The recurring term 'Pst.' throughout the story is to be read as 'Pietist'.

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Lady Marcella Rutherland's people had come to see her child die.

Weak winter sunlight glinted off the gruesome structure erected in the centre of the town square. Branches as thick as thighs were bound together to form a pyre. Motionless, she just observed the various expressions of the townspeople. The wind cut into her bones, despite her being clothed in a warm, woollen dress. Her mind went numb, unable to absorb the full impact of the situation. Hysteria gurgled at her lips—everyone was so eager to see the burning of a helpless child.

Absurd, yet terrifying.

The baby in her arms clawed at her, bawling its pathetic little lungs out. She grasped its fat little fingers with her long, slender ones. The baby gurgled, ceasing to wail. Marcella smiled a mirthless smile. How could she betray one so innocent? How could she do this? How could she condone with this blasphemy?

But it had to be done.

One of the townsmen threw a lit torch into the pyre. The flames licked up the wood immediately, transforming it into a demonic chasm ready to devour anything in its path. An orange wave rose towards the sky, inducing gore-hungry bellows and ward-evil prayers from the crowd. Marcella stifled a sob.

The bishop, with his voluminous robes threatening to swallow him whole, adjusted the ridiculous-looking hat perched atop his balding head. Clearing his throat and flipping a copy of the Manuscript open, he mumbled for Marcella to begin her part in the ritual. With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and began to sing:

"For when a daughter of war is born,

A sign that the great land will be torn,

One hero will ride through the night,

An epitome of shadows and light..."

It was amazing, how the prophecy that damned her child to burn was so hypnotising. Beautiful, uplifting, haunting. The words wove into her soul, as though she were a part of this treacherous, bewitching song.

Disgust clawed at the back of her throat—and it was for her own self.

No backing out now. No backing out now. She chanted the words over and over in her head, the only phrase keeping her anchored to the world. It was the only thing that kept her from screaming and fleeing the scene. The only thing that kept her from attempting an escape to a better world, where she and her child could live without fear of being hunted.

Stop this. Stop these perfidious thoughts.

She continued to sing. Marcella managed to pick up the faint yet precise words of the prayer conducted by the bishop: "May Heaven's curse be upon thee, worm. Thou spawn of the Devil. May a thousand wounds be inflicted upon thee, so that thy sins might be forgiven. May thou find peace, lest thou riseth from the grave to haunt innocents once more..."

You let a thousand wounds be inflicted upon yourself, and see if you can preach any longer. The venom in her accidentally slipped out. Not again. Do not think.

Instead, she concentrated on her surroundings. She felt them—the judgemental glares of the people. They probably thought that she was the Devil himself, for giving birth to this child.

So be it.

Marcella felt her husband looming behind her. She could taste the apprehension laced throughout his muscles on the tip of her tongue. He was probably worried for her. She then realised that she was swaying unsteadily on her feet. Marcella steeled herself—she couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now. Not when the crowd's focus was pinned upon her.

Subconsciously, her mind flicked back to the day where it all had begun. The day her worst nightmare had started.

It was the day of her little child's baptism. The day her very first daughter was supposed to be blessed by the goodwill of the Pietists. The day she'd gain a patron to walk with her till the end of her days. It was supposed to be a day of celebration.

We weren't supposed to mourn.

Unexpectedly, her daughter had been proclaimed as a Champion of the Pietists. Marcella and her husband had initially been overjoyed at the announcement, believing that their years of childless marriage was a test from the Heavens, to deem them suitable to raise a superior being.

Until the official selection of the patron had come, and their daughter had chosen a miniature wooden sword lying on the altar.

Of all Pietists in Gaiatea, her patron was Pst. Bronicus, the lord of war and strategy. If only their daughter weren't a Champion, the bishop would have allowed them to keep her. Only, religious text had proclaimed that a female Champion of Pst. Bronicus would signify the end of the world.

And so it had been demanded that the child be burnt.

Marcella's mind returned to the present as the last note spilled from her lips. The clarity of the melody seemed to drop along with her mood. Nine months-that was the brief period she'd gotten to be a mother to her child. Nine measly months.

For a moment, hatred flared in her—for the bishop, the world, the Pietists themselves. What right did they have to say that her daughter was a Spawn of the Devil? It was cruel and inhumane. Most of all, it was meaningless. Shouldn't a true Spawn of the Devil be able to find some way to thwart the Pietists' plans anyway? And wouldn't the world be doomed no matter what humans tried to do? Besides, why shouldn't there be a female Champion of Pst. Bronicus? Perhaps all the men are just afraid that a woman would be more of an achiever than them!

Meaningless! Everything is meaningless.

Marcella forced herself to vanquish the chain of poisonous thoughts. Now all she had to do was to play the part of a faithful servant to the Pietists. Deep down though, she didn't want to be a faithful servant to her deities.

At least, not for today. She should run. She should tear away from the crowds and flee towards sanctuary. The Pagan countries would be a good place to make for.

Don't do it, you heartless monster. Don't do it! Just run! A voice screamed in her head. She didn't have to do this. She still had a choice. She could just run and-

Marcella felt a prickling sensation behind her. It was Percival. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his nervousness. Not for the infant in her arms, no. The anxiety was for her. The indomitable Lord Rutherland, former Bane, ruler of the second-most prosperous province in the country, and her husband, nervous for her. In the state of mind she was in, he should be.

Do it. Do it for Percival.

All eyes were on her, waiting to see if she would perform her duty. The tension was almost unbearable—it caged her in, like delicate threads strung tight across the air, ready to snap if she swatted against the wind. She clung onto thoughts of her husband, finally able to steel herself to spit into the child's face.

Marcella threw it into the fire.

The baby's agonized shrieking was lost in the victorious screams of the people. Yet she could hear its voice. It was pounding, insistent, unwelcome. A heavy stone lodged itself in Marcella's chest; her lungs simply refused to breathe.

The flames gladly accepted the fuel that had been fed to it. Guilt surged through her, overwhelming and unbearable. Marcella stumbled forward, ready to let herself burn as well. Someone caught her arm before she could commit herself to the act. The man wrapped his arms around her. She struggled in his grip, until she recognised the familiar musky scent of winter forests. "It's okay," Percival whispered into her ear. "It's all okay."

It was not okay. It would never be okay. A child's blood was on her hands. Percival didn't understand because he wasn't the one who'd held the baby, felt it brimming with warmth—with life.

He wasn't the one who had burnt it.

I killed a child. The realisation struck her dumb. I killed a child. I killed a child. I killed a child.

Her knees buckled. Percival had the good sense to let her go, to let her grieve. Marcella watched the flames, unable to wrench her gaze away from the beautiful, devastating light eating away at the small, writhing figure within. She felt tears streaking down her cheeks. She couldn't sob. She stared mutely at the body in the pyre, as it slowly stopped squirming—and finally lay still altogether.

The screams of the baby still rang in her ears.

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A/N: Sooo please tell me what you think of it. And votes and comments are very much appreciated by your truly ;)

P.S. Music is Blood Red Rose by C21-FX.

Glossary time!

Ancient Religion - The worship of the Pietists and the official religion for most continents in Gaiatea, save for the pagan communities in the continent of Vellwye.