Thump… Thump…
The sound of pounding echoed from the distance, heavy and relentless.
The night was thick with shadows as a ragged group of villagers pressed into the dark forest, their torches sputtering against the damp air. Flickering flames cast twisted, quivering shapes across gnarled roots and low-hanging branches, as if the forest itself were alive—watching, judging.
The pounding grew louder—clubs and sticks striking hollow logs in a chaotic, ritualistic cadence. It sounded like the beating of a great, unseen heart, guiding them toward a single, grim purpose.
Behind them, stumbling and bound, was the prisoner—a man accused of being a wizard. His eyes darted wildly, reflecting the torchlight, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as the oppressive darkness closed in. Every rustle of leaves felt like a whisper of condemnation.
The villagers' voices rose together—half-prayers, half-accusations—melding with the pounding that shook the earth beneath their feet. Smoke, sweat, and fear thickened the air. Each step carried the weight of inevitable doom.
They stopped in a small clearing.
At its center stood a crude, splintered pole driven deep into the earth. Without hesitation, they hoisted the prisoner upright, ropes biting into his wrists as his battered body trembled. Bruises and open wounds covered him—silent proof of months of torture.
His head hung forward, hair matted and damp. Some villagers muttered prayers. Others spat at his feet.
The torches illuminated his face—wide eyes glazed with terror, lips moving in silent pleas no one cared to hear. Hung upright, he was displayed not just for death, but for humiliation—to be broken in body and spirit.
Pain burned through him as he struggled against the ropes. He didn't want to die.
Why was he treated like this?
Hatred bloomed in his chest, sharp and suffocating, like countless needles piercing his heart. He had dedicated his life to mastering magic—not for power, but to lift the curse that plagued them. And yet, here he stood, condemned like a monster.
His gaze swept over their faces—twisted, cruel, satisfied.
Then his eyes found Hannah.
The woman he had loved.
She wouldn't meet his gaze. Just a few gold coins—that was all his life was worth. Tears streamed down his face as the flames licked at his flesh, but the fire hurt far less than the betrayal burning in his heart.
As his strength faded, as his life slipped away, the people he had saved stood watching—silent, unrepentant, and pleased.
The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of burnt flesh, clinging to their nostrils and throat. Despite the flames that still licked at the clearing's edges, the man's bones lay intact, bleached by fire but unbroken—a silent testimony to the unnatural cruelty he had endured. The pounding of drums never ceased, a relentless rhythm that echoed through the dark forest like a heartbeat, guiding the villagers' hands as they worked.
From the crowd, a priest stepped forward, robes singed at the hem, and his voice cut through the clamor. "We cannot leave his remains to rot in the open," he said solemnly, raising a hand in prayer. "They must be buried properly, standing, so that no evil may rise again."
The villagers obeyed, lowering the rigid skeleton into a crude wooden box that had been fashioned for this very purpose. Chains were wrapped tight around the bones, securing arms, legs, and torso, holding the figure in an upright posture even in death. The priest's voice intoned prayers, low and deliberate, while the drumming continued—a frantic, hypnotic rhythm that made the trees themselves seem to tremble in time.
Countless nails were hammered into the coffin's wooden frame, each strike ringing sharply through the smoky night. The torches cast grotesque shadows across the clearing, flickering over the nail-studded coffin and the bound skeleton within. The chains rattled faintly with every blow of the hammer, a metallic accompaniment to the primal beat of the drums.
The village chief stepped forward, face stern in the wavering torchlight. "It will be burried while standing," he commanded . He had acknowledged the boys helped he had cleansed the village from the curse but laws were laws his gaze fell on the coffin guilt etched in his face but nothing could be reversed the damage couldn't be changed
Hands lifted, the coffin was placed upright in a hastily dug pit, the soil packed tight against the chained timber. The drumming reached a frenzied crescendo, echoing through the forest, carrying the weight of centuries-old fear, hatred, and ritual.
As the last handful of earth thudded against the wooden frame, the priest concluded his prayer, voice trembling with gravity. Smoke swirled around the coffin, curling like restless spirits, while the pounding drums slowly tapered to a steady heartbeat. In that moment, the forest seemed to exhale, dark and watchful, as if the shadows themselves acknowledged the act: a burial standing, chained, sealed—a body denied rest, a curse confined....