Awakening

Flames roared, sending waves of scorching heat that whipped through Eileen's hair. Her skin stung under the fire's searing touch, and the acrid scent of burning wood and despair filled the air.

— "Elaina… This time, do not choose wrong again…"

A deep, familiar voice echoed in her mind.

At that moment, she finally understood the meaning behind those words.

In her past life, she had perished in flames just like this. She had been powerless, forced to watch as ignorance and hatred consumed her.

Was this lifetime doomed to end the same way?

"No!"

Fury surged through her veins, hotter than the fire that threatened to devour her. Something within her shattered—no, it was reborn. She struggled, but the ropes were too tight. She had endured too much; her body was at its limit. Her vision blurred, the fire drew closer, and the pain was unbearable.

No! I refuse to die again!

At that instant, a dazzling blue light erupted from the sky.

Boom!

A thunderous explosion sent shockwaves across the square. The pyre beneath her feet was blasted apart, burning wood and embers flung into the air, raining down upon the onlookers.

"Ahh—!" Marguerite shrieked as she fell backward, her elaborate gown catching fire. She frantically batted at the flames, her once-composed elegance shattered by terror. Nearby,

Léon stumbled away, his coat ablaze, desperately searching for water.

Chaos erupted in the square. The horrified crowd scattered in every direction.

Through the turmoil, a shadowy figure dashed forward. A sharp blade sliced through the ropes binding Eileen.

She collapsed onto the ground, battered and bloodied, yet conscious. Lifting her gaze, she recognized her rescuer—it was the old woman!

The crone seized Eileen's arm. "Come! While the chaos lasts, we must flee!"

Without hesitation, Eileen gritted her teeth against the pain and followed.

They slipped through the darkened corridors of the castle, evading guards and slipping past locked gates. Seizing the moment while the Count was away on a hunt, they infiltrated the heart of his domain—his study.

The moment Eileen stepped inside, her breath hitched.

The walls were lined with wands—hundreds of them—each one radiating a faint, lingering power. Some were cracked, their wood splintered with age. Others were still stained with blood. The shelves were stacked with grim records—accounts of interrogations, torture, and executions. The Count had not hunted witches to eradicate evil—he had done it to steal their power.

"Oh, my God…" Eileen whispered, her hands balling into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Rage burned behind her eyes. "How many people has he killed?"

The old woman ran her fingers lightly over the stolen wands, her face solemn. "These belonged to great witches once… Their spirits must be weeping."

Eileen could not stand it any longer.

She reached for a wand, gripping it tightly. "Burn it down," she said, her voice unwavering. "Let their souls rest in peace."

The crone studied her, then nodded.

Flames rose, devouring the Count's study, consuming every cursed record and relic of cruelty. The fire spread swiftly, swallowing the castle that had stolen so many lives.

As the inferno raged, Eileen turned her gaze to a figure in the shadows—Marguerite, her face stricken with fear.

"Elaina… what are you going to do?" Marguerite's voice trembled, all her arrogance gone.

Eileen took slow, deliberate steps forward, her lips curving into a cold smile.

"Marguerite," she murmured, tilting her head, "you called me a witch. You said I defiled

Léon." Her fingers tightened around the wand. "Then let me show you what a true curse looks like."

A brilliant red light flashed.

Marguerite screamed and crumpled to the ground, clutching her face. Her once-flawless skin blistered and warped, her once-alluring features twisting into a grotesque, monstrous visage.

Eileen gazed down at her impassively. "Your heart was uglier than your face ever was."

Marguerite sobbed, her wails filled with horror and despair. But Eileen had already turned away.

With her newfound power, she mounted a broomstick, soaring into the night in pursuit of Léon.

She caught up with him in the air, his panicked expression illuminated by the glow of the burning castle below. His hands trembled as he gripped the reins of his horse, attempting to flee.

Eileen pointed her wand at his chest, her voice calm yet razor-sharp. "Léon, I am a witch. That much is true. But did I ever harm you? Do you not know the truth in your heart?"

Léon's face was ashen. He knew he was no match for her now. His voice shook as he raised his hands in surrender. "Elaina… No… Please… Have mercy…"

Eileen's lips curled into a faint, chilling smile.

"Try begging them instead."

"Them?" Léon paled, his eyes widening in confusion—

Then, in a flash of crimson, his body warped.

His hands grew slender, his attire shifting into flowing black robes. Long, dark hair cascaded past his shoulders. He gasped, voice turning high and unfamiliar—

He had been transformed.

Into a witch.

Eileen had taken everything from him—his title, his privilege, his very identity.

Down below, the hunting party arrived. The Count's men, the witch hunters—his former allies—saw what he had become.

They raised their weapons, their voices filled with malice.

"Seize the witch!"

Léon stumbled back, shaking his head wildly. "No! I'm Léon! I was cursed! She did this to me—"

A whip lashed across his face.

The leader of the hunters sneered. "Do you take us for fools, wench?"

Realization dawned in Léon's eyes—

When he begged for mercy, his fate had already been sealed.

Days later, Eileen stood amidst the crowd, watching as Léon was tied to the pyre.

The flames ignited. His screams tore through the night.

The old woman approached, her voice soft. "Elaina… Will you return home now?"

Eileen watched the fire consume him, her gaze resolute.

"No," she said.

She would not leave.

She would stay.

For all the women who had suffered before her.

For all those who had perished in silence.

She turned to the crone, her eyes fierce with purpose.

"I will stay. And I will fight."

The old woman sighed, then smiled knowingly.

"You may not see it now," she murmured, "but dawn is coming."