HEART OF THE CHOSEN (CASTE BOOK 1)

1253, Saint-Girons, place of Lédar, Ariège “Isabelle Castellane!” cried the inquisitor, whose loud voice silenced the assembly, “do you recognize before the people the accusations of witchcraft of which you are the object?” The woman fixed her Franciscan executioner with a sharp gaze and then the crowd around her: people who wanted her dead and whose feverish eyes no longer concealed the ardent desire they felt to witness an execution. Some had known her since childhood, but fear and hatred spread like a disease. The Church hunted down heretics, and the region was well known for its resistance to doctrine. Pope Innocent IV led a ruthless crusade to eradicate them. Far from the precepts of the Bible, the Inquisition practised torture and immolation as a punishment to purify souls rebellious to the dogma of the Church. Although the woman in question was hardly concerned with these Cathar ideologies, she nevertheless represented everything that the clergy wanted to eliminate definitively. Feeling her blood running down her leg and the sharp pain that tormented her from all sides, she was perfectly aware of living her last moments. Having sworn never to bow to the Inquisition, she was now paying the price. “I don’t recognize anything!” she declared angrily, “I am as God created me, and I have never denied His name!” “That’s where you’re wrong, pagan,” retorted the inquisitor, “it’s the devil who gave birth to you! God doesn’t recognize ungodly people, witches or whatever you might be. You have been found guilty and will atone for your sins in flames!” The audience applauded jubilantly, but with an impatient hand wave, the man in a black robe stopped the sinister ovation. The heavy silence that followed barely concealed the unhealthy fervour that agitated the people, while a fierce grin distorted the features of the young priest. “We cannot tolerate blood as impure as yours,” he went on, icy, “so before you take your last breath, know that your lineage will end the moment I find your bastard daughter!” “NO!” Isabelle’s scream tore through the air. Her tears of despair left thin white streaks on her face, soiled by many days of captivity. Her eyes became imploring this time when she addressed the Franciscan. “You have taken the oath, priest! We had an agreement. I surrendered on the condition that you let her live!” “Why would I hurt you with my dagger, do you think, sinner? Thus, I have spilt your blood, and you no longer have the resources to defend yourself. I wanted to be sure that you wouldn’t use your evil powers against me. Know that no oath holds with the work of the evil one, and your daughter will suffer the same fate as you! Wherever you have hidden her, we will find her!” “I WILL NOT ALLOW IT!” The woman let out her anger. A perceptible shudder shook the assembly while a gleam of fear crossed the eyes of the inquisitor. Some took a step back. “With that wound in your side, do you think you scare me?” persisted the man of the Church, “you are only a shadow of yourself and….” “You should be scared!” Isabelle cut him off in a dark voice. “Because I won’t leave alone. You will all die with me. I swear to God!” Her words were lost in a long silence during which the condemned woman, panting, considered the crowd. All widened their eyes, horrified by the witch’s words. Some had witnessed the strange events she sometimes unleashed around her, the people who had denounced her to benefit from the favours of the clergy. Yet she had never done them the slightest harm, and she was surprised to discover that some had even taken their children to watch this miserable spectacle. Around here, distractions were rare, so parents found it fun to take their offspring to this type of event, which is increasingly common in the region. Now the brats were crying their dread in their mothers’ petticoats. Everyone turned to the inquisitor, who burst out laughing against all expectations. The faithful, reassured, imitated him in front of a beleaguered Isabelle. “That’s enough!” said the Franciscan. “Let her burn! Isabelle Castellane, you will expiate your faults in the purifying flames!” The audience acclaimed the priest’s sentence. Isabelle closed her eyes. Despite her alarming appearance, she was blessed with innate grace and an attractive figure. In her twenties, she had been adored by many young people in the region, but she only had eyes for the father of her daughter. The poor man had disappeared in the mountains a year earlier and on the eve of celebrating their wedding. Grief haunted her day and night, but she could not regret the weakness of having given up her virtue before the wedding because, from their short union, her daughter, Eleonore, had been born. Isabelle was the target of all the mockery and the worst resentment, but Eleonore was all that remained of her late beloved. As well as the only gift she has received in her entire existence. Eleonore. Isabelle looked up, eyes still closed. Men were already advancing, brandishing their torches. The flames caught immediately and thick grey smoke wrapped around the condemned woman. We could already see only her face, which strangely didn’t show the slightest sign of pain. The pyre burst into flames, but Isabelle remained motionless, inert, expressionless. We were beginning to smell a terrible odour of burning flesh when the flames licked her legs and rose towards her blackened face. Her clothes crumbled and spilt in the breeze of that gloomy morning. No sound, just the tireless crackling of fire that had now taken hold of the sinner’s entire body. An inhuman howl suddenly broke the suffocating silence that reigned in the crowd. The villagers understood too late that this cry came from the middle of the furnace, and the events that followed sealed their disastrous destinies forever. A whirlwind of fire rose and coiled like a snake around Isabelle’s body. A dull roar tore the audience’s eardrums. They now bawled their suffering, and the unbearable noise became increasingly more strident as the incendiary tornado turned into a gigantic ball of fire. People were screaming in terror while some fled, covering their ears, and others were pushed around or trampled on, not knowing where to go. The panic intensified. The priest’s eyes widened in horror as the inevitable outcome drew near. The commotion suddenly ceased. The flaming sphere emitted a high-pitched hiss. Everyone looked at each other in horror, but before everyone understood how such a phenomenon could have happened, the formation exploded in a torrent of fire. More cries. Then silence. The flames left Isabelle’s charred body, burning everything in their path, towering over the s*******r and the hundreds of corpses in ashes.