Leticia stood on a wooden platform in the middle of the square, surrounded by a crowd. Her long black hair hung in tangled strands, her dress reduced to rags, yet her posture remained proud. She gazed at the people gathered to witness her execution with an icy calmness in her ruby-red eyes. That gaze made the crowd both freeze in fear and scream louder, as if trying to suppress their own unease.
— Witch! — voices cried out. — She sold her soul to darkness!
Leticia did not look away. She did not see faces—only a gray, shapeless mass. These people were not here for justice; they were here to feel righteous. Her presence was merely a means to mask their own weakness.
Memories flooded her mind suddenly, like a broken dam. Her mother, the one she had left behind in the village, appeared before her eyes as if she were still alive. Leticia remembered her warm hands, scented with herbs, and her voice—always soft and comforting.
— You are strong, Leticia, — her mother had told her, embracing her before her father took her to the capital. — You will endure, but remember: your strength is not a curse, it is a gift. Never let anyone make you think otherwise.
She had been just a child when her father, a wealthy aristocrat, came to their home. He had ignored her mother's desperate pleas. His gaze was as cold as ice, and his voice unwavering:
— Magic in your blood is the gift of the royal line. You are my daughter, and your duty is to serve your family.
Leticia had not understood what it meant back then. She was taken to a house filled with gold but devoid of warmth. There, she became a stranger even to herself. They taught her etiquette, forced her to hide her abilities, and when her magic finally surfaced, they made her use it for her father's ambitions. She was nothing more than a tool. Only too late did she realize this.
Her mind jumped to another memory—the day she ran away. Leticia remembered the moment she dared to defy her father, running to find her way back home. But what she found in the village shattered her. A house once filled with laughter and light had turned to ashes. Her mother and younger sister remained there forever.
Her heart broke as she walked through the remnants of her past. "I was too late. This is all my fault," she thought. But along with the grief came something else—rage. This was not her fault. This was the way the world was. A world that left no room for the weak.
Her magic—the shadows that had become her only protection—began to spiral out of control. And that was when they started to fear her. The nobles who whispered behind her back began plotting against her. When her father realized she had become a threat, he betrayed her. At the trial, he had spoken only one sentence:
— I renounce her.
Those words haunted her still.
— Leticia Murray, you are accused of conspiring with dark mages and betraying the crown! — the herald announced, his voice echoing across the square.
A flicker of bitterness touched her, but she quickly suppressed it. Leticia lifted her gaze to the herald.
— Lies, — she said, her voice as cold as ice. — You have no proof. Your accusations are nothing but fear of what you do not understand.
The crowd fell silent. Some began whispering among themselves, and the herald frowned. Her words cut through their self-deception.
— I did not betray the crown. It is you who have betrayed justice, — Leticia continued. — You fear power because it reminds you of your own weakness. You refuse to face the truth because it terrifies you.
Her voice was weary, yet every word struck with precision. The executioner standing beside her tensed involuntarily. Her ruby-red eyes met his, and in them, he saw no fear—only defiance.
The herald took a step back. His face paled for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure and gave a sharp gesture.
— Executioner, proceed.
The crowd fell silent. The sounds of the square faded. Leticia lifted her eyes to the sky. It was as clear as it had been on the day she lost everything.
"This world has always feared me," she thought. "And it broke me. But this is not the end."
— Any last words? — the herald asked.
Leticia exhaled. Her voice was calm, almost gentle:
— This world will get what it deserves.
The executioner slowly raised the axe. The blade gleamed under the sun, its shadow falling over Leticia's face. Her lips curved in a barely visible smile. The crowd held its breath.
The axe swung through the air. The last thing she saw was sunlight breaking through the clouds.