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Cedric Aldricson awakens in the frostbitten realm of Eldermarch—now its fourth prince. But this is no fairy tale. Real witches? Hybrid Abyssal Beasts? The Month of the Abyss? Gates of the Abyss? What dark forces lurk beyond the kingdom's crumbling walls?
When a mining disaster exposes a witch's forbidden power, Cedric sees both peril and opportunity. To survive the coming storm, he'll need more than royal blood. With a fiery witch as his unlikely ally and innovations that defy medieval dogma, Cedric must rally Borderwatch against horrors that melt steel… and outmaneuver a crown that feeds its heirs to the darkness."

Witchfire & Crown

Cedric swallowed the last bite of fried egg and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "So your entire concern is that the Covenant of the Veiled Sisters might rescue her now that she's alive?"

"Exactly, Your Highness!" Bartholomew wrung his hands. "They move swiftly. Had she died, they might have ignored us. But a living sister? Those fanatics won't abandon her—not after last year's infant abductions in Harborlight."

Cedric frowned. Something felt illogical. Both Bartholomew and Sir Kael treated witches as existential threats, yet the condemned girl had seemed frail. If witches wielded such power, why hadn't she resisted? Church doctrine claimed only the Purge Legions could subdue them—yet peasants had captured her unscathed.

"How exactly was she apprehended?"

"During the Northslope Mine collapse," Bartholomew replied. "She allegedly revealed her witchcraft while fleeing the disaster."

Cedric vaguely recalled the incident—it had occurred the day before his transmigration. "What proof confirmed her as a witch?"

"The inspector documented... remains." The advisor shuddered. "A man melted like wax, his head and torso flattened. Gruesome, Your Highness. Best left undescribed."

Cedric twirled his silver fork. Most historical "witches" had been innocent scapegoats, though a few dabblers used crude chemistry—acid attacks or pyrotechnics. But liquefying a body? Medieval sulfuric acid couldn't achieve that.

Bartholomew bolted upright, spilling his untouched milk. "Your Highness, this is—"

"An order." Cedric smirked, leveraging the prince's be unreaonable reputation. At the doorway, he paused. "Why a hanging? Shouldn't witches burn?"

The advisor blinked. "She's... impervious to flame."

Borderwatch's lone dungeon reeked of rot and rust. The four-tiered pit—carved into granite and lined with crude masonry—narrowed like an inverted pyramid. Murky water seeped down each level, pooling in the deepest chamber where two cells housed the condemned.

Sir Kael's protests echoed off dripping walls. "Even bound by Divine Shackles, this is reckless, Your Highness!"

"Courage requires facing evil, not cowering from it," Cedric retorted.

"Ah, so you champion justice only against weaker foes?"

The flustered knight trailed him into the abyss, flanked by Warden Harrick Blackthorn, Jailor Corvin Graves, and two guards.

Torchlight revealed the witch huddled in her cell. Autumn's chill frosted their breath, yet she wore only a threadbare shift, her limbs blue-tinged. As flames neared, she turned—pale face impassive, eyes like still ponds beneath ash-blond hair.

Guards recoiled when she rose unsteadily. Only Cedric held his ground.

"Elara," she answered, voice devoid of fear or malice.

For a heartbeat, shadows seemed to devour the torchlight.

Chapter 3: The Dungeon