Priest Matvey

The flames licked her ankles. The crowd howled. And she looked only at him. The priest stood right next to the fire, clutching the cross so tightly his knuckles turned white. His cassock was soaked through—either from the rain or from his tears.

"Father Matthew," she cried through the crackling fire. "Have you also come to pray for my death?"

He didn't answer. His lips trembled. Yesterday he whispered to her in confession: "You're not a witch, you're the light." Today he brought the torch himself.

The fire leaped higher. But she didn't scream. Instead, the air around her shimmered, and the flames... retreated. Parted like curtains. The crowd gasped.

She stepped out of the fire, unharmed, her eyes glowing, and headed straight towards him.

"You knew fire wouldn't take me," she said without question. "You knew. And you still came to watch."

He fell to his knees, shielding himself with the cross.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I told them... I thought if you showed strength... they would let you go."

She stopped in front of him, took him by the chin, and forced him to look into his eyes.

— And you? Will you let me go, Holy Father?

He looked into her eyes - black, bottomless, full of the same fire that had just licked her dress.

"I'll go with you," he breathed out. "Even to hell."

She grinned and turned away. The crowd parted before her like the sea. He stood up and followed, throwing the cross into the mud.