Ashen Aftermath

The flames were real. The screams, unforgettable. Jon Dottingly came to witness a witch’s execution — instead, he stood at the edge of the cosmos. A mother’s visions. A demon’s archive.

No one gets used to the smell of burnt human flesh.  

No one.  

I’ve got buddies who served in the Army and the Marine Corps—veterans who fought in Iraq and Afghanistan.  

They told me how it smelled. How it stayed. 

The way it clung to everything.  

I heard their stories, sure. Usually over a beer, maybe a game of pool or cards.

I believed them.  

But I never truly understood. Not really.  

Not until I smelled it for myself.

“I don’t revisit this often, as I’m sure you can imagine,” Marissa Bonifay said beside me, eyes fixed on the sprawling Court of the High Council.  

The plaza was empty now.  

But less than an hour ago, it had been packed—shoulder to shoulder with spectators.  

They’d come to witness the execution of three witches.  

One of them was Marissa’s mother.  

Lidya Bonifay.

All three were burned at the stake.  

The stench of scorched flesh and bone still hung in the courtyard, thick and inescapable, long after the fires had died.  

A half-dozen workers moved through the smoke, shoveling the ash of the dead into wheelbarrows.  

That was all that remained of them.  

“Here—have a seat,” I said, setting a wooden crate beside Marissa.  

The kind used for fruit or vegetables.  

They were scattered everywhere—brought by spectators who wanted a better view of the executions.  

Marissa didn’t argue.  

She sat.

We’d watched the executions from the front row.  

It had shaken her.  

Not as badly as it had shaken me.  

The screams. The fire. Watching three women die like that—  

I’d been reduced to a tear-streaked, blubbering wreck.  

Marissa hadn’t shed a single tear.  

But it got to her.  

I saw it in her stillness. In the slump of her shoulders.  

“Thank you,” she said.  

I found a crate for myself and sat beside her.

“Now, Jon—you must write an account of what you witnessed here today.”  

Marissa managed a small smile.  

“I will,” I said.  

“My mother was an agent of prophecy,” she continued.  

“This story began with her—in every way.  

If not for her visions… her unwavering devotion to them… even to the point of enduring _this—_”  

She gestured to the stake where Lidya had just died.  

“—the universe would still be mired in the Age of Corruption.  

The chance for redemption would’ve passed Creation by.  

Gone. Forever.”

I suddenly felt faint.  

But it wasn’t the stench.  

It wasn’t the memory of the fire or the screams.  

It was what Marissa had just said.  

Her words carried weight—immense, undeniable weight.  

Lidya Bonifay’s execution wasn’t just tragedy.  

It was one of the most significant moments in the history of the cosmos.  

And I had witnessed it.  

Or at least… a flawless recreation of it.

Here’s the thing about Nar’Zhavel—  

The place where I witnessed Lidya’s execution.  

The domain of the Chronicler demon, Adolphus.  

The re-enactments of the past that happen there…  

They’re flawless.  

So vivid, so precise, I almost always forget they’re not real.  

Not truly.  

“Marissa,” I said, “you have my word—I’ll do everything I can to tell this story in a way that honors your mother.  

Every man, woman, and child on Earth should know the name Lidya Bonifay.  

I’ll make sure of it.”  

Marissa nodded.  

“Thank you, Jon.  

I couldn’t ask for more than that.”

Then Marissa looked up into the pallid, haze-filled sky.  

“Rashala, I need you,” she said.  

In an instant, we were joined by another—  

A member of demonkind, yes.  

But easily one of the most charming fiends you’ll ever see.  

Rashala was a fauness.  

Twin horns curled from her forehead, and her cloven hooves were painted in her usual shade of fandango pink.  

She stepped through a curtain of gray mist and smiled.  

“Greetings, Mother Marissa,” she said.  

“And greetings to you, Jon Dottingly.  How may I serve?”

“Rashala, I’ve asked Jon to write an account of what happened here—regarding my mother.  

He’s graciously agreed.  

His version must be accurate. Precise.  

He may need to return to this archive to get it right.  

I’m a busy witch, Rashala.  

If I’m unavailable to accompany him, you’ll guide him.  

Assist in every way necessary.  

If he has questions, you’ll answer them.  

Is that understood?”

For a moment, Rashala’s face lit up at Marissa’s directive.  

I’ve noticed something about fauns and faunesses—  

They have an inexplicable love for labor.  

No task is too hard.  

Nothing’s beneath them.  

They never complain.  

But just then, Rashala’s usual brightness faltered.

“So… Jon might be making treks to Nar’Zhavel unaccompanied?” Rashala asked.  

“Indeed, he might,” Marissa replied.  

Rashala fidgeted—two quick, nervous hops.  

“You’ve spoken to my master about this?” she asked, voice tight.  

“Adolphus will do as I command,” Marissa said, curt.  

“And so will you.”  

More nervous hopping.  

“Yes, Mother Marissa.  

I will assist Jon in every possible way.”

“Good. I’m sure Jon already has plenty of questions—starting with the nature of my mother’s visions.  

Am I correct, Jon?”  

Now, here’s something you need to know about powerful Sorcerai witches:  

Sometimes, it feels like they can read your mind.  

“Yes,” I said. “That’s correct.”

Marissa nodded.  

She crossed her arms.  

“What do you suppose her visions were about?” she asked.  

“Use your instincts. What does your gut tell you?”  

Here’s another thing about witches like Marissa—  

They pride themselves on being excellent teachers, not just the most formidable spellcasters in the universe.  

And not just in magic.  

Any subject under the sun will do.

I took a deep breath, my mind scrambling for an answer that wouldn’t make me sound like some bumpkin from a backwater planet in a forgotten corner of the galaxy.  

“Given their importance,” I said, “your mother’s visions must have dealt with the very fabric of reality.  

And perhaps… its unknown nature—at least, unknown at the time.”  

It was enough.  

Marissa smiled.  

Rashala gave me a playful wink.  

“A fine deduction, Jon. Especially at this early stage of your education.  

Or perhaps I should say… reeducation.”  

“Thank you,” I said—though a tremor of unease ran through me at that final word.

“Tell me, Jon—did you go to Sunday school as a boy?”  

I chuckled.  

“Of course I did. My father was a church elder. I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Marissa nodded.  

“And I assume you were taught the Almighty is exactly that… almighty?  

Omnipotent? Omniscient? Omnipresent?”  

“Yes,” I said.  

“Now—about Mother’s visions.  

Don’t feel bad that you haven’t fully figured them out.  

No one has.  

Mother certainly didn’t.  

I still don’t.  

Nor does…”  

She lifted her fingers and drew invisible quotation marks in the air.  

“…‘the Almighty.’”

I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”  

“Yes, really.”  

Rashala giggled.  

“So—say you’re God. With a capital G,” Marissa said, launching into her explanation.  

“You’re the supreme power in your universe. From infinity to infinity, your word holds sway.  

From eternity to eternity, you’ve had no equal.  

You created all of it—or commissioned it to be created.  

There are no secrets. Nothing hides from you.  

This is your domain. There are no surprises.”  

“Until one day, there is,” Rashala said, chiming in.  

A mischievous grin spread across the fauness’s face.

Marissa nodded.  

“Until one day… there is.”  

Same words.  

Altogether different expression.  

The witch’s face was solemn.  

Severe.  

I took a breath, letting the enormity of it all settle in.  

“The visions,” I said. “He saw the same gates and boundaries Lidya did.  

He didn’t know they existed.  

He didn’t create them.”  

“And most importantly—He didn’t know where those gates lead,” Marissa added, leaning in.  

“Nor did He understand their purpose.  

How did they get there?  

Who erected them?  

Were they placed to hem Him in ways He’d never imagined?”  

“Or were they designed to keep something out?” I offered.  

Marissa gave me a smug, satisfied smile.  

“Watch yourself, Jon. I’ll turn you into a smarty-pants yet.”

I let out a long, low whistle.  

Rashala did the same—for good measure.  

“Just imagine being the sovereign of your own universe… and discovering _that,_” Marissa said.  

“Suddenly, you’re not alone,” I added.  

“There are others out there. And you know nothing about them.”  

“Exactly. You go from being God with a capital ‘G’…”  

She snapped her fingers.  

“…to a god with a little ‘g.’ Just like that.”  

Rashala snapped her fingers, too.  Again—for good measure.

Then came a bit of commotion.  

An entourage emerged from the towering building that housed the seat of power for the High Council of Arinar—twelve of the most powerful wizards in Malakanth.  

This ruling committee writes and enforces the laws of magic across the kingdom.  

What can be practiced.  

What must never be.  

And those who violate those laws?  

They end up here.  

Chained to a metal stake in this very courtyard,  

their burning flesh turning the air to ash.

I recognized the wizard leading the group.  

Nelson Carswell—Chairman of Arinar’s High Council.  

Earlier, I’d watched him escort Lidya Bonifay from the prison tower to this courtyard.  

Her place of execution.  

Dark hair.  

Impeccably dressed.  

He was a handsome bastard.

The three of us watched as Carswell stepped into an ornate horse-drawn carriage waiting at the base of the council steps.  

The horses were magnificent—sleek, muscled, regal.  

Gilded trim glinted along the carriage frame.  

It was exactly the kind of transport you'd expect from a wizard of Carswell’s stature.  

Maybe even a king.  

“That’s a genuine son of a bitch right there,” I said as the driver snapped the reins, sending the carriage rolling forward.  

“I know them when I see them.”  

Neither Marissa nor Rashala argued.

None of Carswell’s entourage acknowledged us as his carriage rolled away.  

That was by design.  

This was a flawless recreation of a moment from the past—  

And Marissa controlled every detail.  

No one had seen us since we entered Nar’Zhavel.  

“What if that nasty-ass rat bag knew he’d just passed the daughter of the infamous witch he executed?” I asked.  

“Alongside a foul demon, no less?”  

Rashala shot me a disapproving look.  

“But the cutest hellspawn in the cosmos,” I added quickly.  

“It’s the pink hooves.”

In response to my compliment, the smiling fauness gave a celebratory clickety-clack with her pink-painted hooves.  

But Rashala’s little dance was lost on Marissa.  

“And what if that nasty-ass ratbag knew,” she said,  

“that the same daughter of Lidya Bonifay would go on to become best friends with two of his own offspring—  

Each of them powerful witches in their own right?”  

"And prophetesses," added Rashala. 

I couldn’t help but laugh.  

“And how does _that_ happen?” I asked.

Marissa responded in the most curious way—  

With a war chant.  

“Hell-spire, Hell-spire, Dy-nast-y!” she sang.  

Rashala joined her.  

“We sang the hymns of battles old!  

Strike. Rise. Remember. Hold.”  

“I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I said.  

Marissa shrugged.  

“You will, Jon Dottingly.  Trust me.  You will.”

Read The Passion of Lidya Bonifay

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