AD ASTRA ABBYSOSQUE
(to the stars and the abyss)

The sun burned beneath their weathered faces, and their breaths were sharp as if someone were pressing a blade against their chest, forcing them to exhale when all they craved to do was let it struggle within them until their hearts ceased to beat. Until the world becomes obscure and full of the shade of emptiness,

Sweat dripped like a chilling touch, rolling over their skin like a stream born from their anguish and misery. Their bones ached, and the extremities of their hands were bound by the ropes that immobilized them behind their backs. Some stifled sobs could be heard quietly tearing through the air, while others remained silent, having accepted their harrowing fate.

The beautiful island of Rhodes was known for its abundant vegetation, colorful flowers, and fragrant blossoms. Pine-clad mountains adorned its land, and lace-like beaches lined its edges, with the summer sun caressing its crystal-clear waters, creating a kind of dreamlike psychedelia. Colors like the blue of a pearl, white picturesque houses, and the green of the flora resembling a freshly thawed leaf emerging from the winter cold. The island of butterflies remained untouched throughout the passage of centuries, as the grand castles preserved from the Byzantine period were still flawless, giving a different hue to the entire image of the island. Greece is predominantly agricultural land, and many people rely on it as their sole means of sustenance. Lively fields abound with all kinds of plants, trees, and abundant livestock.

The towering pine trees stretched across the entire area, their height rivaling even the sky. The intense scent of flowers emanated from the deep groves, while the fragrance of aromatic herbs permeated the atmosphere. Even the branches were lush and verdant, forming a dense canopy overhead.

However, even if these prisoners knew where they truly were, still nothing could appease their souls, which would evaporate moment by moment like snow melting on the peaks of Mount Olympus—as if their existence was as insignificant as a worm crawling on the floor, searching for food, only to be stepped on by a passerby.

One pushed them forcefully; someone else pulled with frenzy those who were left behind, while some other soldiers watched the whole scene bewildered.

"Move on, beasts of hell!" the man growled loudly, and a woman could be heard shrieking.

Another soldier turned his head and saw that his superior had grabbed the poor witch by her hair, dragging her to make her move faster. It seemed that her feet could not bear her any longer. The boy cleared his throat at the view next to him.

Some other women whimpered along with the witch's sobbing, while some men were too tormented and injured to react in any way. Their eyes were covered with cloth, leaving them unaware of where they were being led. Perhaps it was for the best that their eyes were covered, because if it were true what they said, that the eyes are the mirror of the soul, then most of the soldiers would have ended their lives before even embarking on the road into the forest. Perhaps they would have drowned themselves in the river flowing nearby, or perhaps they would have taken their own lives with the rifles tightly held to their shoulders, tossing their foolish minds into the air—perhaps, again, they would fall in the place of those wizards at the heart of the maelstrom that they were guiding them.

A large platform awaited them ahead, with hundreds of branches stacked on the surface and an equal number of stakes scattered here and there. No birds could be heard; nature had fallen silent in the face of this dreadful torment. What else could Mother Earth do, apart from watch in shock at what was going to happen? Since God could not help them, no higher power could relieve them of their condemnation.

A young girl dared to open her mouth. "What do you intend to do to us?" she asked.

Her blonde hair had been lightened by the heat of the sun, giving it a dark shade, while the way it stood on top of her head resembled the appearance of a withered plant that had not seen a drop of water in years. Her knees trembled, and her lips were bleeding from constant biting. She was surely a very beautiful girl. Maybe just sixteen years old.

Surely a witch with a bright future ahead of her would now turn into ashes and ruins because she had found herself in the wrong place at the wrong time. They say that the Fates have only one eye, and if that were indeed true, the girl would gladly gouge it out until every nerve cell became a lifeless mass of blood and neurons.

The soldier looked at the girl, who was seemingly more experienced than the others and appeared to have done this job before.

"We will send you back where you came from!" he spat out the words, and the witch felt a shiver piercing through her body. No, they would not.

The moments passed slowly, and they were tormented. Each second that ticked away on the clock felt like an interminably long eternity. The shackles they wore clung to their flesh, and the stench of confinement was so prominent that some could not even bear to smell themselves. How long had they been locked inside that filthy cell? No one would answer them, and it would not matter anyway because they would not have the chance to recount their experiences to anyone they knew.

Many mothers waited at home for their lost children or their husbands to return, hoping that they had simply lost their way back. However, the world was harsh, and someone being absent from home for such a long time was likely an indication that they had either been devoured by wild animals or captured by organ traders. That is how life worked—there was no time for mourning and misery. Growing up in a world where only evil lurks, people had to learn to reconcile with pain and accept it like a mother's caress.

The soldiers began speaking in Greek, their words carrying an intensity that no one could quite determine. Fear? Awe? Disgust? Joy? Nothing seemed to fit the situation.

"Traitors," said a wizard, also Greek, among the prisoners. "We are compatriots, you scoundrels. We grew up on the same land. Kimonas Kartalis, from Piraeus, is the son of Myrtali and Stefanos Kartali. We speak the same language, believe in the same God, and have the same tradition."

A punch struck him in the chest, and the man folded in half, clutching his lips as blood boiled beneath his battered skin. The ethics of these people were irrational. For so long, they were torturing people who had grown up with the exact same things as them, played in the same impoverished neighborhoods, and fell asleep to the same lullabies sung by their mothers. How could they do such a thing? All because they had magic blood in their veins.

"Do not you dare call me a compatriot again. I would never conspire alongside someone like you, a scum, a spawn that the Devil has planted in our country," the soldier retorted. He waited for the wizard to catch his breath before hearing his response. When he did, an ironic smile formed on the soldier's darkened lips.

"As much of a monster as I am for the blood that runs through my veins, you are just as much, as long as you are going to bathe in it, wearing the aroma of debauchery and bogus dignity," he spat at him, and the general's expression turned to disgust. Nevertheless, he turned his body toward the soldiers and gestured for them to take the wizards to the platform.

They tied them around a wooden column large enough to accommodate them all. That is when the chorus of loud cries and prayers began, attempting to reach the ears of some divine power up there in the heavens. In vain, though it only called eagerly Death. Before they could finish their supplications, the fuse was lit, and within five minutes, the plank was engulfed in flames, with the wailing of the unfortunate sorcerers struggling with their psyches ready to be one with the air—some uttered curses towards their murderers, deadly enough to haunt their descendants in future generations. But actually, who cared? The wretches were burning, paying for their sins, and returning to the depths of Hell with their voices resembling a symphony that no human could hear. How much weight did their empty words carry before the Reaper?

On that day, fifteen warlocks and ten witches were burned alive, with the only sign of their existence being the echoes of their screaming that still resonate through the forest—some flesh remained charred on the wood, while a few of the trinkets they wore had come loose and lay on the fertile ground. Perhaps in this way, death found a new way to satiate its bloodthirsty nature.

Among the twenty-five sorcerers were three Jews, thirteen Greeks, two French, and seven from Great Britain. The Greek government discovered the bodies when natives from nearby villages reported hearing voices at night, shrieks, and occasionally a strong smell of burnt flesh dominating the atmosphere. It did not take long for them to realize that what had happened was not simply a random coincidence. Nothing was left of the individuals except for some severed flesh that wild animals had taken care of and a few bodies that were still difficult to identify if they belonged to a man or a woman.

When the news became known, the Ministry of Magic revoked the order and decided not to disclose the case to the public. The world had heard enough about Grindelwald's crimes against humanity. Such news would only create more confusion than they had to deal with. The Greek government also kept silent about this event, and they had discreetly paid off Muggle farmers and landowners in the vicinity to keep them from speaking.

Thus, no one ever learned that on a sunny summer day in 1943, twenty-five sorcerers were completely charred, just like the witch trials that were happening in the Middle Ages. That day could have marked a new chapter in the history of magic, but some chose to leave it as a mere dystopian myth. The culprits were never found, although the case remains open.

I changed the prologue LMAO
Tell me your opinion I would be more than pleased :D