The square was packed, the stone streets of Venice humming with the low murmur of an uneasy crowd. Margaretta stood at the center, bound to a towering pyre of dry wood. Her head was bowed, her dark hair falling over her face like a veil. Around her, the clergy in their crimson robes recited the charges in somber tones.

“For consorting with a devil,” the priest intoned, his voice carrying across the square, “and for bringing corruption to this holy city, Margaretta of the Ottoman Empire is condemned to death by fire.”

The crowd shifted uneasily, clutching their rosaries and whispering prayers. Margaretta said nothing, her silence as damning as any confession. She didn’t plead for her life or protest her innocence. She simply stared ahead, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

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At the edge of the square, hidden in the shadows of an alley, Faouzia and Faust watched. Faouzia’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her face pale and drawn. Faust stood rigid beside her, his hands clenched into fists.

“This is wrong,” Faust whispered, his voice trembling. “We have to do something.”

“And say what?” Faouzia snapped, though her voice lacked its usual venom. “That we led the guards to her? That we betrayed her?”

The torchbearer stepped forward, his hand shaking as he lowered the flame to the pyre. The kindling caught with a hiss, and the fire began to climb. Faust turned away, his jaw tight, but Faouzia couldn’t. Her eyes stayed fixed on Margaretta, on the flames licking at her cousin’s feet, on the serenity that never left her face.

And then the fire roared to life, unnaturally bright, as if fueled by something far beyond wood and oil.