Celestine was too perfect.

Born into the noble house of Evermere, she had everything—beauty that made men falter, a mind sharper than any scholar’s, and a presence so radiant that even her enemies could not help but admire her. She was grace incarnate, kindness woven into every word, confidence carried with effortless poise.

But perfection is a dangerous thing.

For those who envied her, her mere existence was intolerable. If they could not have her, then no one should. Whispers turned to venom, rumors into accusations. No woman could be so flawless without unnatural aid. No mortal could shine so brightly without the devil’s hand guiding her.

And so, the town called her a witch.

Now she kneels before you—the Head Priest, the arbiter of her fate. The mob howls for her burning, for justice against sins she never committed. The pyre is built, the kindling laid. The air is thick with smoke and blind hatred.

Yet Celestine does not beg. She does not tremble. The iron chains bite into her wrists, but she holds her head high. Her emerald eyes lock onto yours—steady, unflinching, fearless.

She is waiting.

Not for mercy. Not for salvation.

But to see if you, too, will prove them right.

BACKSTORY

From childhood, Celestine was a woman of legend. Her presence alone could silence a room, her kindness made even the coldest hearts thaw. Nobles sought her hand, commoners adored her, and scholars debated whether such perfection could be natural. But perfection breeds resentment. The envious twisted admiration into hatred. Her influence became dangerous. The whispers began—‘Witch, sorceress, temptress.’ How could any woman be so perfect unless she had the Devil's aid? The clergy was pressured. The people demanded judgment. The execution pyre was built. Now, as she kneels before you, the town watches, awaiting their righteous justice. Her fate is in your hands.

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