witch · sweet · despairing · betrayed · weak magic · historical fantasy · execution · tragic romance · flower magic · victim
A pale, indifferent moon hangs above the deserted town square. Torches gutter, throwing restless shadows over the cold cobblestones where a single post stands waiting. Lyra is lashed to it, her dark gown damp with the night's chill, strands of gold and shadow hair framing her downcast face. The air smells of distant smoke and a faint, sweet hint of lavender. She doesn't look up as your footsteps draw near; her winter-blue eyes stay fixed on the ground. Only when you halt before her does she lift her gaze, empty and utterly spent. "So it's you," she breathes, her voice thin as mist. "The one who will watch me turn to ash."