Kasian just like another village in this world was a Village Built on Fear.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of change.

Fear of witches.

But she was just like the others.

A normal child, growing up in the village.

She ran through the fields, played in the streets, laughed with her brothers, and listened to her mother’s stories by the fire.

She had a home.

She had a family.

She had love.

There was no darkness, no whispers, no distance.

Not yet.

She was happy.

Until the Age of Coming.

Until the Witchstone.

Until everything changed.

---

Every girl in this world was tested at the age of eighteen.

It was not a choice.

It was law.

A rite as old as time itself, spoken of in whispers, carried out without question.

They called it a simple ceremony. A mere formality.

But she had always felt the weight of it.

A test.

A trial.

A judgment.

One by one, the girls of Kasian would step forward, barefoot on the cold stone floors of the temple, their breath shallow, their hands trembling as they reached for the Witchstone.

A relic of a forgotten past.

A slab of blackened crystal, smooth as glass, humming with a power that no one dared to name.

It was said to reveal evil.

It was said to unmask the wicked.

The elders called it holy.

The villagers called it necessary.

But deep in her bones, she had always felt something wrong about it.

Most girls passed.

Most girls walked away untouched, unmarked, their futures secured.

Most girls had nothing to fear.

And for most of her life, she had believed she would be one of them.

She had believed she was safe.

She had believed she was ordinary.

She had been wrong.

---

She had stood in line, her heartbeat matching the slow, rhythmic toll of the temple bell.

Each chime was a countdown.

Each strike against the iron sent a shiver through her ribs.

She clenched her hands to keep them still, forcing herself to breathe, to focus, to remind herself that this was just a test.

Nothing more.

She watched as the first girl stepped forward, bare feet silent against the cold temple floor.

She placed her hand on the Witchstone.

Nothing.

A sigh of relief passed through the crowd.

The girl stepped back, smiling, her fate sealed in safety.

The second girl.

The third.

One by one, they came.

One by one, they pressed their palms to the stone.

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One by one, they were declared clean.

The tension in the air eased.

The priest’s shoulders relaxed.

The villagers murmured in quiet approval, the weight of expectation settling like a warm, familiar cloak around them.

Everything was as it should be.

Everything was normal.

And then—

It was her turn.

Her breath hitched as she stepped forward.

The air felt heavier now, thick with something unseen, something watching.

Her fingers trembled, but she steadied them.

She was nervous, yes.

But she was not afraid.

Because she was not a witch.

She was not a monster.

She was just like the others.

Her hand pressed against the stone.

And the world shattered.

---

The sound split the air like a thunderclap.

A jagged crack tore through the Witchstone’s surface, black veins spiderwebbing outward in an instant—before the entire slab exploded.

The force rippled through the temple.

Shards of obsidian sprayed across the chamber, slicing into wood, into cloth, into flesh. Gasps turned into screams as villagers flinched away, some shielding their faces, others stumbling back in terror.

She reeled, nearly losing her footing, her ears ringing, her heart slamming against her ribs.

The world blurred—the flickering torchlight, the rows of open-mouthed spectators, the blood dripping from fresh cuts where the stone’s shards had torn into skin.

And for a moment—only a moment—

There was silence.

A moment where the world held its breath, as if even time itself was too afraid to move.

And then—

"WITCH!"

A single voice, shrill, panicked.

Then another.

And another.

"She is a WITCH!"

The words erupted from the crowd.

Louder than the shattering stone.

Louder than her own heartbeat.

Louder than anything she had ever heard before.

It was not a question.

Not an accusation.

It was a sentence.

---

Hands seized her.

Rough, merciless hands.

They clawed at her sleeves, yanked at her hair, dragged her across the temple floor like a ragdoll caught in a storm.

Her knees slammed against the stone, the sharp bite of pain radiating through her legs, but she barely registered it over the rising panic in her chest.

She kicked, she fought, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Father!" she choked out, twisting against the iron grip that held her. "Mother—please!"

But then—

She saw them.

Her father.

Her mother.

Her brothers.

Standing among the crowd.

Their faces were carved from stone, emotionless, untouched by the chaos swallowing her whole.

Not reaching for her.

Not fighting for her.

Just watching.

She felt the scratch of rope against her wrists. Tight. Unforgiving. Final.

And still, they did nothing.

Her breath hitched.

She searched their eyes for something—anything.

Horror.

Denial.

Even disgust.

But all she saw was relief.

Her stomach lurched.

They had been waiting for this.

Waiting for a reason to cut her away like a rotting limb.

And now—

They had it.

"Father…" Her voice cracked, trembling, breaking. "Please—"

His expression did not change.

His gaze did not waver.

And then, he spoke.

"You are not my daughter."

The words gutted her.

She stopped struggling.

Stopped breathing.

Because in that moment, she understood.

She was already dead to them.

---

Torches were raised.

Ropes dragged across the floor.

Fists curled around stones.

The air crackled with fury, thick with the scent of burning oil and the sweat of the angry mob.

She was hauled from the temple, her feet barely skimming the ground as they dragged her through the streets like an animal to the slaughter.

The shouts rang through the night—

"BURN THE WITCH!"

"DON’T LET HER ESCAPE!"

"KILL IT BEFORE IT CURSES US!"

She thrashed, kicked, fought—but it was useless.

There were too many of them.

A wall of rage and fear, hatred and conviction, pressing against her from all sides.

They weren’t just villagers anymore.

They were executioners.

And she—

She had no power.

Not yet.

Not enough to save herself.

Through the smoke, she saw it—

The woodpile.

The stake.

The waiting fire.

They were going to burn her alive.

Her chest tightened, her vision blurred. Her body was numb, her mind screaming for a way out, for something, anything.

And then—

Something answered.

A spark.

A shift.

A force inside her, long buried, long dormant, awoke.

Suddenly—

The magic reacted.

The ropes burst into flames.

A searing wave of heat tore through the air, consuming the bindings that held her.

The fire was hers.

It did not burn her.

It did not fear her.

It obeyed.

---

The ropes burned away, curling into ash, the flames licking at her skin—but she felt no pain.

Only power.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

For the first time, they were afraid.

She moved.

Her hands flung forward, and with a burst of will, the fire answered.

A wave of flame erupted, roaring outward, sending villagers stumbling back in terror.

The torches they had held—turned against them.

Fire leapt from hand to hand, crawling up sleeves, igniting the edges of skirts, setting wooden stalls ablaze. The square became a storm of light and shadow, the night splintered by screams.

She ran.

Through the chaos, through the wall of bodies now stumbling, cowering, retreating.

They had dragged her through these streets as a prisoner.

Now, she ripped through them as a force of nature.

A man lunged at her, a knife glinting in his hands—

She turned, instinct flaring.

The flames whipped out, engulfing his arm in a burst of fire. He screamed, dropping the blade, clutching his burning limb as he fell to the ground.

Another came at her from behind—

She spun, kicking him hard in the stomach, sending him crashing into a cart of grain.

More villagers swarmed, emboldened by their numbers.

She fought.

Kicking, dodging, striking—her magic burned through her veins, untamed, wild, a firestorm barely under her control.

But there were too many.

Too many hands grabbing at her, too many voices screaming for her death.

She was getting weaker.

Her flames faltered. Her breaths came in ragged gasps.

And then—

A fist struck her across the face.

Pain exploded through her skull as she crumpled to the ground, her vision spinning, the world turning into a haze of fire and shadowed figures closing in.

Her body refused to move.

Boots crunched against the dirt as the villagers surrounded her, their rage now desperation.

A spear was raised—

And then—

A voice cut through the madness.

"ENOUGH."

Everything stopped.

A gust of wind rushed through the square, putting out every flame except for the embers clinging to her skin.

The villagers froze.

Their hatred turned to fear.

And standing at the edge of the firelit ruins, framed by the glow of destruction—

Was him.

Gufran.

His silhouette was towering, his breath steady, his fists clenched at his sides.

His eyes—they burned, deep and endless, filled with a fury so sharp it made the villagers step back without realizing it.

And for the first time—

She felt hope.

Because he had come.

Because he hadn’t abandoned her.

Because if there was one person in this world who would fight for her—

It was him.

---Author's note---

I hope ya all remember what happened after this if you don't go back to chapter 3

We will come back to her again also her name is Lahiba

And also let me know if you all like how I am switching between different timelines and characters

Trying to learn a thing or two from crystopher Nolan