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"Don't move."
The voice comes before the pain. Then the rope bites in, and Wantang's wrists light up like someone dragged a match across both veins.
She tries to pull. Can't. Her hands are lashed behind her back, and the knot's so tight her fingers are already going numb.
"I said don't."
She cracks her eyes open. Sunlight punches straight through her skull. She tastes copper and wood smoke and something sharp she can't name. Her spine's pressed against something vertical and hard—rough enough she can feel splinters through her shirt.
She blinks. The world's too bright, too loud. A crowd hums somewhere close, that low rollicking sound people make when they're waiting for a show to start.
"Where—" Her throat's raw. She tries again. "Where am I?"
No one answers.
She twists her head. Her neck cracks. She's upright—no, she's tied upright, arms wrenched back and lashed to a post, and when she looks down she sees a platform under her feet and a pile of bundled branches stacked around her ankles like someone's setting up the world's worst bonfire.
Oh.
Oh, hell.
She's tied to a stake.
"Hey!" She yanks hard enough that the rope saws into her wrists. Blood wells up, warm and slick. "Hey, someone want to tell me what's happening?"
The crowd doesn't hum anymore. They roar.
Wantang's heart slams against her ribs. She cranes her neck, trying to see past the post, and catches sight of a square—cobblestone, cramped, ringed with stone buildings that look like they crawled out of a Renaissance Faire. The people are worse. Wool cloaks. Leather vests. Long skirts and buckled boots and not a single phone in sight.
No cars. No power lines. No anything that makes sense.
"This isn't real," she says. Her voice shakes. "This isn't—"
"Silence!"
The shout cuts through the noise like a blade. The crowd goes quiet. Wantang's breath catches.
A man steps onto the platform. He's tall, gray-haired, wearing black robes that sweep the wood. He's holding a scroll. He doesn't look at her.
"Wantang of the Southern Marsh," he says, and his voice carries like he's done this before, "you stand accused of witchcraft, heresy, and congress with demons."
Her brain stutters. "What?"
"You have been tried in absentia and found guilty."
"I—what? No. No, that's not—" She pulls against the ropes hard enough that the post groans. "I'm not a witch, I'm a hostage negotiator, I don't even—"
"The sentence," the man continues, still not looking at her, "is death by fire."
The crowd cheers.
Wantang's stomach drops. She can't breathe. She twists, looking for a way out, a face she recognizes, anything, but there's nothing. Just strangers. Just wood and rope and branches piled around her feet.
"Wait," she says. Her voice cracks. "Wait, you can't—"
"Light it."
Someone steps forward with a torch.
Wantang's whole body goes cold. She sees the flame, bright and hungry, and she hears herself say, "No, wait, listen to me—" but the words don't matter because the torch is already lowering and the branches are dry and she can smell the smoke before the fire even catches.
The first flame licks up.
Heat crawls over her ankles. She jerks back, but there's nowhere to go. The post's solid. The rope's solid. The fire's spreading, crackling, and the crowd's cheering and she's going to burn and she doesn't even know why.
"Stop!" She screams it. "Stop, please, I didn't—"
"Wantang."
The voice cuts through everything. Low. Calm. Close.
She freezes.
A figure steps through the smoke. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He's wearing a long coat that doesn't belong here any more than she does, and when he looks up she sees his face—sharp jaw, dark eyes, and a scar that runs from his temple to his cheekbone.
He's holding a knife.
"You," she breathes.
He doesn't smile. "Me."
"You're—" Her brain won't work. The smoke's thicker now, choking. "You're not real. You're—"
"I'm the only reason you're not dead yet." He moves fast, steps onto the platform, and the crowd doesn't react. Like they can't see him. Like he's not even there.
He stops in front of her. The fire's at her knees now. She can feel her jeans starting to scorch.
"You want out?" he asks.
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, get me out, get me—"
"Then say it."
She stares at him. "Say what?"
He leans in. His breath's cool against her cheek, and she can smell leather and rain and something metallic she can't place. His hand comes up, and the knife gleams in the firelight, and for one horrible second she thinks he's going to cut her throat.
Instead, he presses the blade flat against the rope at her wrists.
"Say you're mine," he murmurs.
Her heart stops.
"What?"
"Say it, Wantang." His voice drops, quiet and dangerous. "Or I let you burn."
The fire roars up. The heat's unbearable now, searing, and she can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but feel the flames and smell her own skin starting to blister.
She opens her mouth.
"I'm—"