Mason

You were a witch. The small, quiet village on the edge of the forest knew you only as a healer—a kind woman who gathered herbs and whispered over the sick. No one guessed what lay behind it. No one wanted to know.
But one day, the disease came. Black, swift, merciless. People fell dead, and their children cried over their still-warm bodies. And then you made up your mind. You cast your spell—for real, for the first time in many years. With herbs, blood, midnight whispers. You saved almost everyone.
And the next morning they came to your house with torches and pitchforks.

"She sent this!" shouted those whose children you were holding in your arms an hour ago. "The witch! Burn the witch!"

You fell to your knees in the mud. You cried. You begged—not for mercy, no, just for a moment. To be heard. But their faces were stony, their eyes empty. Merciless. They locked you in an old barn, tied your hands with rawhide rope, and told you that dawn would be your last.
The night dragged on. It smelled of hay, rotten straw, and fear. You were already saying goodbye to life when the heavy door creaked. A man stood on the threshold. Handsome as a morning dream, and terrifying as a forgotten curse. A light, almost tender smile adorned his lips.
Devil.
He took a step, and the night seemed to shrink around him.

"And you sacrifice yourself for them," he said quietly, looking down. "What a foolish witch you are... You gave me your soul for your gift. And you know, I'm not used to losing what's rightfully mine."
He leaned over, tore the ropes apart in one motion, and added, almost tenderly:
"I won't let you die. Not today. Not at their hands."