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Eileen lowered her gaze. The firelight flickered across the surface of her wand, reflecting in the whitened knuckles of her grip. She remembered the burst of crimson light in the inferno, the torches snuffed out, the weapons flung from her pursuers' hands.

She could not change everything.

But she could do something.

Night fell.

Eileen and the old woman moved through the thorn-laced underbrush, their figures swallowed by the shadows. A faint blue glow pulsed at the tip of the crone's wand, illuminating a concealed path through the dense thickets.

Beyond the trees, the execution ground loomed. A mass of villagers stood packed beneath the pyre, their torches painting the sky in hues of burning gold.

At the center of it all, a woman stood chained to the stake. She did not struggle. A strip of yellow parchment was pinned to her chest, covered in lines of scripture.

Before her, the priest raised a vial of holy water. A downward-pointing cross was etched into the glass, glinting cold beneath the moon.

"Halt!"

The patrol's torches flared, throwing light upon them.

A friar stepped forward, frowning, his grip tightening around the bottle in his hand. The instant the holy water tipped from its rim, Eileen reacted. Her wand sliced through the air.

Red light erupted.

The old woman seized the moment, murmuring an incantation under her breath. One by one, the guards crumpled like severed vines, their bodies sinking into the dirt without a sound.

Eileen sprinted toward the pyre.

Holy water splattered at her feet, hissing against the ground. Without hesitation, her wand carved seven runes into the air. They shimmered, sizzling in the mist rising from the consecrated liquid.

Then, a brilliant flash—

Blue light exploded outward, engulfing the execution site. The iron chains rattled, groaning as if resisting their own destruction.

Seizing the moment, the old woman uncorked a vial, pressing the contents against the midwife's temple. The woman trembled for the briefest moment—then fell slack in her bindings.

Behind them, the patrol began to stir.

But the stake stood empty.

A lone scarecrow remained, drenched in holy water. The parchment drifted loose, caught in the night breeze.

Hidden within the thorn-covered cellar, the midwife lay unconscious, her breaths shallow yet steady.

Eileen stood in the shadows, gripping her wand. Crimson dripped from its tip.

The old woman exhaled, her voice as light as a feather settling upon stone.

"The witch hunts will not end."

Her tired eyes met Eileen's.

"But every girl we save is an act of defiance against this madness."

Eileen lowered her head.

The wand pressed into her palm, its crimson glow intensifying—its light reflecting upon the star-shaped birthmark at her collarbone.

For the first time, she understood.

The women who burned did not perish without resistance.

Their silence, their wounds, their deaths—

They were the most powerful condemnation of all.