There had been a time when the gift of magic in the kingdom had been celebrated. Perhaps too long ago, and under the rule of a man who was infamous for his use of it, but not all agreed with his deposition and the rise of King Mickey.
Not all of them had seen the destruction of the border as King Mickey’s troops marched through it.
Unfortunately there were even fewer left who had the gift of a magical touch. The ability to mix potions into concoctions that could do both great, and terrible things. There was no denying that more than one war had been started on behalf of a potion with misintentions. Public sentiment wasn’t exactly quiet in its attention to magic and the craft–not after Xehanort had been dethroned and the country ‘liberated’ from his dictatorship.
Never, however, had Aerith expected to be found out in her small healing practice under the guise of an herbal shop. The reaction had been…poor at best, and with the underground Resistance in the pro-wings of Xehanort out of town…their healer was to be put to the stake.
Blindfolded, with her hands tied to a hard post at her back, she already felt the bristle of thorned branches and kindle building up to her thighs. The thick scent of animal fat being spread over the wood to catch it and burn faster. The angry murmuring buzz of the crowd, reminiscent of a hive of active hornets. The waft of smoke from the torches that would be set to her. She could see none of these things with the cloth tied over her eyes, but she could hear, taste, smell…everything leading up to her death. The cries began, but not from her own lips.
“–Burn the witch!”