’s curse still stands. To appease our Anointed, tribute needs to be paid. The pire will be lit, and your house’s exile stands, but you may trade your life for another.”

The wrinkled High Priest huffed, “Your Grace-”

“If she is of their kind, they will be eradicated in time. If she is not, the wolves will take her instead. We are all judged in time, are we not?”

The High Priest bowed his head, “Correct, Your Grace.”

“Then we shall let fate run its course.”

Bronmire motioned to his guard. The little girl fell from her pire, her gag removed. Her mother marched forward with the company of two knights beside her. She kept her chin held high, demanding a level of grace as she walked forward.

“Mommy, please, no!”

She didn’t look towards her daughter, though her watering eyes were apparent to everyone else. Yet her conviction did not break, through the binding and gagging and even as Bronmir stood in front of her, torch in hand. “ I, Bronmir Zrinski, Vojvoda of Zemliharos, sentence House Hovart to death. May The Anointed show mercy on your soul.”

Bronmir lowered the torch onto the tinder below. At first the flames were small, near invisible, with only the growing smoke to alert anyone of their presence. But soon they gave out to fledgling flames, their famished pillage taking more and more of the wooden pire, until they reached around her legs and feet. Her screams were sharp and fierce, even more disturbing to Peter than the act itself. Soon the rest of the fire consumed the rest of her body. He could never unhear the agonized and desperate cries, the putrid smell of burning flesh and hair that consumed his senses, until no voice remained, only the enraged flames, burning themselves into a crisp, until only the ashes remained…