*1000 years Earlier : Continued*
Dahlia’s body jerked violently from the sudden release of pressure. She let out a strangled gasp as blood gushed freely from the open wound.
The second leader then rose to his feet, satisfied with his actions. He turned to the warriors and gestured toward Dahlia’s limp, bloodied form.
“Pick her up,” he barked coldly. “We are taking her back to the clearing. Everyone should be present to watch the end of the one who took our children and made us suffer.”
Without hesitation, two warriors stepped forward and grabbed Dahlia roughly without care for the deep wounds scattered across her body. Now taking her to the clearing where she would meet her demise, she winced as her injured legs dragged across the ground.
Her body was battered, weak and sagged like a rag doll, but the warriors showed no mercy. The world around her blurred with every move, blood dripping steadily from her wounds. Dahlia gritted her teeth, refusing to let them hear her pain.
By the time they reached the opening clearing, the news of her capture had spread like wildfire. Villagers from all around gathered, their faces filled with cruel excitement. Even children peeked out from behind their parents, watching the captivity of the one who took their friends. Some children were too young to understand what was happening, while others were happy that the evil witch had been caught.
“The witch is here!” one villager cried. “Look! They have brought her back alive.”
The villagers clapped and jeered as the warriors pushed through the crowd. They tossed stones and handfuls of dirt at Dahlia’s weak form. Some women even yelled at her, shouting insults.
“Murderer!”
“Child stealer!”
“Burn her!”
Their voices echoed throughout the night in a chaotic chorus of hatred. “Kill her! She killed our children. Burn her!!!”
The four leaders of each village were more than happy to comply with the wishes of their people.
At the center of the clearing, a large wooden cross-stake stood, with piles of kindling and logs lying scattered around its base. The warriors were already informed of what they had to do, and one of them gave a low whistle as they approved the cross. “Time to get her nice and snug,” he said with a wicked grin as the other warrior laughed.
They dumped Dahlia unceremoniously at the foot of the stake, and she hit the ground with a dull thud. She groaned softly, but the sound was drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. “Murderer!!! BURN HER!! DIE YOU WITCH!”
The warriors wasted no time. They grabbed thick ropes and dragged Dahlia to her feet, her legs shaking and buckling beneath her. “Stay up, witch,” one of them hissed, annoyed by her buckling, and jerked her upright, roughly. “You better stay up.”
They pressed her back against the wooden cross-stake, forcing her arms along the horizontal beam. As they did that, they started tying her with the ropes. They wound the ropes tightly around her wrists and ankles, making sure her limbs were well-secured to the rough wood.
More rope was looped around her chest, squeezing painfully and making it difficult for her to breathe. Dahlia could not fight much as the ropes dug into her wounds painfully, making her skin burn.
“Tighter,” the third leader ordered, watching with cold satisfaction. “She deserves as much pain as she can get.”
Of course, the warriors obeyed happily, pulling the ropes taut until they bit into her flesh. Dahlia’s head lolled forward, her breathing a bit slow as she fought to stay conscious. She wished she could just break free, and then they would see what torture really feels like.
Once Dahlia was secured, the warriors began gathering more wood with the help of some villagers. They piled logs and more kindling at the base of the stake, arranging them carefully around her feet. Some villagers, most especially the women and children, even tossed bundles of dry twigs and sticks onto the growing heap.
Bound to the stake, bleeding and weak, Dahlia glared out at them through hooded eyes, hatred burning in her gaze.
The crowd fell silent as the four leaders, each holding a burning torch, stepped forward. The first leader led the way with his torch, which was raised high.
“Let this be the end of her,” he muttered darkly, and the other leaders nodded in grim agreement.
Each leader positioned their torches against the dry branches and logs at the base of the stake. Instantly, the kindling caught fire, and flames erupted, spreading across the wood with crackling hunger.
“This fire will purify your evil,” the fourth leader whispered to her, tossing aside his spent torch.
As the flames began to grow higher, the leaders stood back and watched. The villagers were also thrilled, someone screaming from the back, saying, “Burn the witch!”
“Yes! Burn her! Burn her!” other villagers shouted in unison.
As the flames grew, Dahlia’s skin blistered almost instantly, her flesh burning. Though she had lost her voice earlier from exhaustion and pain, the unbearable heat she felt ripped a raw, piercing scream from her throat.
“AAAAHHHHH!” she screamed out in pain, her body convulsing against the ropes which still held her firmly in place.
“Yes! Scream, witch!” someone shouted, and laughter rippled through the crowd, the cheers growing even louder as they relished every cry that escaped her lips.
Blood dripped from Dahlia’s eyes, mixing with her sweat and tears. There and then she vowed she would make them pay and opened her cracked lips. Even if it was the last thing she would do, she would do it with the last of her strength and power. She was dying anyway.
“Aeterno malesictio lunae… et lupi reviviscent Luna ascendet…”
She paused a bit as she coughed, blood splattering from her mouth, but she continued, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“ut mean capiatis nocterm… per vos transformabo… feras in bestias…”
Though her voice was weak, it held enough power to make her spell work. She drained everything in her before the fire would, as she placed the curse upon all of them, which said :
“On every full moon, my power will always return to turn you all into wolves, the same beasts you used to hunt me.”
Then, she let the flames consume her fully as the last words escaped her lips. Even in death, a wicked satisfaction flickered in her gaze, knowing that her vengeance would live on.
“She’s gone!” someone shouted, and the crowd erupted into cheers. The leaders felt very proud of themselves.
As the cheers filled the clearing, suddenly a strange hush fell. A low, uneasy murmur began to spread among the villagers, as if something strange had begun to happen.
“What… What is happening to me?” One man gasped and clutched his arm as his bone snapped. “What is going on?” he whispered, his eyes filled with fear as he looked down at his twisted limb. Soon, other villagers started whispering and asking the same thing.
One by one, their bodies began to snap, their bones cracking and shifting beneath their skin. Their limbs started bending in unnatural angles, with claws bursting through their fingertips.
It was only the young children who were still normal. “Why are they acting weird? Mama?” A young boy whispered, tears streaming down his face as he watched his mother collapse onto all fours, fur sprouting across her body.
The night swallowed all their screams as their bones cracked. Flesh twisted.
And in place of men…
Wolves stood.