Aleria guides me through the crowd gathered around the central well, my movements hindered by countless layers of clothing. The villagers hastily part before us, their faces twisted with disgust, some even covering their noses. I better understand now why Ilya ventures out so rarely.

At the center stands Rastaino, his imposing figure dominating the square. His angular face nearly disappears beneath a thick, braided black beard that merges with his wild hair. His green eyes, unusual in this village, sweep across the crowd while a satisfied smile forms beneath his bushy mustache. His long dark coat with golden epaulettes completes his commanding presence.

"My beloved children!" His voice rolls like thunder across the square. Villagers kneel at these words. "Our lord Achor has granted me another vision! Through these blessed eyes, I see those whose souls waver, those who risk falling into darkness!"

He moves around the well with grandiose gestures, his voice modulated to reach the farthest corners of the square. The crowd hangs on his every word, motionless and silent, while I feel their disgusted glances alternating between us and their self-proclaimed prophet.

"There are traitors among us," Rastaino rumbles, spreading his arms dramatically. "Beings hiding beneath human skin..."

"Purify us, oh sacred guide!" a voice calls from the crowd.

His green gaze sweeps across the assembly with calculated slowness. From atop the well's steps, he suddenly points an accusing finger.

"Konstantin."

Silence falls over the square. A stocky man with graying hair flinches in the crowd.

"The sacred water," Rastaino proclaims while twirling toward the well, his coat snapping with the movement, "will reveal what my blessed eyes have seen."

"No... no, please," Konstantin stammers as two villagers seize him. "I am faithful to Achor! My family has been here for three generations!"

"Ghouls are masters of deception," an old woman whispers, making the sign of the cross.

An instinct drives me to examine the scene more carefully. "MirEye," I whisper, observing the bucket being drawn from the well.

What I see chills my blood. "Aleria," I breathe, "this water... it's not natural."

I feel her start against my arm, her face turning sharply toward me with an expression mixing surprise and concern.

But it's already too late. Konstantin is forced to drink. A heavy silence falls, broken by the dull thud of his body hitting the ground. His convulsions are violent, almost bestial. His skin pales until it becomes ash-gray, while his muscles twist and swell beneath his cracking clothes. When he raises his head, his face is no longer human - his jaw has elongated, filled with yellowed, sharp fangs. His eyes are now just white orbs, and that smile... that demonic smile splitting his face from ear to ear.

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"Look!" Rastaino thunders, his voice carrying to the square's edges. "Look how Achor's sacred water reveals the true nature of creatures hiding among us!"

Screams erupt from the crowd at the sight of the monster Konstantin has become. Yet no one flees. Their gazes turn to a massive figure advancing, bulava in hand.

"Balakin," Rastaino announces with unhealthy satisfaction, "purify this creature."

Balakin stands out with his imposing stature - nearly two meters of knotted muscle forged by years of combat. His square face, marked by a broad scar across his left cheek, is framed by a short red beard. His small, deep-set eyes hold the coldness of ice.

The colossus approaches the ghoul, his weapon gleaming sinisterly in the winter light. The monster that was once Konstantin lunges at him with that nightmarish smile, but Balakin dodges with surprising agility for his build.

I consider intervening, but a horrible fascination roots me to the spot. The bulava strikes first. The crack that follows is... I feel my stomach turn as the mace falls again, and again. Blood splatters the pristine snow. The villagers cheer each blow as if watching a fair show.

Aleria turns away, her face buried against my arm. But the others... they watch with morbid jubilation as Balakin methodically reduces the ghoul's skull to pulp, his face as impassive as if he were chopping wood.

It's the satisfaction on their faces that chills me most. Even after seeing one of their own transformed into a monster, even before this execution of unprecedented brutality, they... they applaud.

Rastaino designates another victim. A woman this time. But I don't have time to hear her name - her scream following transformation already mingles with the crowd's cheers.

I've seen death. I've inflicted suffering. But what unfolds before my eyes defies comprehension. Balakin's bulava no longer distinguishes between flesh and bone, between skin and organs. This is no longer an execution - it's an explosion of primitive violence, a methodical butchery where each blow seems calculated to maximize agony.

Another villager is forced to drink. His body twists impossibly, his bones crack as the transformation disfigures him. His monstrous smile hasn't fully formed before Balakin is upon him. This time, he targets the limbs. The cracking of bones mingles with the gurgling of blood. Pieces of... I don't even want to identify what splatters the crowd.

Aleria trembles against me, but the villagers... they're like possessed. Some laugh. Others point out the most macabre details. A mother even lifts her child so he can "see better."

A fourth. A fifth. Each execution is more brutal than the last. The snow is no longer white - it's a canvas splattered with red and gray, with pieces of flesh and bone shards. The smell of blood is so thick it clings to the throat.

Rastaino's green gaze slowly settles on us, lingering with unhealthy delight.

"Ilya..." His honeyed voice silences the crowd. "What secret are you hiding behind all that suffering? My blessed eyes have just seen beyond your supposed illness."

"No!" Aleria's voice trembles slightly despite her attempt to remain firm. "He can't even..."

"The witch defends another monster!" A stone flies, grazing her face.

"Just like her mother said!"

"Those cursed eyes!"

"Burn her with him!"

The insults rain down, familiar yet still painful. I see her shoulders droop imperceptibly, her mask of strength wavering under the attacks. These people she heals day after day...

I lean toward her ear, whispering under the crowd's shouts.

"It'll be alright. Just make them believe I'm unable to move alone or speak loudly."

She tenses, her fingers digging into my arm. "But if they force you to..."

"As long as you're here, I have nothing to fear."

She freezes. Her purple eyes widen, as if struck by words she's never heard outside the family circle. For someone used to inspiring fear and disgust, this trust seems almost unreal.

"Your power," I whisper as the guards approach. "The water... you'll need to eliminate it and heal me like you did for my burn. If all goes well, I won't transform."

A brief nod. In her gaze, resignation gives way to a glimmer of determination.