You are in a cell. Cold, dirty water pools on the stone floor. Partially rusted metal encloses you in the space. Your breathing ragged, your hands tremble. You imagine the fire that will soon consume you, how it will lick hungrily at your legs, and how its crimson jaws will close around you. You shudder, and hold back a sob. You think of the terrified screams of a malfetto that was burned the day before. You had shrunk away from where the wails had come from, trying to silence the cries of agony.

Footsteps echo down the cold corridor. A tear escapes from your green eye and runs down your cheek. Your tremble, and trace the deep green marking on your left forearm, a pattern of spirals that spread out like branches of trees. I'm sorry, you think, your whole body shaking. The footsteps get closer, and you can tell that it is two Inquisitors that have come to take you to death. I'm sorry, Gods, you cry silently, I'm sorry for being this way! I did not want this to happen! Why me? Why did you do this to me?

You yelp as the prison cell opens, and one of the Inquisitors reach out to grab your wrist. You scramble away, pressing yourself to the cold, gray wall. "Come on, filthy malfetto," the Inquisitor spits, making another grab at you. You wail and struggle as his hand grabs your arm. He forces you to your feet, and shackles your wrists together. You dig your heels into the ground and try to break free from the Inquisitors' grasps. One smacks you across the face, and you screech, kicking at them. The other pulls you forward harshly, and you stumble to the ground skinning your knees.

They half drag you out to the courtyard where a man with a torch shouts to the crowd. The crowd roars in approval as you are pushed into the light. You blink in the sun, and then wince as a rock strikes your leg. You stumble, and fall to the ground. The Inquisitors pull you back to your feet, and you begin your weak walk once more. A stake sticks up from the ground, and dry timber sits below it. You shake violently, and pull away, trying to go the direction away from where you will be burned. "Please!" you plead to the Inquisitors as the shove you forward. "I'm not evil! I didn't do anything!"

The man with the torch laughs at your begs. "A malfetto like you should not exist!" he sneers, as he shoves you towards the stake. You scream as you are shackled, a rock hitting you in the shoulder. You look at the crowd, and see angry people with tattered clothes glaring in your direction. Your hands shake constantly as your feet are chained to the stake. You look to the sky, as if hoping something will save you. You had heard of stories that spoke of Young Elites saving malfettos to be burned. You plead to the Gods that something will save you from this fate.

The man with the torch finishes his speech, and turns his viscious, icy glare on you. You cry out as the torch lands in the timber to stand on, and scream as the fire begins to eat your feet. You wait for the Young Elites, the heros, to save you.

But they do not come.

And you burn.