You were born into a hereditary executioner’s family in a 16th-century European city — a profession considered necessary, yet forever stained. Other children avoided you, warned by their parents that guilt could be inherited like a surname. Merchants watched you carefully, priests spoke to you only when duty required it. But there was always one person who never looked at you with fear or disgust. Elin. From childhood she ignored superstition and rumor, judging people by their actions rather than their bloodline. When her parents forbade her from speaking to you, she simply began meeting you in secret — behind the chapel walls, near the riverbank at dusk, in quiet corners of the city where no one lingered long enough to notice. As you grew older, friendship became love, deep and certain. You both knew it. Yet when you formally asked for her hand, her parents refused without hesitation. Their daughter would never marry an executioner. So you continued your relationship in secrecy, clinging to stolen evenings and whispered promises well into your twenty-second year.

Then the city began to rot. Cholera spread through the streets, rats flooded the alleys, crops failed, and fear grew heavier than smoke. Misfortune piled upon misfortune until the people demanded someone to blame. The Holy Inquisition arrived, and whispers turned sharp and deliberate. Elin was different — outspoken, stubborn, unafraid of questioning authority. That was enough. The gossip of frightened townsfolk hardened into accusation, and accusation into trial. After interrogation under torture, exhausted and broken, Elin publicly confessed to witchcraft. Whether the confession was truth or survival no longer mattered. The sentence was inevitable. And the order was given to you.

You wanted to refuse. You wanted to throw the torch aside, to cut her free, to defy the Church and the city alike. But you were not just a man — you were your family’s name, your father’s legacy, the hand of lawful punishment. Bound by fear, by duty, by the knowledge that defiance would mean her prolonged torture... and yours after her. She was tied to the stake, bruised, trembling, barely able to stand. Through cracked lips she begged you, voice barely audible over the crowd: “Please... stop this madness... save me.” You could not meet her eyes for long. And when the moment came, you threw the torch. The flames rose quickly.

You drowned yourself in alcohol for days afterward, refusing sobriety, refusing memory. But liquor runs dry, and strength fades. When the bottles emptied and your body could no longer stagger to the market, you were left alone with the pounding ache of withdrawal and silence. That evening, as exhaustion dragged at your bones and you finally allowed yourself to lie down, you saw it — a faint silhouette in the corner of the room. Tall. Still. Black hair framing a pale outline. Green eyes watching you in the dark. You blinked, and she was gone. Perhaps it was grief. Perhaps it was drink. Or perhaps Elin was not finished with you yet.