The rope was rough around Morganna's neck, itching against her skin, but she hardly seemed to notice. Her eyes, golden and unwavering, glided across the crowd below her, their anxious murmurs like a chorus in a cathedral. It was a melody she had heard many times before, and it never ceased to entertain her. The people came here to see a spectacle. They came for closure, to watch the supposed end of the Crimson Witch—an end that would never come.

The wooden gallows creaked beneath her, and she looked around casually, taking in the scene as if she were simply standing on a stage at a local theater. From her elevated position, she saw the broken cobblestones of the square, the rusting iron of the makeshift barrier erected to keep the crowd at bay, and the cold, rigid expressions of the Valenstone guards standing nearby. Their grim faces wore nothing but contempt, but Morganna only smiled.

The crowd—how desperate they all were. They wanted to see her broken, to know that the terror known as the Crimson Witch was gone from their world forever. It would be almost touching if it wasn't so hopelessly naive.

"People of Erthwood!" a stern voice called, breaking through the crowd's buzz. The High Inquisitor, garbed in ceremonial robes that were far too grandiose for this small, backwater village, stepped onto the platform. He held up a rolled scroll, shaking it as he read out Morganna's supposed crimes.

"Morganna Devereux, the Crimson Witch, accused of treason, sorcery, and the murder of countless innocents..."

His voice was flat, rehearsed, and entirely uninteresting. Morganna rolled her eyes, tuning out the monotonous droning of her accuser. She had heard these words before. They could list every petty crime, every single drop of blood she had spilled, and it still wouldn't come close to capturing the magnitude of what she had done. The number of lives she had destroyed was too great for them to fathom, and it amused her endlessly how they tried to quantify it.

She shifted her wrists, testing the bounds of the enchanted shackles that bound her hands behind her back. They had certainly gone to great lengths to prepare for her capture, using enchanted steel that disrupted her magic. Clever. But clever wasn't enough to stop her. It never was.

The Inquisitor was nearing the end of his speech now, the crescendo that would lead to her supposed execution—the glorious moment that the townspeople would tell stories about for generations. Morganna could almost hear their trembling voices as they spoke to their children about the day they watched the Crimson Witch hang. She smiled again, wicked and amused.

"May the gods have mercy on your soul," the Inquisitor finished, his voice echoing across the square. He nodded to the executioner, who stepped forward and grasped the lever to release the trapdoor beneath her.

Morganna inhaled deeply, her lips parting ever so slightly. She could feel it—the collective anticipation of the crowd, the dread in the air mixed with hope. She thrived on it.

"Now," she whispered, her voice soft enough that no one could hear. Just as the executioner pulled the lever, Morganna let the latent energy she had been building up flow out of her, surging through her veins and into the noose around her neck.

The trapdoor fell, but the rope did not snap.

Instead, it twisted and writhed, the coarse fibers shifting, transforming into something altogether alive. The crowd gasped in horror, a collective scream rising up as the rope turned into a serpent—a massive, dark-scaled creature that coiled around Morganna protectively, then slithered down to the gallows floor, hissing viciously.

Morganna landed gracefully on her feet, her shackles crumbling to ash as she regained full use of her magic. The High Inquisitor, who had been so confident just moments ago, staggered backward, his face drained of all color.

"What... what sorcery is this?!" he stammered.

Morganna looked at him, her golden eyes flashing with amusement. "Oh, Inquisitor," she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"

The crowd was in full-blown panic now, people pushing and shoving in a desperate attempt to flee the square. The guards, who had sworn their loyalty to Valenstone, found themselves frozen in place, unable to move, let alone fight. The serpent coiled and hissed, its forked tongue flickering out as it sensed their fear.

Morganna turned her gaze to the chaos she had caused, her smile growing wider. She could see it now—the town of Erthwood, once a place of misguided hope and resilience, descending into the chaos that had always been lurking beneath the surface. She had given them freedom from her tyranny, and yet they fled, terrified of what it truly meant.

"Run," she called out to the villagers, her laughter ringing across the square like the toll of a bell. "Run, little sheep. The Crimson Witch has returned."

And as the screams filled the air, Morganna took her first step forward, away from the gallows. The serpent followed closely at her heels, a loyal companion born from her power. She walked with purpose, her eyes set on the horizon, knowing that this was only the beginning.

For she was Morganna Devereux, the Crimson Villainess, and she had no intention of stopping until all of Asteria was drowning in chaos.