The forest was silent, save for the crackling of torches. Shadows twisted and danced across the faces of the mob, their expressions a blend of fear and rage. Joan of Arc stood in chains, her once-brilliant armor dulled, the sacred banner she had carried into battle lying trampled in the mud. The weight of betrayal was heavier than the shackles biting into her wrists.
They had called her a savior once. Now, they called her a witch.
The pyre loomed ahead, jagged wood piled high, reeking of sap and resin. Soldiers dragged her forward, rough hands shoving her into place. Joan stumbled but didn't fall. Her chin lifted defiantly, though her trembling betrayed her rage more than fear.
The crowd—commoners, clergy, and soldiers alike—watched from a distance. Their faces blurred into a sea of judgment. Joan's eyes searched for a single figure, a man who should have been there, standing in her defense. Charles VII, the king she had crowned, was absent.
Of course, he was.
The soldiers tied her to the stake, their hands shaking as though her very presence might scorch them. Even the executioner avoided her gaze. A priest approached, trembling as he held out a cross.
"Do you have any last words, witch?" the priest asked, his voice unsteady.
Joan inhaled, the acrid smoke of the torches stinging her lungs. She gazed out over the crowd, her voice clear and sharp.
"You call me a heretic, but you have betrayed God. He will judge us all."
The torches touched the kindling, and flames sprang to life, climbing hungrily toward her. Smoke swirled thick and suffocating, but Joan didn't scream. Her lips moved in a silent curse, a bitter vow.
"If the world will not remember me as its savior, it will remember me as its scourge."
The flames flared unnaturally. The crowd gasped, stumbling back as the fire turned blue, twisting and coiling like a living thing. Joan's eyes snapped open, glowing like molten gold. Her chains melted away, and the fire surged outward, swallowing the pyre in an explosion of heat and light.
Joan screamed—not in pain, but in fury. The world dissolved into ash.
She awoke in darkness.
Her body was gone, but her consciousness lingered, floating in an endless void. It was cold, silent, and empty—except for the voice.
["You hate them, don't you?"]
The words slithered through the void, soft and serpentine. Joan's anger flickered, a tiny ember against the nothingness. Her answer was sharp, immediate.
"Yes."
A low, guttural chuckle echoed around her, deep and menacing.
["Good. Hate is a powerful thing. It consumes, but it also fuels. Tell me, Flame Witch, do you wish for vengeance?"]
The ember within Joan flared. Memories of betrayal, the fire consuming her flesh, the faces of those who condemned her—all of it fed her rage. She snarled into the void, her voice trembling with wrath.
"I'll do whatever it takes. I'll make them all burn."
The voice hummed with satisfaction.
["Then rise, Joan of Arc. Rise as the Flame Witch and let your hatred shape this new world. Serve me, and I shall give you the power to leave my mark upon it."]
A fiery sigil appeared in the darkness, and pain unlike anything Joan had felt tore through her. Her soul twisted and burned as her body was remade, forged in fire and fury.
When her eyes opened, she stood in a world of light.
Joan awoke on soft moss, the scent of blossoms filling the air. Around her, an ancient forest stretched endlessly, bathed in golden sunlight. The breeze was gentle, the birds sang an unfamiliar song, and a stream gurgled nearby.
Her fingers twitched. She sat up, touching her chest instinctively. The place where the fire had consumed her was whole, unscarred. But beneath her skin, warmth simmered—a heat that felt alive.
She stood slowly, looking down at her hands. Embers flickered at her fingertips. She clenched her fist, and flames erupted, spiraling upward like a living thing. Joan stared at them, transfixed.
A dark smile spread across her lips. "This power..." she murmured. Her voice was filled with venom. "It's mine now."
She raised her arms, and the forest obeyed her wrath. Flames leapt from tree to tree, devouring the serene beauty in moments. Animals fled in terror, their cries drowned beneath the roar of destruction.
As the first great oak fell, consumed by fire, Joan laughed—a low, bitter sound.
"I'll make them pay," she said, her tone laced with malice.
The forest smoldered, a blackened wasteland. Smoke twisted into the sky, blotting out the sun. Joan stood amidst the ruin, the air thick with ash and heat. Her reflection in a pool of water showed a figure transformed—eyes of molten gold, hair like embers, and a presence that radiated power and fury.
Far on the horizon, golden light shimmered. Portals opened, one after another, spilling warriors into the world. Joan watched as figures emerged—a man clad in bronze, his sharp eyes scanning the terrain. Beside him, another stepped forward, katana glinting with crimson. More followed, each radiating strength and ambition.
Joan clenched her fists, flames coiling around her arms.
"This world…" she muttered, her voice low and menacing. "They've had their peace long enough." She raised her hand, letting the flames coil around it like a serpent.
"They will burn. Their warriors, their kings, their gods—they will all kneel before the fire."
Smoke curled around her as she turned and disappeared into the smoking woods. The Flame Witch would wait, honing her power. And when she was ready, the world would burn.