Dacien stumbled across the uneven cobbles of the street as he sprinted to catch up to Myra’s urgent pace. His heart beat with every step, though surely not as harshly as Myra’s did. Without looking at her face, Dacien could surmise the panic pulsing through her.

His confusion would soon turn to fear when he staggered to a halt behind Myra’s rigid body.

They stood just yards from her shop, the floor beneath them puddled in powdered glass, cups and pots. The wooden shop door had been all but shredded, hanging on by one stubborn hinge. Inside was dark, but it was obvious the chaos that had been unleashed on Myra’s most prized possessions – her livelihood – her entire world.

But that didn’t explain the hazy smoke circling the air.

“Myra,” Dacien tried, but he could conjure no further words. He reached a hand out, it didn’t touch Myra’s arm.

She followed the swirls of thick smoke, the burnt-hair scent making bile bubble in her stomach. 

The trail took her around the corner, onto the street behind. There was a section of grass covered by a handful of trees, breaking the road in two. It was atop the grass that the fire rose high.

A yellow-red inferno slicing through the black of the night. It cast twisting shadows onto the ground, deformed and horrifying.

Myra froze. Her eyes bounced from one girl, to the next, to a man, to another member of the community she lived in. There they all stood, silhouettes circling the fire burning through her teas, her plants and furnishings. They had set her life ablaze. And they were laughing, dancing, singing.

She couldn’t explain why she didn’t throw up there and then. Maybe it was the rage seeping through every wisp of her soul.

“Pass me more!” One of the women yelled. Myra recognised her from the day she had exposed her secrets. “I cannot wait to see the witch's face!” She laughed while she tore open a packet of Myra’s freshly made Autumn tea, reserved for her favourite customer.

Myra relaxed her hand, unclenching and allowing her power to prickle through her veins, to escape her willing fingertips. She stepped closer, eyes flickering from one ghastly figure to the next. 

Laughing, singing, dancing, throwing fuel into the fire, roasting food on neatly trimmed sticks. The inferno consumed Myra’s vision, ate through her thoughts.

“Myra!” Dacien called out to closed ears.

Myra pulled her hand upwards, ripping the grass from the ground– No, springing it up, growing it into twisting vines that loomed over the joyous townsfolk. Only few of them stopped in time to stare up, wide-eyed and breathless. Myra struck them down, tied them up and squeezed tight. Her hands were clenched, knuckles paling, nails cutting through her own skin. 

The people screamed with what little breaths they could take. Their eyes focused on the fire they had created, the fire that Myra had begun throwing plant debris into, the fire that was growing and growing, approaching. Men and Women squirmed, shrieked, cried, fought, but Myra’s grip was unnatural – ungodly.

“You call me a witch,” Myra mumbled, uncaring if no one heard her, “then I’ll be one. Don’t mess with me! Don’t torment me unless you can take it back! Tenfold!” She pressed harder, imagining the faces of the people were turning blue, under the black of soot.

Her focus didn’t falter when Dacien grabbed her shoulders, shook her in a futile attempt to ‘bring her back’. Her focus didn’t falter when doors slammed open on the street all around her, when the horrified stares of more and more townspeople bore into her.

Her focus faltered when the fire flickered around a figure standing beyond. On the other side of hell stood Magnolia, her eyes as wide and as terrified as the rest of the people scattered around. Her body held tight. Their eyes locked. Myra could feel Magnolia’s fear. 

Myra’s grip on her shackles of vines trembled, and Dacien quickly took his chance. He enveloped Myra in a consuming hug, tearing her away from the view, away from her actions. He pulled her enraged body close, but not for comfort, for control. To circumvent a tragedy that Myra couldn’t take back.

“Let go of me!” She screamed, sobbed. “They deserve it! They deserve it!”

“Shhh,” Dacien tried to soothe her, acutely aware of the townspeople running from their homes to help the criminals, victims out from under the vines.

Some of them yelled in protest against Myra, while others ran from their houses with buckets of water to tame the fire. He watched as some ran away from the scene, bolting through alleyways with a clear thought in their minds.

“Myra, come on. We need to leave.” Dacien stood tall again, pulling Myra to her own weak feet. “We need to leave before they have you arrested.”

“Let them.” Myra spat, her cheeks consumed by salty rivers, her sight completely blurred. “I have nothing.”

Dacien ignored her mumbled cries. She didn’t put up a fight and followed where he pulled.

He took her through street after street. A handful of them were lit by fiery lanterns that seemed to make Myra’s stomach churn and her feet stumble all the more. Dacien didn’t let go of her hand the entire way. Not until they made it to safety behind his home’s door. Safe at least for some time.