April 23rd, 1746

England

Cold metal bites into her wrists. She grimaces, gritting her teeth as the men roughly bind her legs to the stake and step back. "Jeanne de Eustre, of France," the herald intones. "You are hereby charged of murdering the king's soldiers- "

Charged of self-defense? She wants to ask. Or should I have stayed still and let them kill me?

"Treason against your country and your country's allies- "

Jeanne rolls her eyes. As if the so-called alliance between England and France was anything more than a political farce.

"Repeated crimes of larceny, defacement and vandalism of the king's property, blasphemy against the royal Church of England- "

She'll be damned if she lets that one go. "You mean that heresy you call a religion?" she interrupts, ignoring the cries from the crowd of "shut her up!" Others add their own insults, calling her a French whore and suggesting what they would do to her if they had half the chance. She listens dispassionately, unimpressed. Apparently the English can't even curse properly. She's heard far worse in her father's stables as a child.

"-And commandeering a vessel of the Royal British Navy," the herald finishes, undeterred. "For your crimes against His Majesty and the British Empire, you are hereby condemned to death by fire. Do you have any final words?" The crowd erupts. "Burn her!" a man shouts, and the people cheer. Her gaze flicks over them impassively. "Yes," she says, and looks at the herald. "Brûle en enfer."

The crowd murmurs, confused. The herald is an educated man, however. The corners of his mouth twist as he turns to the soldiers. "Burn her."

The crowd roars its approval. The soldiers slosh oil onto the pyre as one of them lights a torch. She shifts restlessly as the dark fluid puddles around her bare feet and soaks the hem of her sackcloth robe. Her father's face appears in her mind. Chin up, mon coeur. Look them in the eyes. Never let them know you are afraid, and they will respect you, even if they hate you.

The soldier lights the pyre. The damp London morning is suddenly warm. She forces her breathing to slow, feeling her heart begin to thud against her ribs.

I will never show fear.

The pyre is uncomfortably hot now. She balances on the balls of her feet, gritting her teeth as the flames dart towards the puddle of oil. The crowd goes silent, taut with anticipation.

I will not scream.

A spark lands in the puddle. Flame explodes upwards, licking around her. The metal chains burn into her skin, and she arches her back in silent agony.

No. I refuse to die like this. It cannot end like this. There must be more. There must be!

Pain consumes her thoughts. Her mind scrambles. Her father's voice. Be strong, mon coeur.

Rafael. You will change the world, I know it.

She can hear Mama screaming as the men drag her out of the house.

Fire. Pain.

And a voice. Far away. A girl chanting.

"…I hereby propose…"

Who are you?

"…If thou dost accede to this will and reason, answer me!"

A different voice. Emotionless. Inhuman. What do you choose?

There must be more.

I can grant your wish.

My wish…?

It is done.

The pain is distant now. The girl's voice is growing louder. "I hereby swear. I will be all that is good in the eternal world. I will be the disposer of evil in the eternal world."

A circle of light appears in the darkness. She steps through it. The girl's voice is no longer distant. "Thou, the seven days clad in the great trinity, come forth from the circle of constraint! Come, Guardian of the Heavenly Scales!"

And the world transforms.