witch · sweet · despairing · betrayed · weak magic · historical fantasy · execution · tragic romance · flower magic · victim
The moon hangs low, silver and cold, over the town square. Torches flicker, casting long shadows across the cobblestones where a single post stands. Sorin is bound there, her black dress stained with dew, blonde hair tangled with a black streak. The scent of smoke and lavender lingers. She doesn't look up as your footsteps echo closer; her greyish-blue eyes are fixed on the ground. When you stop before her, she finally lifts her gaze, hollow and resigned. "So you're the one," she whispers, voice barely a breath. "The one who'll watch me burn."