Chapter 1 — Prologue: The Fire of Faith

Third Person

The cold night air carried the acrid tang of pitch and burning wood, mingling with the faint sweetness of damp earth. The courtyard of the Inquisition Fortress was cloaked in shadows, save for the flickering glow of a pyre in its center. The flames clawed at the heavens, their roar devouring the night and nearly drowning out the anguished cries of the woman bound to the stake.

Hugo de Montclair stood at the edge of the firelight, his black cassock stirring faintly in the chill wind. His angular features were sharp against the shifting orange and gold of the flames, his piercing blue eyes reflecting their light. He gripped the silver cross around his neck, the cool surface grounding him as he recited the words of the rite. His voice was steady, deliberate, each syllable measured like the tolling of a bell.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned, the Latin flowing with practiced precision. Yet beneath the solemn cadence, something stirred—a shadow of unease that whispered at the edges of his mind, faint but insistent.

The condemned woman’s voice, hoarse but defiant, cut through the night. “I am innocent!” she cried, her words trembling with desperation yet unbroken by fear. Her gaze, wild yet deeply human, locked with Hugo’s for the briefest of moments. “May God judge you as He judges me!”

Hugo’s jaw tightened. He had heard such pleas before, each one a blade seeking the cracks in his resolve. He willed himself to meet her gaze, but something in her eyes—a flicker of pain, or perhaps truth—compelled him to look away. He tightened his grip on the rosary, the beads pressing into his palm as though to anchor him.

Behind him, Father Bernard stood silently, his stooped posture betraying the weight of decades of service. The elderly priest’s hands were clasped tightly in front of him, his fingers wrapped around a simple wooden rosary. The faint tremor in his hands betrayed what his calm expression did not. His lips moved soundlessly in prayer, but his weary brown eyes remained fixed on the woman in the flames. For a moment, his shoulders heaved with a deep, quiet sigh, as if the fire consumed more than just flesh.

The flames surged higher, their heat pressing against Hugo’s face and chest, nearly unbearable even at a distance. The woman’s screams reached a crescendo, her voice breaking as the fire consumed her. “May the truth find you, Inquisitor!” she cried, her final words searing through the crackling inferno.

Hugo closed his eyes briefly, the image of his father’s execution flashing before him—a memory scorched into his soul as deeply as the brand of heresy seared into his father’s chest.

He had been a boy then, no more than ten years old, standing amidst a crowd that jeered and spat at the man they once called a neighbor. His father’s crimes had been whispered accusations, unproven but damning enough. Hugo remembered how his father’s eyes had searched the crowd, desperate, pleading—for understanding, perhaps, or for comfort. Their eyes had met for a fleeting moment before Hugo turned away, unable to bear the weight of his father’s desperation.

The flames of that day had burned away any doubt, leaving in their wake an unyielding devotion to the Church. If his father had been guilty, then the Church was right. If he had been innocent, then God’s will had been served. Such was the divine justice Hugo had clung to ever since.

But now, as the woman’s cries faded into the crackling of flames, Hugo felt the faintest tremor in that certainty. The warmth of his Inquisitor’s Rosary, clutched tightly in his hand, seemed almost... accusatory. He inhaled deeply, the cold air biting his lungs, and turned to face the gathered crowd.

The villagers of Saint-Lys huddled together at the edges of the courtyard, their faces pale and drawn in the firelight. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes, while men muttered hurried prayers under their breath. Fear rippled through them, a palpable force that bound them together in uneasy solidarity. A bearded man near the front crossed himself, whispering, “May the Lord protect us from evil.”

“This is the price of heresy,” Hugo declared, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. “Let this serve as a warning to all who would consort with darkness. The Church’s mercy is vast, but its justice is unyielding.”

The crowd murmured in assent, though their eyes betrayed a mixture of relief and dread. They were grateful it was not one of their own this time, but the specter of suspicion lingered always, an unspoken reminder that no one was truly safe. A woman in the back clutched her rosary so tightly her knuckles turned white, her whispered prayers barely audible over the crackling flames.

As the fire began to die down, leaving only the charred remains of the stake, Hugo stepped back, his expression unreadable. Father Bernard approached him slowly, his brown robe brushing the dirt as he walked.

“You performed your duty admirably, Hugo,” Bernard said softly, his voice tinged with something that might have been sorrow.

“It is not for me to be admirable, Father,” Hugo replied, his tone formal and distant. “It is for God’s will to be done.”

Bernard studied him for a moment, his weathered face calm but his eyes searching. “And yet, God’s will is often shrouded in mystery. Sometimes, we must ask ourselves whether we see His light clearly... or through the smoke of our own making.”

Hugo stiffened, the words striking a chord he did not want to hear. “Doubt is... a weakness we cannot afford,” he said firmly, though his voice wavered almost imperceptibly. “It is through faith that we are saved.”

The older man nodded slowly, but his gaze lingered on Hugo, heavy with unspoken meaning. “Faith, yes. But faith tempered with understanding, my son. A blade is sharpest when it is forged in fire—but fire alone can destroy it.”

Hugo turned away, his cassock sweeping behind him as he strode toward the fortress gates. The weight of the silver cross against his chest felt heavier than usual, its surface warm where it pressed against his skin.

In the solitude of his chamber that night, Hugo knelt before the wooden crucifix mounted on the stone wall. The room was sparse, its only adornments the symbols of his devotion—a Bible, a candle, and the rosary he now held in trembling hands.

“Domine, dirige me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Lord, guide me.”

But the silence that followed was oppressive, the kind that seemed to swallow prayers whole. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the walls, their movements almost like specters dancing on the edge of his vision.

Hugo pressed the rosary to his forehead, the beads cool and familiar against his skin. He wanted to believe the warmth he had felt earlier was a sign of divine presence, not his own doubt made manifest. Yet, as he closed his eyes, the image of the woman’s face—the fear, the defiance, the humanity—refused to leave him.

And in the far corner of his mind, a question began to form, unbidden and unwelcome.

What if she had been innocent?