Secrets of Light and Shadow: Chapter 4

The town square was filled with the dull murmur of a crowd. The scent of oil and ash clung to the air, mixing with the distant sound of church bells. Smoke from the freshly built pyre curled into the gray sky, blotting out the midday sun.

The guards were finishing their work — stacking dried wood beneath the thick post at the center of the square. Long ropes of iron chain dangled from the sides of the platform. The townspeople stood in clusters behind the barricades, their faces taut and grim. Some whispered prayers; others stood silent, their eyes fixed on the platform.

The heavy doors of the guardhouse creaked open. Two guards emerged, dragging Benedetto forward by his arms. His bare feet scraped against the cobblestones, leaving faint trails of blood. His hands were bound before him, wrists dark with bruises from the iron cuffs.

Ignatus watched from behind the wooden bars of the holding cage at the edge of the square. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs. His hands gripped the iron bars so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Benedetto's face was calm. His lips curled into the faintest smile. He raised his head and looked toward the sky.

The guards forced him onto the platform and chained him to the post. A priest in dark robes stepped forward, holding a gilded crucifix. He murmured a prayer in Latin, raising the cross toward Benedetto's bowed head.

"In the name of God," the priest said, his voice sharp and brittle. "May the fire cleanse the heretic's soul."

A torchbearer stepped forward. The tip of the torch glowed orange, the heat warping the air around it.

Benedetto lifted his head toward the sky. His eyes reflected the light of the torch. He smiled — not in fear, but in quiet understanding. His lips moved as if he were speaking, but no sound escaped them.

"Thaumazien."

The torch touched the dry wood beneath his feet.

The fire caught instantly. It hissed and crackled as it licked up the base of the pyre. Flames curled around Benedetto's bare legs, blackening his skin. The smell of burning flesh mixed with the sharp tang of smoke.

Benedetto didn't scream. His head tipped back. His gaze remained fixed on the sky, his eyes wide with something not unlike wonder. His smile never left his face.

Ignatus's breath tore from his chest. "NO!"

He slammed his fists against the iron bars of the cage.

A guard unlocked the door and yanked Ignatus forward by the arm.

"It's time," the guard growled.

Ignatus stumbled as they dragged him toward the platform. The heat from the fire roared against his face. The flames had already curled around Benedetto's chest. His body sagged against the chains.

A guard stepped onto the platform and shoved Benedetto's burning body from the post. The chains rattled as Benedetto's charred body collapsed into the woodpile. The guard's boot pushed him toward the edge — and Benedetto's ruined body slid down into the ash.

Ignatus screamed.

They dragged him up the platform. His wrists were forced against the post, and he felt the bite of cold iron as the guards secured the chains.

A sudden noise broke through the haze of smoke. A shout — rough and frantic.

"Ignatus!"

His head snapped toward the edge of the square.

His father was there — his robes disheveled, his hair wild with sweat. He was pushing through the crowd, shoving townspeople aside with both hands.

"STOP!" his father screamed. His breath was ragged, his face pale beneath the afternoon light. "LET HIM GO!"

The guards closed in, blocking his path. Ignatus's father lunged forward — but one of the larger guards drove a hard fist into his stomach.

His father doubled over. His knees struck the ground. His hands scrabbled against the dirt as he gasped for air.

"Father!" Ignatus yelled, struggling against the chains.

The guard knelt down and seized his father by the hair, forcing his head up. The man's eyes were dark and cold.

"This one belongs to the Church," the guard said. "Stand down."

"Ignatus!" his father rasped. His hand reached toward him.

The priest raised the crucifix toward Ignatus's bowed head.

"In the name of God," the priest intoned, "may the fire cleanse the heretic's soul."

A torchbearer stepped forward. The flame swayed at the tip of the wood, distorting the air between them.

Ignatus's heart slammed against his ribs. His throat was raw with the effort to breathe. His gaze fixed on his father — still curled on the ground, his mouth forming his son's name.

"I'm sorry," Ignatus whispered. His chest heaved.

The torch touched the wood.

Flames surged up the base of the pyre. The heat seared his skin instantly. His arms strained against the iron chains. Smoke filled his lungs. His scream ripped through the square.

"Ignatus!"

Through the smoke and the heat, he saw his father's face — wide with horror. A guard's hand closed around his father's shoulder, holding him down.

The fire curled around Ignatus's feet. Pain tore up his legs. His vision swam.

In the haze of heat and smoke, Ignatus turned his head toward the sky.

The sun — dim and broken through the smoke — flickered above the rooftops. His lips parted.

"Thaumazien."

The flames surged higher.

Ignatus closed his eyes.

Light.

Fire.

And then — nothing.