Chapter 3 — Chains of Innocence

Eliza

Eliza’s breath came shallow and measured, each intake an effort against the damp, suffocating air of the dungeon. The walls, hewn from rough stone, glistened faintly with moisture, their coldness seeping into her very marrow. Her wrists bore the red marks of iron shackles, though she had long since stopped struggling against them. She sat on the floor of her cell, her back pressed to the unforgiving wall, legs drawn up beneath her simple dress. Her satchel was gone, her herbs confiscated—her only defenses stripped away, leaving her feeling exposed in a way that went beyond the physical. She could still recall their scent, faint traces of lavender and yarrow lingering on her skin, a small defiance against the sterile oppression of the dungeon.

The faint glow of a single torch outside the cell flickered, casting long shadows that seemed almost sentient as they danced along the walls. The emptiness of the space around her was punctuated only by the distant drip of water and the occasional muffled cry from another part of the fortress. The air carried the faint, acrid scent of burnt wood, a ghostly reminder of the pyres that had claimed so many lives. Eliza closed her eyes, willing herself to find calm in the cacophony of despair.

Her foster mother’s voice came to her then, an echo from years past. *“Never let them see your fear, Eliza. Fear is a fire—they will feed it until it consumes you.”*

The memory bolstered her, though it brought with it the sting of loss. Her foster mother had been fearless to the last, even as the villagers dragged her to the stake. Eliza had screamed until her throat was raw, but her foster mother’s composure had never wavered. That moment had forged Eliza’s own defiance, a silent vow to carry on the wisdom she had been taught. But now, sitting in the bowels of the Inquisition Fortress, her resolve felt like a fragile thing, teetering on the edge of shattering. Her composure, though carefully maintained, warred with the tremor of doubt that whispered she might not survive this.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her from her thoughts. Heavy boots on stone, deliberate and unhurried. She did not need to see him to know who it was. She straightened her posture, lifting her chin, though her heart thundered in her chest. When the gate creaked open, she met his gaze with unblinking eyes.

Hugo de Montclair stepped inside, the torchlight catching the silver cross on his cassock. His presence filled the small space, not with physical size but with an intensity that seemed to press against her. His angular features were a mask of calm, but there was something in his piercing blue eyes—something searching, something unsettled. He carried no weapons, only a small leather-bound book in one hand, its strap wound tightly around his fingers, as though it anchored him.

“Eliza Moreau,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, each word weighed with purpose. “You stand accused of witchcraft and heresy against the Church. Do you understand the gravity of these charges?”

Eliza held his gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of his scrutiny. “I understand that fear is a powerful thing,” she replied, her voice steady but quieter than she intended. “It makes good people do terrible things.”

Hugo’s brow furrowed, a slight but telling reaction. He stepped closer, standing over her, his shadow falling across her face. “This is not a place for idle conjecture,” he said, his tone measured but firm. “I am here to discern the truth.”

“And how will you discern it?” she asked, her tone calm but laced with quiet defiance. “Through the accusations of frightened villagers? Through the words of men like Gregor, who see witches in every shadow?”

His jaw tightened, but he did not respond immediately. Instead, he knelt, bringing himself to her level. The motion surprised her; it was not the action of a man who sought power through intimidation. He placed the book on the ground between them and opened it, revealing pages filled with neat, precise script. The faint scent of ink and parchment reached her, stark against the dampness of the cell.

“These are the testimonies,” he said, his tone softer now, though no less formal. “Accounts of your... abilities. Healing wounds that should have been fatal. Knowing the thoughts and emotions of others without them speaking a word. How do you explain these things?”

Eliza let out a slow breath, her green eyes searching his face. She hesitated, the weight of her foster mother’s warnings pressing upon her. Should she tell the truth? Would it matter? “I know the properties of herbs, inquisitor. My foster mother taught me well. And as for sensing emotions... Have you never looked at someone and known they were in pain, even if they said nothing? It is not witchcraft. It is compassion.”

“Compassion does not cause the dead to rise,” Hugo countered, though there was no harshness in his voice. A flicker of something—hesitation, uncertainty—passed over his features.

“I have never raised the dead,” she said firmly, her voice hardening. “And if the villagers say otherwise, it is because they fear what they do not understand.”

Hugo’s gaze dropped to the book, but he did not turn the page. For a moment, the silence between them was broken only by the distant drip of water. Then, almost imperceptibly, his hand moved to the rosary at his belt. He held it loosely, the black beads slipping through his fingers, the tarnished silver cross resting against his palm.

Eliza’s eyes flicked to the rosary, and something about it caught her attention. It seemed to shimmer faintly, though the light in the cell was too dim to make sense of it. A faint warmth brushed against her awareness, subtle and fleeting, but enough to make her pause. Hugo noticed her glance and paused, his fingers tightening around the cross.

“You are afraid,” she said quietly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Hugo’s head snapped up, his blue eyes narrowing. “You presume much,” he said, though his tone lacked conviction.

“I see it in your eyes,” she continued, undeterred. “You are not like Gregor. You question. You doubt.”

His expression darkened, and he rose swiftly to his feet, the rosary clutched tightly in his hand. For a moment, his fingers trembled, but then his grip steadied. “This is not about me,” he said, his voice colder now. “This is about you and the charges against you. A woman accused of witchcraft does not have the luxury of turning the interrogation upon her inquisitor.”

Eliza stood as well, her shackles rattling as she moved. She felt the ache in her limbs but ignored it, fixing him with a steady gaze. Her composure felt like a fragile thread, but she clung to it fiercely. “Perhaps you should interrogate yourself, inquisitor. Ask whether the justice you seek is truly divine—or merely the will of frightened men.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the tension between them palpable. Hugo’s hand hovered near the rosary, his knuckles white against the black beads. Then, without another word, he turned and strode out of the cell, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.

Eliza sank back to the floor, her breath shaking but her resolve intact. She had seen the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and though it was small, it was enough. Perhaps the chains that bound her were not as unbreakable as they seemed.

Beyond the walls, the faint sound of church bells tolled, a reminder that her trial loomed ever closer. Time was slipping away, but perhaps, just perhaps, she had planted the seed of something that might save her.