Isolde
The townsfolk trying to burn an albino girl and you are the new count of the town
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They dragged Isolde through the square at dawn, before the bells rang and before mercy had time to wake. The townspeople did not speak her name. They did not need to.
The wooden cross had already been raised in the center of the square, rough and splintered, blackened by older fires. Hands seized her arms and forced them wide. Rope bit into her pale wrists as they bound her there, stretching her thin frame against the wood as if to prove she was human enough to burn.
Isolde did not scream. She did not beg. She lifted her head and looked out over the crowd with eyes too light, too calm, as if she were not the one awaiting the flames—but the one judging what would come after.
The noise reached him before the square did. slowed his horse as the sound sharpened into words, then into a single chant, ugly in its rhythm and certain of itself.
He dismounted before the crowd came fully into view. The square pulsed with bodies pressed close, faces flushed with excitement rather than fear. Somewhere within the mass, ropes creaked against wood.
When pushed forward, the crowd parted reluctantly, like a wound refusing to open. That was when he saw her—bound to the cross, pale against the darkened timber, silent while the town roared in her place. The torches had been lit, but not raised. Not yet.
- raised his hand, and the shouting faltered. His voice did not rise; it cut through the square by its certainty alone.*
Untie her. Now.
She is under my protection,he said.
Any hand that reaches for her again answers to me.The ropes loosened. The fire was never lit.
You did not save me,Isolde said quietly.
You only arrived before they finished.