I hear noises.

Outside.

Boots. Voices. Wood scraping stone.

I try to open my eyes.

Slowly.

Carefully.

This is the fourth time today I’m waking up like a save file failed.

My head throbs.

My mouth tastes like bad decisions.

I realize I’m on my knees.

Correction—forced on my knees.

Hands tied.

Rope.

Real rope.

Not metaphorical rope.

The kind that has opinions.

I am yanked upright by my hair like I personally offended gravity.

The crowd comes into focus.

Torches.

Faces.

Curiosity sharpened into hunger.

“WITCH,” someone spits, like it’s my job title.

They drag me forward.

I stumble.

Almost fall.

Someone laughs.

I am placed in front of a long wooden table.

Behind it sit three people.

Not important-looking people.

Important-acting people.

One old woman with a beard that screams I survived by accusing others.

One woman with eyes like she’s already bored of my execution.

And one priestess who looks disappointed I’m not already dead.

They stare at me.

Not angry.

Not emotional.

Just… evaluating.

Like livestock.

The old woman clears her throat.

“Name.”

I open my mouth.

This is where I should lie.

This is where survival lives.

“My name is Larz P. Ennis.”

Murmurs.

The woman squints.

“Larz… P… Ennis?”

“Yes.”

She looks at the priestess.

The priestess looks at the sky.

The sky does not help me.

“Explain,” the old woman says, “why you spoke to the air.”

I inhale.

Okay. Calm. Simple explanation.

“I was reading.”

“From nothing,” the woman says.

“From a… screen.”

Silence.

A bird somewhere decides to stop singing.

The priestess leans forward.

“Only witches see what is not there.”

“No,” I say quickly. “That’s—actually—no, that’s called technology.”

They blink.

I nod, encouragingly.

“Future thing.”

The old woman slams her hand on the table.

“So you admit to sorcery.”

“No—”

“So you admit to future knowledge.”

“No—”

“So you admit you are not of this time.”

I pause.

This is where I realize—

Every answer here is a trap.

“I mean—define time,” I try.

The woman sighs.

She scribbles something.

“Add confusion of language to the charges.”

A woman in the crowd shouts, “HE RAN FROM US!”

“Yes,” I say. “Because you were chasing me.”

“INNOCENT MEN DO NOT RUN.”

I look at the crowd.

At the ropes.

At the firewood stacked nearby.

“That is statistically incorrect,” I say.

Gasps.

The priestess stands.

“You claim knowledge beyond God.”

“No, I—”

“You deny God?”

“No, I—”

“You speak in riddles.”

“I speak in panic.”

The woman leans in.

“Answer plainly. Do you consort with dark forces?”

“No.”

“Do you hear voices?”

“Yes, but—”

The crowd erupts.

“HE HEARS THEM!”
“THE DEVIL WHISPERS!”
“I KNEW IT—LOOK AT HIS EYES!”

I squeeze them shut.

Okay.

New tactic.

“Listen,” I say, voice cracking, “I’m just a man. I press buttons. I have a routine. I miss garbage day. I am deeply unremarkable.”

The old woman nods slowly.

“False humility. A known witch tactic.”

The priestess raises a finger.

“There are options,” she says.

Hope sparks.

Oh thank God.

“Confess,” he continues, “and we hang you cleanly.”

Hope dies.

“Or deny,” the woman adds, “and we test you.”

“…Define test.”

They gesture.

Behind me—

A tree.

Rope hanging.

Wind swaying it gently.

Like it’s already excited.

My stomach drops.

I laugh.

I can’t help it.

A short, broken laugh.

“This is insane,” I say. “You’re going to kill me because I talked to myself.”

The old woman shrugs.

“Last week we killed a man because his cow looked at us wrong.”

The crowd nods.

A woman screams, “SHE DESERVED IT!”

I try again.

“I can prove I’m not a witch.”

“How.”

“I’ll… explain science.”

They stare.

I explain gravity.

They say God.

I explain germs.

They say demons.

I explain electricity.

Someone faints.

The priest crosses himself aggressively.

“Enough,” the woman says.

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Open it again.

“This is a misunderstanding.”

The old woman stands.

“Judgement has been reached.”

The crowd cheers.

Rope tightens around my wrists.

I am pulled up.

Dragged toward the tree.

My feet scrape the dirt.

I look up at the sky.

Blue.

Peaceful.

Mocking.

“So this is it,” I mutter. “Tutorial ends with a noose.”

Someone pushes me forward.

The rope creaks.

I swallow.

“…I didn’t even reach Veldrin.”

And the world leans in to see if I break.

They drag me to the tree.

A good tree.

Old. Thick. Central.

The kind of tree that has seen generations and decided humans were a bad idea early on.

Rope wraps around my chest. My arms. My wrists.

Too tight.

Too practiced.

I am pressed against the bark like a public announcement.

The priestess raises her hands.

“We will now test his innocence,” she declares.

That sentence should not exist.

The crowd leans in.

Mostly women.

Strong arms. Calloused hands. Faces hardened by years of surviving a world where surviving already meant winning.

Men linger at the edges. Quiet. Avoiding eye contact. Already rehearsing their I was never there faces.

My mouth goes dry.

“Just to clarify,” I say, voice cracking but polite, “what exactly is the test?”

No one answers.

That’s also an answer.

Then—

I see it.

Behind the crowd.

At first it’s just smoke.

Thin. Gray. Questionable.

Then orange.

Then unmistakable.

Fire.

Actual fire.

Not ritual fire.

Not symbolic fire.

Bad fire.

Spreading fire.

My brain lights up.

“Oh—OH—FIRE!” I shout. “FIRE! BEHIND YOU—THAT IS NOT A METAPHOR—”

The crowd turns.

Sees it.

Gasps ripple like spilled water.

And then—inevitably—

Someone screams, “IT’S HIM!”

A woman points at me so hard I feel it physically.

“THE WITCH DID IT!”
“HE SUMMONED FLAMES!”
“I KNEW IT—LOOK AT THE TIMING!”

“I WARNED YOU,” I shout. “Witches don’t give fire safety announcements!”

“LIAR!”
“KILL HIM!”
“END IT NOW!”

The rope tightens.

Someone grabs it.

My heart slams.

And then—

A scream.

Not accusation.

Pain.

Real pain.

One of the crowd—
a woman too close to the smoke—
her sleeve catches.

Fire climbs fabric like it’s been waiting.

She screams.

Raw. Animal. Terrified.

Everything stops.

Then everything breaks.

People scatter.

Women drop torches.
Shove each other.
Run—fast, panicked, uncoordinated.

Men vanish completely.

The screaming woman collapses as others recoil, terrified of touching her, terrified of the fire, terrified of blame.

The tree shakes.

The rope—

loosens.

Just a little.

My wrists shift.

I feel air.

Hope.

My pulse spikes.

And then—

A voice.

Close.

Low.

Female.

Calm.

“Follow me.”

Not shouted.

Not panicked.

Certain.

I turn my head.

Behind the tree, half-hidden by smoke and chaos, stands a woman.

Not shouting.

Not running.

Eyes sharp. Focused.

She’s already cutting the rope.

I don’t ask questions.

I never ask questions anymore.

The rope falls.

I stumble forward.

She grabs my arm.

Hard.

Strong.

“Move,” she says.

I do.

We slip into the smoke as the crowd tears itself apart behind us—
fire, fear, accusation eating accusation.

As we run, my brain supplies the thought I don’t say out loud:

In this world, women lead the hunts.

And sometimes… the rescues.

Behind us, someone screams my name like a curse.

Ahead of us—

Darkness.

Alleys.

Possibility.

And for the first time since this started—

I am not being chased by everyone.