From the recollections of Hildegard
I was never close to Severus Jäger.
He lived far from us, a quiet man, older than most of the bachelors, and always smelled like bark and blood. But I never thought he deserved hate.
Until I saw what hatred can become.
It began a few weeks after he stood in the village center with that book.
At first, people ignored him. Muttered. Laughed. But then something else began to spread, disgust. The kind that lingers in a man's mouth and makes his spit bitter. You could see it in the faces of the butchers, the young boys throwing stones near his cabin, the way even mothers pulled their children away when he passed by.
Something had changed.
A few mornings ago, I was walking with my friends down by the stream when we overheard two of the blacksmiths speaking low and grim near the well.
"I say we end it," one of them hissed. "He's not right. And if we don't, it'll be our children next."
"They say he dreams of demons. Talks to himself. Stole from Father Benedikt. That kind of man, he's not sick. He's rotten."
I felt a coldness in my chest. The kind that doesn't come from weather.
I couldn't forget it.
That night I told Ulrich, my brother. I thought he'd help me reason with them. Stop it before it started.
But he only looked at me.
And said:
"I'll be there too. It's for the village."
They waited a few days. Let the rumors steep.
Then they came.
It was before dawn, 5 a.m., perhaps, when they went to his home. I was not there, but I've heard it now from so many mouths, I see it clear as fire.
They knocked on his door, soft at first, pretending.
"Severus," one of them said, "You were right. We believe you. Please, come out. You're not alone."
He didn't answer. He hadn't left his home in nearly a week. Not even to fetch water. He kept the windows boarded now. But still, he answered.
And the door opened.
Three men rushed in. Brunhalt, Ulrich, and Yuri.
Yes. Yuri.
They dragged him to the floor by the throat. Beat him with heavy sticks until his skull cracked, until his jaw hung broken, until his blood splattered the walls of the cabin he'd built with his own hands. He screamed only once.
Then, silence.
At six, they brought him to the square.
They tied him to a wooden stake, cross-shaped, sprawled like a heretic. They used cords of thornvine, barbed with spikes from the woods near Faenlin's ridge. The vines tore into his wrists, shoulders, and neck.
Then they wrapped his head in the same vines.
I couldn't recognize him anymore. His hair was slick with blood. One eye swollen shut. His mouth gaping like a fish dying in mud.
The elder came forward. He held a parchment.
"We try Severus Jäger for theft from the holy chambers, for blasphemy, for spreading false prophecy, and for invoking unrest in the sacred balance of Steinbruck. For these crimes, we pronounce a sentence of purification."
They stuffed his mouth with cloth. Then ropes. Then, using a branding iron, sealed it shut.
I vomited behind the baker's stall.
Ulrich... Ulrich brought a pair of pincers.
They amputated his right arm. Not cleanly. Bit by bit, like they were pruning a tree.
He moaned through the cloth, blood drooling from his throat.
And then... they gathered the wood.
Piled it beneath him, around him, against his legs.
Yuri stood nearby. His face was pale, his hands shaking. I saw his lips move, but no sound came.
Then, just before the torch was lit
Severus moved his head. Just barely. The cloth fell into the wood below.
And screamed.
"Why, Yuri?! Why did you let them do this?! I believed in you!"
The sound came from inside his body. I don't know how. But we all heard it.
Yuri stepped back like he'd been struck.
His eyes…God help me…looked like a man whose soul had snapped in two.
The torch was lit.
The flames caught fast. Dry wood. Blood-soaked cloth. Screams muffled.
The smell was unbearable. Charred hair. Boiled skin. It clung to the wind.
He jerked. Twitched. Then stilled.
And we... we cheered.
Ulrich raised his arms and whooped. Brunhalt spat into the ash. The others laughed, relieved, proud.
Only Yuri remained frozen.
He looked smaller somehow. Hollow.
Then I saw him glance toward the chapel.
Where Father Benedikt stood once more.
Watching.
Expressionless.
Like it was all meant to happen.
And something broke inside me.
Now I wonder:
What if Severus was right?
What if we burned the only man telling the truth?
Because truth often sounds like madness
when you've built your life around a lie.