Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

The sound of dripping water echoed in the small, dank cell. A puddle had formed in the corner, just behind the cracked, clay chamber pot. Each drop jumped and rippled across the small pool, dusting the clay with moisture and darkening the surrounding stone. There was a quiet rhythm to it, she had discovered. At times, it comforted her. At other times, she felt herself on the brink of madness.

She hadn’t paid attention to the droplets, at first. At the beginning, there had been other noises. Shouts of anger and indignation. Screams of fear and outrage. Cries of shock and disbelief. Some of these noises had been hers, back when she’d had the energy to make them. Back when she and the other captives had hoped that this would turn out to be an unfortunate and promptly rectified mistake. But the dungeons had grown quieter as the days passed and hope faded. One could only yell for so long. She thought they had talked for a time, hopefully of release and haughtily of revenge. Then they had whispered longingly of beds and meals and hearths, fearfully of the violence of the people. There had been murmurs eventually, unintelligible and delirious with hunger, dehydration, and pain. Then just hoarse, ragged breaths. And as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks to months, even those had given way to silence and the slow tip tap of the water, trickling down from some place far removed from this hell.

She was the last one. She was not sure how she still lived, but she was certain it would not be for much longer. Few of her compatriots had expired in the squalor of their cells; most had been dragged away still breathing and none had returned. She could not remember the name of the first man they had taken—perhaps she had known him once, curtsied before him at a ball or a tea party—but now she remembered only his voice. When they came for him, he had bellowed at the guards with such an air of command that, for a moment, they had moved to obey.

They had beat him for it, as if to remind him that he was now powerless, as if to remind themselves. She had not seen it, but she had heard it. What occurred out of view of one’s eyes, she had learned, was far more terrifying than what one could see. The heavy, thudding blows of their batons. The grunting, the shouting, the pleading. A sound of splattering, and a terrible crack. They had hauled him past her cell afterward, bloody and barely upright, with his arm curled against his body limp and twisted. She had never seen tears on a grown man’s face before.

His eyes had met hers for a moment, and a flicker of recognition had crossed his crumpled face. “Witch,” he had spat at her, blood speckling his lips. Yes, perhaps she had known him once.

None had called her by her name since she’d been brought to this place. Well, few had called her by her name even before that. How she longed for that simple piece of humanity; that small but essential identity that she had so readily given away ten years ago. Her name was Edda. But the man who had interrogated her all those months ago had christened her blood witch. He had shaved her teeth down himself so that she could not feed. And though his fingers had been careful, gentle even, he had not believed her words when she spoke the truth—but perhaps she herself was unsure of what the truth was. She only knew that she was Edda.

It did not matter now. Maybe it never had, because she was the last one.

When would they come for her? That was all there was left for her to think about. Perhaps she would be beaten, also, perhaps raped or humiliated. There would certainly be a trial, however farcical; but perhaps it would be warm in that chamber. Perhaps she would feel warmth for a moment. The execution would certainly take place outdoors for the people to witness, she knew. She hoped it would be a clear day, with a strong breeze. She hoped she would see the sun and the sky, and feel the wind on her face, before they put the hood over her head.

She found herself fantasizing about it, as she lay motionless on her bed of dirty straw, just a pace away from the chamber pot and the dripping water. The seasons had changed, because she could now feel the cold of the stone beneath her and beside her. It seeped into her bones, causing them to ache and ache. There was no comfort any longer. Oh, she had thought the same the very day they had locked her in here. But she hadn’t understood then. One did not understand discomfort until the cushion of one’s own flesh melted away from hunger. Until hunger itself faded away into an agonizing, unrelenting void beneath one’s breast. Her skin felt taut and tight across her bones; she was little more than that in truth, and so the very essence of her scraped and ground against the filthy straw and stone.

The steady tip tap that so titillated her, so taunted her, was her only reliable source of nourishment in this place. Sometimes—not often enough—a sneering guard would throw a stub of hard bread into her cell. A few times, a handful of cold gruel or spoiled milk had been poured directly into her outstretched hands, accompanied by laughter as she frantically slurped and licked it up. She had even eaten a good deal of the straw that had initially lined the cell, hoping it would at some point be replenished. It hadn’t, but at least, in her few moments of lucidity, she could crawl over to the chamber pot—which hadn’t been filled or emptied in her recent memory—and moisten her sandy mouth with the slow stream of dripping water.

A series of loud thuds and clangs, followed by the sound of well-ordered footsteps, interrupted her reverie. The noises felt distant, almost dream-like, and it took her a moment to register that the heavy iron door at the end of the hall had been opened, and the guards were approaching. Briefly, she thought of food, but almost immediately she knew otherwise. Too many footsteps approached. They were too confident, too disciplined.

Unexpectedly, she felt a booming in her chest. Her entire body convulsed and began to tremble, as if a bucket of icy water had been tossed over her head. She lurched and struggled into a seated position just in time to see the guards—no, not just guards, but soldiers—come to a stop before her cell. Momentarily blinded by the brightness of the lamp they carried; she could barely get a breath in between the shivers that wracked her. Fear. For some reason, she had not imagined the fear she would feel in this moment.

As her vision cleared, words bubbled up in her throat, choking her as they failed to pass her chattering teeth. Desperate words. Pleading words. She had not imagined these, either. Despite her gurgling, the men were silent as their leader unbarred the gate to her cell. They watched him warily, all but ignoring her, and she came to understand why as the gate swung open, its hinges creaking with disuse.

It had been over a decade since she had last laid eyes on him, but she was certain it was him. His face was deeply shadowed in the flickering light of the single lamp. He was not the young man she remembered. Grey streaked his temples and lines of his face were sharper, colder. But surely, he too would see it was her. Surely, he would understand that none of this was her fault.

“Brother, please,” she managed to croak—willing, begging that he would know her. In the next moment, her ears were ringing, her head and the side of her face hot with pain, and, as the stars cleared from her eyes, she realized she was staring directly at a pair of well-polished boots. It took her several, pain-filled moments to realize that he had hit her, and she had fallen onto her side.

“I would kill you,” he said, his voice shaking with rage, “if not for the hundreds waiting to see you die.”

It was in the loss of this final hope that she dared to look up at him. Their eyes met, and her trembling stilled, so profound was the terror that gripped her. No recognition crossed his features; instead, pure hatred shone behind his sunken eyes. She felt herself recoil deeper into the corner of the cell, pressing herself against the stone as though hoping it would swallow her.

“Bring the witch,” he commanded, exiting the cell without a backward glance.

Two men entered in his place. She felt no shame at the obvious disgust in their expressions as they each grabbed an arm, roughly hauling her to her knees and then to her feet. It was quickly discovered that she could not stand or walk on her own. Whether this was due to the heavy blow she had just taken, the long captivity that had come before it, or simply the pure terror that gripped her, Edda could not be sure. She was only barely aware of the skin on the tops of her feet rubbing off as the men dragged her from her cell and then down the long hallway they had come from.

They led her through the door at the end of the hallway into another long hallway, closing behind them the heavy iron door whose opening and closing she had listened for with hope and dread, and hope, and dread, and dread, and dread...The finality of the thunk as it swung shut, and the clang as the bar was slipped into place over it triggered her shivering anew. It would be the last time, and she knew it with finality.

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She did not remember much of the journey out of the dungeon itself. It might have taken hours, or only a few minutes. She hung between the two men like a doll, limp and motionless but for her tremors. For their part, they carried their burden silently. Their leader walked quickly and wordlessly at the head of the group, never looking back at the woman who had called him brother.

A few men—guards—greeted them curtly as they reached the well-lit guardroom. The brightness stung Edda’s eye—only one eye, she realized, as the other had swollen shut. She did not look up to see who the guards were, nor did she listen closely to what words were exchanged between the two groups. Their business was swiftly conducted, and they exited the room through a monstrous set of iron and stone doors. It took three men to open but one side of it.

At last, Edda turned her face upward to the grey winter’s day. She could not see the sun, but a cold, crisp wind blew, biting her skin. Her raw, bleeding feet now scraped along the cobblestone as the men dragged her along, but she did not care. She heard sobbing and realized that it came from her. It was not like she had imagined, but it was better, she was sure of it. Now, if only there might be a moment of warmth.

An uncovered carriage awaited them not far from the doors. The men dropped her, and she fell unceremoniously to her knees before it. One of them bound her hands tightly together with a length of rope; a formality, as she was sure they all knew. Even if she had not been emaciated, she was too scared to fight. Instead, she continued to weep miserably, breathing in as much of the fresh air as she could manage through her open mouth. She had discovered she could not close it without great pain, and so she no longer tried to.

She was lifted and thrown onto the floor of the carriage, and she lay there, exhausted and terrified as the soldiers climbed in and settled on the benches around her. After a momentary pause, the carriage began to move. She found herself staring at a pair of boots again, but she was not sure who they belonged to. She did not try to look for or speak to her brother again. If the men spoke, she did not listen. The carriage rocked and jostled her, reminding her of every bruise on her body, and the cold wind she had been so grateful for began to cut and slice through her. And yet somehow, the rhythmic clip clop of the horses’ hooves, so like the tip tap she had grown used to, lulled her into a kind of slumber. It was not peaceful or restful, and she was certain that she was terrified the entire time. But for a while, she slept.

When she awoke, it was to the rumble of a storm. Or, at least, that is what it sounded like to her at first. Like the roar of distant thunder, growing closer and closer. Like winds, howling through the trees. Like torrential rains, beating against cobblestone. The sheer force of its anger stunned her into wakefulness, and her fear paralyzed her once more. As the carriage proceeded, slowing down now, she began to pick out voices in the storm. And she realized that she heard not the wrath of the Mother of Creation, but the wrath of her child—of Man.

The people had come for her, and their violence shook the wagon. The soldiers around her began to shout commands. They stood, brandishing batons and threatening violence. At some point earlier, they must have been joined by other soldiers on horseback or on foot, because a chorus of male voices joined together to quell the crowd that thronged up around the wagon.

At last, the wagon came to a stop. There was a commotion, and Edda could hear shouts of, “Hold!” and “Peace!” and with great effort, their will held the people at bay.

She did not struggle as she was manhandled out of the wagon and strung up, once more, between two soldiers. Fear held her still as a corpse. At the sight of her, a primal chant rose up from the crowd calling for the witch to be burned. This was not a trial, she realized. There would be no trial. This was her execution.

She was carried up onto a large, elevated stage; no doubt, it had been constructed in the middle of the town square specifically for this spectacle. She had seen executions before, had stood an anonymous witness among many; horrified and fascinated in the square as some cutpurse was hanged. Now, she dared glanced out across the crowd—a massive crowd, unlike one she had ever seen before—and saw not one human being. Instead, countless faces white with rage, and accusing eyes, black with bloodlust. There was no humanity here, and there would be no mercy.

She was thrown to her knees, and she crumpled immediately, unable to hold herself up. To the cheers of the crowd, a soldier grabbed her by the hair and yanked her into a kneeling position, directing her gaze upward even as her neck and scalp screamed with protest. She was too frightened, too weak, to even raise her hand to her head. Instead, she looked with her one good eye directly into the face of the man who had interrogated her at the beginning of it all. The man who had taken her name and made her a witch.

Whereas the wind now seemed to buffet her, it only smoothed his flaxen hair away from his face. He did not look at her with cruelty. There was no murderous intent on his face. But his expression was resolute, as hard as granite. Her body began to shake, the fear sharp and fresh once more. This man would be the one to kill her, and he would not lose a moment’s rest over it.

He turned from her, and with just that gesture those gathered quieted. Whereas the soldiers had yelled and postured to control the crowd, he needed only direct his attention toward them—such was his presence. They waited expectantly, hungrily, for him to begin.

“For the crimes of witchcraft, murder of kin and ward, carnal and unnatural depravity, and the subversion of the natural order, I hereby sentence the blood witch, Elizabeth Bathory, to be burned at the stake.” His voice resounded clearly through the square, and a crescendo of cheers shook the stage. With a motion of his hands, he quieted the onlookers once more. “In my power as Count of Ecsed and Marquis of Heves, I will it be so.”

The man’s words echoed in her head, drowning out the animalistic applause that followed. Burned. She would be burned. No. That was not what she had imagined. The soldiers who had carried her to the stage sprang into action. She had not noticed, so narrowed was her attention on the man before her, the pyre on which she would die. In the center of the stage, a large metal basin sat forebodingly, filled with wood and with a thick metal pole rising from the center. As the men approached her, words spilled from her lips, barely audible even to her own ears.

“Please, please, please,” she found herself stammering, “Spare me, I beg you. Spare me this.” She repeated the words like a mantra, but the men paid her no heed. She writhed, struggling against the rope that bound her hands, but the men easily overpowered her, lifting her into the basin and fastening her to the pole. Before they reached her legs, she began to flail and kick, sending wooden chips and sticks flying; but they paid her no mind. One of the men easily grasped her legs together, wrapping them in rope and then tying them to the pole as well. The other efficiently returned the fallen wood to the basin.

Her dress was wet as the men stepped back, but she did not feel shame at having urinated on herself. She felt nothing but terror; hot terror, cold terror—a terror so single-minded, so depraved, that she was sure she had lost her mind. With a horrible start, she realized that her brother stood nearby, one of a line of soldiers waiting stiffly on the stage, and, in a final, desperate moment, she screamed to him, “Brother! Ivar, please!”

He started toward her, his face distorted like that of a demon’s, knuckles white as they clenched to draw the sword at his hip. The interrogator—that Count of Ecsed and Marquis of Heves, whoever he was—stepped forward with an outstretched hand, halting the impending violence wordlessly. Ivar stepped back into position, but in his eyes already burned the fire that would soon consume her.

She whimpered and grunted; screamed when she had the energy. She was conscious of little outside of her panic. She had thought she would be hung. A man stepped forward holding a bucket, and began to dump brownish liquid into the basin, coating the wood and splashing it over her legs and feet. She had thought she would be hung, and that they would cover her head. That the hood would conceal not only her face, but her fear from everyone present, from even herself. This was not what she had imagined.

She was crying. This was not what she had imagined at all.

Now, another man stepped forward and handed a lit torch to the Count of Ecsed and Marquis of Heves, that man who had interrogated her, that man who had condemned her to burn, and who intended to set her alight with his own hands. He walked toward her, holding the torch in front of him, and met her eyes. His eyes were a clear blue, the color of the sky she had wished to see.

“I am Edda Belten of Hesse,” she cried, and the wind seemed to carry her voice farther than it had any of her screams.

He did not flinch. If he felt anything by her words neither his face nor eyes betrayed him. He threw the torch into the basin.

The flames sprung up immediately, spreading wildly across the pyre, spurred by the foul oil that had been poured upon it. They curled and licked at her feet and legs like grasping fingers, and quickly they caught her, igniting the oil that had splattered on her body. There might have been a moment of warmth before the searing agony began. But it was not the moment of warmth she had imagined.

She thrashed, straining with more strength than she thought she had left. Her body contorted against her bindings in ways she hadn’t thought possible. But her skin burned, nonetheless, a smell of cooking, blackening meat filling her nostrils along with the smoke that rose up around her feet. The pole she had been fastened to heated, and long before the flames climbed her body, her back and hair began to burn, melting onto the hot metal.

At some point before the smoke blinded her, she looked out across the crowd—searching, as though on instinct. There, standing triumphantly with the other soldiers, was her brother Ivar. But it was not him she sought. She swung her head madly, from devil to devil; they watched her burn with pleasure and disgust, unable to look away from the revenge they had so frantically desired.

There. One among the many, one face she knew, one face she loved. The only face that recognized her for who she was. Her sister’s angelic face was streaked with tears, but her eyes were wet with determination.

“Sister,” Edda murmured, as she felt her vision begin to darken.

“Sister,” Franka mouthed, holding Edda’s gaze until she saw no more. “I will save you,” Edda heard, and then she neither heard nor felt any more.