Elian arrived in the village of Duskhaven just as the sun dipped below the jagged line of the hills. The journey had been long and arduous, but the promise of coin and a warm bed had kept him moving. He was a hedge wizard, a practical mage whose magic served the everyday: mending broken tools, blessing crops, and, in this case, purifying the village’s well, which had grown tainted with an unnatural chill. Not for the first time, he wondered if his skills, meager as they were, would be enough for the task.
The villagers welcomed him cautiously at first. Duskhaven was a quiet place, nestled in the shadow of the woods, its people wary of outsiders and their strange ways. Still, they needed him. For weeks, the well water had carried a biting cold and a faint metallic taste, and those who drank it complained of aching bones and restless nights. Desperation had outweighed their mistrust.
Elian worked tirelessly for three days. He performed the necessary rituals, casting cleansing spells and sprinkling the well with a mixture of herbs: silverwort for purity, sunblossom for warmth, and a pinch of gravebloom, a plant known for its connection to the earth’s deeper energies. The last ingredient was controversial, even among wizards, but Elian had used it before with good results. The rituals demanded precision, and by the end of each day, he was bone-tired but hopeful.
When the work was done, the water ran clear, and the metallic taste was gone. The unnatural chill lingered faintly, but Elian knew it would dissipate with time. Satisfied, he approached the village elder, Borin, to collect his payment.
"The well is purified, Elder Borin," Elian said, offering a polite bow. "The price, as agreed, is five silver pieces."
Borin, a thickset man with a weathered face, frowned deeply. He exchanged a glance with several villagers standing nearby. Their expressions shifted, growing uneasy.
"Purified?" Borin’s voice was gruff, his tone skeptical. "The water still feels cold."
Elian suppressed a sigh. "The chill is natural, Elder. It comes from the well’s depth. The taint—the unnatural influence—is gone. I assure you."
Borin’s frown deepened. "Natural, you say? And yet, since you arrived, strange things have been whispered."
The murmurs from the gathered villagers grew louder, their faces etched with suspicion. Elian’s stomach tightened.
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"What kind of whispers?" Elian asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
"That you used dark magic," Borin said bluntly. "That the gravebloom you carried is a plant of the dead. That your spells have cursed our well rather than cleansed it."
Elian’s mouth went dry. "Gravebloom is harmless," he explained quickly. "It draws on the earth’s natural energy to stabilize the spell. It’s used in purification rituals all across the land."
"Purification, you say?" Borin’s voice rose, and the villagers pressed closer, their murmurs turning into accusations. "We’ve heard of wizards like you, tampering with forces you don’t understand. Perhaps you didn’t cleanse the well at all. Perhaps you poisoned it!"
"No!" Elian protested, his heart pounding. "I swear to you, I only did what was necessary to remove the taint. The well is safe!"
But his words fell on deaf ears. Fear and superstition had taken hold, and reason could not stand against them. Borin raised his hand, and the villagers fell silent.
"Guards!" Borin shouted. "Seize him!"
Two burly men stepped forward, their expressions grim. Elian barely had time to react before they grabbed him, wrenching his staff from his hands and binding his wrists tightly with rough rope. He struggled, but their grip was like iron.
"You can’t do this!" Elian cried. "I’ve done nothing wrong!"
"We’ll see about that," Borin said coldly. "We’ll see if the fire purifies your lies."
They dragged him to the village square, where a pyre had been hastily constructed. The dry wood crackled underfoot as they tied him to the stake. The crowd had grown, their faces a mixture of fear, anger, and grim satisfaction. The whispers of doubt had turned into a roaring tide of certainty: Elian was a necromancer, a corrupter, a danger to them all.
"Please," Elian pleaded, his voice breaking. "You’re making a mistake. I’m not what you think I am. I only wanted to help."
Borin stepped forward, a lit torch in hand. His face was unreadable, his eyes hard. "By the authority vested in me," he declared, his voice ringing out over the square, "I sentence you, Elian the necromancer, to death by fire. May your soul find no rest."
The torch touched the wood, and flames erupted, licking hungrily at the dry branches. The heat was immediate and searing, the smoke choking. Elian screamed, his voice a mix of terror and despair, but his cries were drowned out by the roaring flames and the villagers’ chanting.
As the fire consumed him, Elian’s thoughts turned bitter. He had come to Duskhaven to bring life and healing, to rid them of their curse. Instead, their fear had made him the curse, their ignorance his executioner. The irony was as cruel as the fire was merciless.
When the flames finally died, the villagers dispersed in uneasy silence, their eyes avoiding the charred remains at the center of the square. The well stood untouched, its water clear and pure, but its coldness lingered—a reminder, perhaps, of the cost of fear and the weight of unfounded judgment.
