Chapter 4: The Flame

"Describe exactly what happened during the mine collapse," Cedric ordered.

Elara nodded and began.

Her compliance surprised him. He'd expected silence, pleas, or curses—not this dispassionate recital.

The story unfolded plainly: Elara's father, a miner, had been trapped during the Northslope Mine collapse. She'd joined the rescue efforts alongside other families. The labyrinthine tunnels—rumored to be ancient monster dens—scattered searchers. Only Aunt Marla and Uncle Orin, neighbors, witnessed her finding her father pinned beneath an ore cart, his legs crushed. A robber had been looting his body. When confronted, the thief attacked Orin with a pickaxe. Elara intervened.

"How did you kill a grown man?" Cedric interrupted.

Elara smiled. Torch flames shuddered.

"With the devil's gift you fear."

"Silence, witch!" Warden Harrick Blackthorn barked, voice trembling.

"I'd like to see it," Cedric said.

Sir Kael gripped his sword. "This isn't a jest, Your Highness!"

Cedric stepped past him toward the cell. "Leave if you're frightened."

"The Divine Shackles bind her!" Bartholomew croaked, more to reassure himself. "God's protection holds!"

Now an arm's length from Elara, Cedric studied her dust-streaked face. Though her features were youthful, her eyes held no childlike innocence—only the hollow resolve of those weathered by starvation and loss. Yet unlike broken souls, she stood straight, meeting his gaze unflinching.

She doesn't fear death, he realized. She welcomes it.

"First time seeing a witch, lordling?" Her voice crackled like embers. "Curiosity kills."

"If your power were truly cursed," Cedric countered, "your father would've died first."

The torchlight dimmed abruptly. Behind him, guards gasped; someone stumbled. The cell plunged into gloom save for Elara's shackles—a crude red chain with a crystalline pendant.

Seizing the moment, Cedric snapped the pendant free.

Elara blinked, stunned.

"Show me," he whispered. Charlatan? Alchemist? Or…

A hiss filled the air—water vaporizing. White mist rose as heat spiked. Flames bloomed at Elara's feet, caressing her bare legs. The stone floor itself combusted. Torches erupted, flooding the dungeon with blinding light.

Sir Kael yanked Cedric backward as iron bars glowed crimson. Within breaths, the metal turned molten gold, dripping like candle wax. Blistering heat seared Cedric's front while his back prickled with chill.

Elara stepped forward. Fire followed her like loyal hounds. The bars dissolved, and she emerged—naked, shackles vaporized, skin unscathed.

"Satisfied?" Her azure eyes remained calm. "Kill me now."

Cedric stripped off his cloak and draped it over her. "No. Lady Elara Vey, I'd like to employ you."

The Second Law of Thermodynamics: It is impossible to transfer heat from a colder body to a hotter body without other effects, or to convert thermal energy entirely into useful work without loss, or for entropy in an irreversible process to decrease.

Cedric copied the law meticulously onto parchment using this world's script—a looping, wormlike script he found absurdly cumbersome.

Among physics' axioms, none bored him more than entropy's tyranny. It declared heat's irreversible flow from order to chaos, dooming all to cosmic silence. Yet here, magic defied entropy. Energy conjured from nothing—greater than perpetual motion! The "devil's power"? Preposterous. These fools couldn't grasp its universe-altering potential.

For now, reshaping Borderwatch sufficed.

Humming, Cedric tossed the parchment into the fireplace, watching flames devour it.

Bartholomew eyed the prince's antics warily. "The 'witch' was hanged at noon. No suspicions arose—the hood concealed her."

"Good." Cedric tapped his quill. All witnesses—save Kael and Bartholomew—had received 20 gold dragons to bury the truth. A fortune to peasants. Bartholomew had suggested silencing them permanently, but Cedric refused. Secrets leaked eventually—good. Let witches hear of a sanctuary here.

"Compile last year's trade ledgers, taxes, and expenditures. Survey all workshops—ironworks, textiles, pottery."

Bartholomew nodded. "Three days, but…" He hesitated. "Why risk sheltering a witch? Even His Majesty endorsed the Purge Edicts."

Cedric leaned forward. "Is Borderwatch prosperous?"

"...No."

"Compared to Goldenfield or Harborlight, what chance do I have against my siblings?"

"None."

"Hence a new approach." Cedric's gaze sharpened. "One to impress Father: crippling the Church."

He framed his gambit not as moral defiance but political strategy—the eternal clash between crown and clergy. King Aldric III seethed at the Church's encroachment. Their "divine mandate" doctrine threatened royal authority. If witches could erode the Church's infallibility…

"While my siblings enrich the Church's coffers, I'll expose their lies. Imagine a realm unchained from the Holy See. Would Father prefer a puppet king blessed by the Pontiff… or me?"

Bartholomew's eyes glinted. A twenty-year bureaucrat smelled opportunity.

"Support me," Cedric pressed, "and 'Royal Steward' might replace 'Assistant.' Or… Hand of the King."

Watching Bartholomew retreat, Cedric exhaled softly. The advisor clearly placed little faith in his promises—understandable, as Cedric himself doubted this hastily concocted scheme. Yet its feasibility mattered less than Bartholomew's belief in his sincerity. A reckless plan fitting a spoiled prince's disdain for the Church also laid groundwork to recruit more witches.

As for his true ambitions? Even if they knew, they'd never comprehend.

Cedric summoned the maid. "Send Lady Elara to me."

Now, the real work began. He grinned, anticipation thrumming in his veins.