The Trial

Night fell, and the sea wind was biting cold.

Eileen sat by the fireplace, clutching Léon's letter in trembling fingers. The flames flickered, casting her lone shadow onto the stone walls, distorted and forlorn. She had thought she would wait for Léon, wait for an answer—but instead of him, she was met with a nightmare.

The castle doors burst open with a violent crash. From the darkness, a group of men clad in black stormed in, their heavy footsteps pounding against the stone floor. Each held a thick wooden club, their gazes cold and merciless.

"Who are you?!" Eileen shot to her feet, a surge of dread rising in her chest.

No one answered. The leader of the group sneered, and in the next moment, a freezing hand wrapped around her throat, slamming her onto the ground. She struggled, but more hands pinned her down, the searing pain spreading through her limbs. Clubs struck her back, her arms, her legs—bones cracked under the blows. The agony was so overwhelming that she nearly lost consciousness.

The metallic scent of blood tainted the air. Through the haze of pain, Eileen barely made out a familiar silhouette standing in the doorway.

Marguerite entered the room with unhurried grace, clapping her hands lightly as though admiring a carefully orchestrated performance. The crimson of her dress shimmered in the candlelight, the color of flames, of spilled blood. A victorious smirk curled at her lips.

"Enough," she finally commanded. The men stepped back immediately, leaving Eileen collapsed on the ground. Her body was covered in wounds, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Even breathing had become excruciating.

Marguerite crouched beside her, gently lifting Eileen's chin with a single finger. Her voice was soft—almost tender—but laced with unmistakable malice.

"Don't you see? You don't belong here. Leave Léon's world, or…" Her smile deepened, her voice turning into a chilling whisper. "You will die without a sound, and your body will be fed to the sea."

Eileen's lashes quivered. With great effort, she lifted her gaze, her eyes burning with defiance. "Léon… won't let you do this."

"Léon?" Marguerite chuckled as though she had heard the most ridiculous joke. "You really think Léon would throw away his family, his entire future, for you?"

Her gaze suddenly flickered to Eileen's torn sleeve—and her expression froze.

On Eileen's left shoulder, a pale birthmark was faintly visible, shaped like a star.

Marguerite's eyes turned icy.

She shot to her feet, her voice sharp. "Take her outside."

—The castle doors were thrown open again, the frigid wind sweeping in.

Eileen was dragged to the center of the square, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Yet, what truly made her shudder was Marguerite's next move.

Standing before Léon, Marguerite extended a finger toward the birthmark on Eileen's shoulder, her voice shrill with exhilaration.

"Do you see it, Léon? Do you see it?!"

Léon frowned, his gaze falling on Eileen's shoulder—his pupils contracting slightly.

Marguerite's lips curled into a sinister smile as she abruptly stepped back and pointed at Eileen, her voice ringing across the square.

"Witch! She's a witch!"

The crowd erupted into chaos.

"She used sorcery to bewitch you, Léon! This filthy witch has defiled you!" Marguerite's voice was sharp, a venomous hiss cutting through the night.

Eileen's heart pounded violently. She raised her head, mustering every last bit of strength to reach for Léon.

"No! Léon, you know it's not true! I never used magic on you! Your heart… your heart was never under my control! You know that, don't you?!"

Her voice trembled in the cold, her eyes filled with desperate hope.

—She was waiting for his answer.

She wanted him to say it. To say, Yes, I believe you.

But what she saw instead was a pair of cold, contemptuous eyes.

Léon's lips parted slightly, as if hesitating—before he finally spoke.

"You've been deceiving me all along… You're a witch."

At that moment, Eileen's world collapsed.

She stared at him, as if an invisible dagger had plunged straight into her heart. The pain was unbearable, suffocating.

And then, she laughed. A hollow, broken laugh filled with bitterness and despair.

A witch…

Yes, she was a witch.

But what crime had she committed? What had witches ever done to deserve such treatment?

—The night stretched on. The torment began.

Marguerite personally selected the cruelest punishments. Whipping, the rack to tear her limbs apart, fire against her skin, needles driven under her nails—Eileen's body was reduced to a canvas of agony, yet she bit down hard, refusing to scream.

Blood dripped from her fingertips. Her consciousness wavered. In the fog of pain, images flickered in her mind—

A woman bound to a stake. Flames roaring around her. The night sky echoing with her anguished cries.

Who was she?

Who was calling out to her?

—By the time Marguerite had finally tired of her game and decided to end it, dawn had begun to break.

At the center of the square, the gallows stood tall. A thick rope hung from above, waiting for the accused "witch."

Eileen was pushed up onto the platform. The wind howled, the pyres already alight.

—And in that moment, she understood.

The voices that had called to her. The memories swallowed by fire. The pain, the blood—

That was her.

That was Elaina.

Her past life.