The Passion of Lidya Bonifay

Wind.

For those proficient in witchcraft, the shifting torrents of air that swept across the Kingdom of Malakanth were more than mere weather—they were tools. From the wildest grassland tempest to the gentlest shoreline breeze, each gust and gale carried a story.

A skilled witch, attuned to the whispers of the wind, could hear the howl of a spring squall and know the perfect time to plant an herb garden. An expectant mother, listening closely to the rustling birch leaves after an autumn shower, could divine the gender of her unborn child.

But on this winter morning in the Province of Arinar, the wind served a far more pragmatic purpose.

The rolling currents—peculiarly strong for the season—stoked the fire beneath the stake where a woman was chained. Across the cosmos, witches often met their end in flames, their deaths fueled by fear, ignorance, or jealousy. This woman would be no exception.

Yet, unlike most, she would not suffer long. The roaring blaze, fanned by the wind, would consume her swiftly—denying the wizards of Arinar the satisfaction of prolonged torment.

Even in death, she had an ally. The wind.

"Return to the elements from whence you came, sister. Go forth into eternity. May you find rest."

From her cell atop one of the four prison towers overlooking the Court of the High Council, Lidya Bonifay watched the final thrashings of the poor wretch amid the hateful flames.

The Court, a sprawling plaza enclosed by imposing walls, was home to the twelve-member wizard committee that governed the use of magic in Malakanth. A bloodthirsty throng filled the square. The High Council’s punishments against magical outlaws never failed to draw enormous crowds.

Arinar’s streamers were out for this event. The province's flags lined the high walls from tower to tower, hundreds of crimson banners billowing in the morning wind. Only two standards broke the sea of red—the King of Malakanth's eagle banner and the battle emblem of Laeron Madrin. But the golden stag of Arinar’s High Council shone proudly on every other flag, a symbol of their dominion.

Three practitioners of forbidden magic were to be executed this morning. Yet, the burning of Lidya Bonifay was to be the grand spectacle—a triumph for the High Council.

Rumored to be nearly five hundred years old, sustained by twisted and perverse magic, the wizards of Arinar had hungered for the blood of the elusive Madam Bonifay for centuries.

Yet despite their supposed great learning, despite their acknowledgment of her legendary magical prowess, they had drastically underestimated the witch’s years.

Lidya Bonifay was well over ten times her suspected age.

More importantly, the wizards would have never guessed that their prized prisoner was surrendering her life to them of her own free will.

Lidya turned from the grim scene below and tossed aside the tome of sacred scriptures she had been holding.

The Otholitica, as it was known, struck the wooden floor with a heavy thud, sending her lone companion—a gray rat—scurrying for cover in a pile of straw.

A kindly-faced priestess, a member of the Society of Laeron Madrin, had gifted her the book upon her arrival at the tower. It contained many of Malakanth's most revered scriptures.

Lidya had found no use for it.

In life, she had never drawn comfort from the sacred texts.

She saw no reason to turn to them now, in the moments before her death.

Lidya peered through the metal bars of her cell’s lone door.

"Zol'atar bambradee. Al'atrek."

Her voice was barely audible, yet the spell held firm. Just outside, two guards remained slumped in unnatural sleep. Even the younger one—who had been particularly difficult to bewitch—was deep within the grips of her magic.

Satisfied, Lidya settled onto the plain wooden stool—her lone comfort within the cold, unforgiving tower. She cleared her mind.

"Zol'atar bambradee est zar'nie."

With their second victim now dead, Arinar’s council of jackals would be coming for her soon.

But there was still time.

Time for one last glimpse into the mists of prophecy—one final chance to peer beyond the boundaries of this universe and gaze upon the face of immortality.

"Zol'atar bambradee. Al'atrek!"

Like countless times before, the haze of reality lifted, her consciousness slipping into the pools of insight.

Visions struck her in waves.

A city of light—Heaven, if you will.

Pain and suffering did not exist there. Nor did the fruitless travails of mortal life.

Love, peace, and mercy called out to her from the expanse, their flawless beauty enticing her—mocking her.

For the life she had led, this paradise would never be hers.

She already knew this.

Her fate lay elsewhere.

What awaited Lidya Bonifay beyond the wizard’s stake would be far worse than fire.

Prophecy had always walked hand in hand with Lidya.

She could gaze into the possibilities with unrivaled power, unraveling the hidden threads of existence. But more than that—she could perceive the forces tied to these revelations.

For centuries, she had explored both Heaven and Hell through her visions. Yet over time, she encountered something unsettling—boundaries.

Obstacles in places where none should exist.

It took her more than a millennium, but at last, she pierced the barriers that encased these eternal bastions, allowing her glimpses beyond—to realms even the mightiest powers of this cosmos could not comprehend.

In this farseeing, Lidya discovered something astonishing.

A place where humankind’s most infamous souls might one day find relief from their torment.

A realm where even a villainous witch might atone for her wrongs.

"Oh, snap out of it, Lidya. Dispense with the daydreaming already. I've come to remove you from this foul place."

Even as Lidya hovered at the precipice of prophecy, perched above one of Heaven’s most obscure gateways, she heard the familiar voice of her friend calling her back to reality.

With a sigh, she began extracting herself from the vision. The images of redemption—the realm beyond Heaven and Hell—faded. The colors dimmed. The scenes blurred.

Then, at last, they were gone.

"Good morning, Muriel," she said as the final image, one of Heaven’s emerald rainbow, vanished from sight. "How are you this fine day?"

"Lidya Bonifay, I've known you for ten thousand years and love you more than any witch should. But I cannot figure out what you are trying to accomplish with this charade.

"What are you trying to prove?"

Lidya opened her eyes to see Muriel Brayden pacing the length of the cell, her every step sharp with irritation.

Her sister in magic looked ripe for murder.

Despite having lived for millennia, Muriel, with her raven hair and single piercing eye, did not look a day over thirty. She had arrived atop the tower through a magical portal while Lidya had been adrift in prophecy.

In her arms, she cradled the infant daughter to whom Lidya had given birth earlier that fall.

The child's name was Marissa.

"Damn it, Lidya. There's no reason for you to be here."

Muriel paused her pacing long enough to pry a loose nail from one of the wooden planks that made up the cell walls. "This place couldn't possibly contain a witch of your prowess."

She sneered and tossed the nail to the ground.

Designed from a cunningly crafted farasite alloy, the High Council’s enchanted nails were used to suppress magic whenever necessary.

This holding cell atop the tower—designed specifically to imprison witches—contained many such nails. The metal bars on the door and window frame were forged from the same alloy, forming a prison meant to render spellcasters powerless.

For any run-of-the-mill village witch, it would have worked.

For masters like Lidya and Muriel, it was little more than a nuisance.

Unlike the bumbling witches scattered across Malakanth’s boroughs and hamlets, they carried a vaunted coven lineage—one older than the very planet they stood upon.

"Please, Lidya, let's leave this dreadful place."

Lidya shook her head. "Destiny dictates otherwise, Muriel. The Sisters must know I go to the stake willingly. Tell them I do so with a joyful heart, full of expectation for life everlasting in the hereafter."

Muriel fixed her lone, baleful brown eye on Lidya. "For life everlasting in the hereafter? Just listen to yourself. You're talking nonsense. Have you gone mad?"

"The divination of prophecy is hardly nonsense, Muriel. You've never had a problem deferring to my expertise in such matters. Why do you question me now?"

"Because never in your entire life have I thought you insane."

Muriel let out a frustrated breath. "When you placed Marissa in my arms and charged me with her care, I thought it was a joke. But no. You really did head off to Arinar. You really did allow yourself to be captured by the High Council. Never could I have imagined seeing you here now, waiting to die, wanting to die."

She trembled, emotion tightening her voice. "Mother has said for centuries that your obsession with those visions would end up being the death of you. And it looks as though she was correct.

"As usual.”

Despite Muriel’s contempt for the situation, hearing her speak of Marissa stirred something deep within Lidya—a longing to hold her child one last time.

"May I see her?" she asked, extending her arms toward the baby.

"Don't be silly. Marissa is your child, your own flesh and blood. You need not ask."

Muriel placed the infant in Lidya’s waiting arms.

One look into her daughter’s dark brown eyes, and Lidya was on the brink of tears.

This child would never know her mother.

Yet, Lidya’s sorrow was not only for the memories she would never share or the moments she would never witness.

It was for what she had seen in prophecy.

Marissa’s future would be fraught with suffering—both of the body and the mind. But through it all, she might one day bring hope to a doomed race. She held the potential to uncover truths no one else had dared to seek.

She could unlatch the gates that led to the lands of redemption.

And for that hope, Lidya Bonifay was willing to burn.

She did not know why fate demanded this sacrifice, only that it did.

If she refused, if she faltered, the cauldron of her daughter’s destiny would remain unlit.

The prophecy would go unfulfilled.

"Use her father. Marissa must spend time with him, at least for a season, during her tender years."

Lidya ran a loving finger down the bridge of her baby's tiny nose.

"Teach her the craft. Grow her up strong, sister. Spare her no misery on my account. But in the end, the decisions will be hers to make."

Muriel could take no more.

Tears rimmed her lone eye as Lidya’s final words of instruction settled over her like a funeral shroud.

"So, you are really going to go through with this?"

Her voice trembled.

"I'm afraid so."

"Then you have truly found the key to immortality," Muriel said. "And death is the key, somehow. But if I must care for the child, how will I follow after you?"

Lidya shook her head. "Under no circumstances will you hand yourself over to these fools."

She placed a hand on Muriel’s cheek.

"Listen, we will meet again. We will sing and dance together in a paradise beyond my ability to describe. This I have foreseen. The key rests with Marissa, not with death itself."

Muriel exhaled, her shoulders easing as Lidya’s words settled over her. But the peace was fleeting.

Footsteps echoed up the spiral stairwell beyond the cell door—heavy boots, many of them.

The wizards and their armed guards had come.

Lidya rose to her feet. Muriel clutched Marissa to her chest.

"My time has come. Remove my daughter from this place."

In response to Lidya’s directive, Muriel snapped her fingers.

A portal flared to life—a hovering disk of swirling red smoke, suspended in midair.

Tears returned to Muriel’s eye as she extended a desperate hand toward her condemned coven sister.

Lidya did not take it.

Instead, she stepped forward and ushered Muriel and the baby through, allowing no further objections, no wasted words.

The portal vanished in a whisper of crimson mist.

A heartbeat later, the High Council’s execution party stepped onto the landing outside her cell door.

"Wake up, you dogs!"

The senior officer, dressed in attire more suited for a banquet than an execution, drove his boot into the ribs of a sleeping guard.

The men jolted awake, scrambling to their feet.

The younger of the two, confused as to how he had fallen asleep on duty, darted frantic glances around the cell. His more seasoned partner—a shifty-eyed sergeant with a week’s worth of grizzled beard on his chin and jowls—stepped forward and produced a large iron key.

The lock turned with a heavy clank. The bars swung open.

The gathered soldiers and wizards, all wearing their finest regalia, stepped aside.

Nelson Carswell, the distinguished chairman of the High Council of Arinar, had arrived.

"Good morning, Madam Bonifay," Carswell said as he stepped into the cell.

The chairman was dressed in an impeccable red jacket, the symbol of the High Council embroidered on each sleeve. Black ermine lined the cuffs and lapels, matching the color of his neatly groomed beard.

"Are you prepared to die this day, witch?"

"I am," Lidya answered, her voice calm, her posture unshaken.

Carswell gave her a slight nod, a flicker of respect for her composure.

"Produce the warrant," he ordered, glancing over his shoulder.

A herald stepped forward from the crowd of officials, his stature surprisingly short.

Clad in the cape and feathered vestments of an official crier, he carried a freshly pressed parchment, which he promptly unrolled to read.

"Lidya Ann Bonifay, having rightfully been found guilty of the crimes of witchcraft and high treason against the crown, you have hereby been sentenced to die by fire on this, the fifty-sixth day of winter in the fourth year of the reign of His Majesty, King Asperon, sovereign ruler of Malakanth.

"You shall die in full view of the public so that your death and extreme suffering may serve as a warning to any who might consider delving into the unsanctioned study and use of magic.

"May your death be slow, Madam Bonifay, and may God have mercy on your wretched and perverse soul.

"Signees: Sir William Halvington, Governor of the Province of Arinar, and Nelson Bernard Carswell, Chairman of the High Council."

With his duty complete, the crier rerolled the parchment, handed it to Carswell, and stepped aside.

Carswell’s steel-blue eyes settled on Lidya. "Forward the manacles," he said, stroking his black beard.

The shifty-eyed sergeant and his young subordinate stepped into the cell. The latter carried a set of thick, heavy-chained manacles.

Lidya, of her own volition, extended her arms.

The cold farasite bands locked around her wrists.

Instantly, a void enveloped her, sapping a great portion of her innate magic. A wave of nausea rolled through her, but she staved off the urge to panic.

Slowly, methodically, she fought through the void. It took effort—far more than she cared to admit—but at last, she pierced through the suppression and reconnected with the arcane flow of her spirit.

The farasite alloy was potent.

Stronger than most.

"Bring her," Carswell ordered.

With that, the realm’s chief wizard stepped from the room.

The grizzled sergeant gave Lidya a rough shove toward the doorway. He waited for his younger counterpart to move ahead before reaching beneath her arm, his filthy fingers groping at her right breast.

"It’s a pity you won’t be around for a second go-round tonight," he muttered, pushing her forward with his entire body weight. "But don’t worry about me. The High Council will have a tasty new thing up here waiting to roast soon enough."

Fortunately, Muriel had not learned what this wretched excuse for a man had done to her during the late watches of the night.

This entire affair was about suffering. About being a victim. Such was the path before Lidya.

But if Muriel had learned the truth, there would have been no stopping her.

Her coven sister had always been protective of her—more so in recent years. If she had known, she would have exacted terrible retribution on the sergeant’s miserable hide.

And in doing so, she might have ruined everything.

Lidya descended the final steps of the spiraling staircase and stepped through the broad doorway into the Court of the High Council.

A thunderous chorus of boos and catcalls erupted from the crowd.

The sheer venom of it took her by surprise.

She hesitated, standing motionless outside the doorway, trying to make sense of it. The jeers, the howls of hatred—so many voices, so much rage.

A rough shove from the sergeant forced her forward. The gathered throng roared with approval, showering the old soldier with cheers.

Two rows of Arinar's finest stood at the ready, their crimson-handled halberds forming a corridor through the crowd. The execution party followed the path toward the waiting stake.

Lidya kept walking.

She ignored the hateful words. She ignored the fear coiling in her gut. But suddenly, she became aware of something else.

She was cold.

The same gusting wind she was counting on to make her pain brief whipped around her bare arms, feet, and legs.

Goosebumps rose across her exposed flesh.

They passed through the soldier-lined corridor and entered the cordoned-off center of the courtyard.

Here, beneath the watchful gaze of the High Council, thousands of renegade magic users had met their end.

Lidya’s eyes drifted to the three towering metal stakes that jutted from the ground.

Two were already occupied.

The sight made her mouth grow dry.

She swallowed, but it did little to help.

"Oh, Lidya," she muttered. "What are you doing here?"

The corpses of the two witches executed earlier that morning still hung from the tops of their stakes, their manacled wrists suspending them above the roaring flames.

The first had burned beyond recognition. Blackened flesh, twisted limbs—her very identity erased by fire.

The second had not roasted nearly as long.

The flames had consumed only the lower third of her body, searing away her clothes and hair but leaving just enough intact to testify to her suffering.

Her eyes had boiled within their sockets.

Her mouth hung open.

She had left this world in mid-scream.

As terrible as the sight was, it was nothing compared to the stench.

The thick, smoldering odor of charred flesh filled the air, clinging to everything.

Lidya felt lightheaded.

The knowledge that her own body would soon befoul the skies of Arinar sent a wave of nausea through her. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed.

"Here, madam, let me assist you."

Lidya looked up.

The young soldier from the tower extended his hand.

She took it. With a strong pull, he lifted her back to her feet.

"You certainly are brave," he said, steadying her. "Nothing in this life is so lovely to behold as courage. There is nothing to match it in the hereafter, or so I'm told."

His expression shifted—something playful, something knowing. He leaned in, voice lowering to a whisper.

"But what of the mysteries that lie beyond Heaven’s forbidden hill? Do you believe valor shines as brightly beyond that secret gate?"

Lidya stared at the young guard, stunned.

Somehow, this soldier—this naive greenhorn, whom she had charmed to sleep with the simplest of spells—knew.

He knew why she was doing this.

He knew of her visions.

She sensed it in the sharp twinkle of his eye, in the weight of his words.

How could this be?

She opened her mouth to ask, but the old sergeant shoved her forward.

"Ike, we're not to fraternize with these women!" the sergeant barked. "How many times have you heard me say that? Now, run along and grab a bucket of oil, ya stupid greenhorn."

Lidya turned, searching for the guard before he could slip away.

Another shove sent her stumbling forward, the jeering crowd roaring its approval.

She caught herself, steadied her footing.

She now stood at the edge of the pyre, the path before her lined with stacks of dried wood.

Ike was nowhere to be seen.

"Hang her."

Chairman Carswell’s command brought the executioner forward—a broad-shouldered man clad in crimson, his mask emblazoned with the golden stag.

He carried a short wooden stool in one hand.

With the other, he hoisted Lidya over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

She barely registered the path beneath them as he carried her through the stacks of dried wood.

Her eyes searched the crowd, scanning every face.

She was looking for Ike.

But the boyish guard was nowhere to be seen.

It was as if he had vanished.

And being the shrewd witch she was, Lidya suspected he might have done just that.

Whatever mystery surrounded Ike and his powers vanished from Lidya’s mind the moment the executioner carried her to the base of the stake.

The connection to her magic snapped.

She gasped as the void swallowed her, more suffocating than anything she had felt before. The manacles had been strong enough, but this—this was something else entirely.

The stake itself was made of farasite.

A solid column of the same cursed alloy, its suppression many times stronger than the bands at her wrists.

A wave of nausea rolled through her.

Then, darkness.

Her vision faltered.

She thrashed, panic surging as her body rebelled against what it could not comprehend.

But the executioner had done this before.

He held her firm, his grip unyielding. With practiced efficiency, he lifted her high, securing the chains of her manacles to a mounted hook on the rounded surface of the stake.

It took only moments for Lidya’s body to adjust to the void.

Her vision flickered, then returned.

She was hanging above the piles of wood, every eye in the courtyard fixed on her.

Anxious, she reached inward, trying to pierce through the suppression, to reconnect with the flow of magic bound to her spirit.

Nothing.

The void held firm.

Panic clawed at her chest.

The farasite had made her completely vulnerable.

For the first time, she no longer controlled her fate.

Without her magic, there was no going back.

She was going to die upon this stake.

"Bring forth the oil," Carswell commanded. "But lay it sparingly. The wind will cause the fire to spread. We will not allow it to whip the blaze into an inferno as it did with the other two.

"This witch was born to suffer. And so, she shall."

Soldiers stepped forward, heavy buckets in hand.

Lidya struggled against the metal restraints. The chains rattled, but her attempt was useless.

She reached inward once more, desperate to break through the nullifying void.

Nothing.

Fear flickered across Lidya’s face, and Carswell saw it.

The crowd saw it.

And they delighted in it.

She could feel herself breaking. The panic, the helplessness—she was going to weep.

Then she saw him.

Ike.

He stepped forward, standing among the soldiers who had finished dousing the wood with oil. His gaze met hers, steady and unwavering.

Somehow, she found peace in his eyes.

Carswell nodded to the masked executioner, who now held a flaming torch.

"Set her ablaze."

Lidya was so content staring into Ike’s eyes that she failed to notice the executioner setting fire to the wood.

The winter wind whipped through the clearing, carrying an oily ember. It landed on her bare right leg.

Only then did she realize her execution had begun.

In that instant, her existence became one of torment.

The crowd roared as she flailed, desperately trying to extinguish the creeping flame.

Carswell laughed. "So, it begins!"

Crying out in agony, she turned back to Ike, searching for relief.

And she found it.

Like everyone else in attendance, the young soldier was applauding.

But not in celebration.

She could see it in his face, in the tension of his jaw—he was not clapping for her suffering.

He was clapping for her.

The way a proud man looks when he is fighting to keep his emotions from spilling out for all to see.

Lidya’s chest heaved. She lifted her gaze to the overcast sky, catching a glimpse of pale sunlight breaking through the clouds.

"Yes," she murmured, as a terrible billow of heat consumed her.

"So, it begins."

"It begins with me."