Bound And Broken

Picoca struggles against the vines, but they tighten with every movement, draining even more of her energy. Her gaze locks with Malakar's, a mix of defiance and fear in her eyes.

"You won't break me," she grits out, even as her strength diminishes.

Malakar smiles coldly. "Oh, I will…" He leans in, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "...and it'll be a lesson you'll never forget."

SUddenly, the ground trembles.

A single ember — no bigger than a spark — drifts from the shattered pyre… and lands on Picoca’s wrist, where the vine binds her.

It *ignites*.

Not with flame — but with **memory**.

Her eyes flash open — wide, wild — as visions surge:

A younger Malakar kneeling in that same hidden chamber.

Him carving his own blood into the book.

Whispering not a curse… but a *vow*: *"I will take her sin. I will wear her fire."*

And then—**her true name**, spoken in ancient tongue: *“Isolde.”*

Picoca gasps, wrenching back violently—not with magic…

But with truth.

The vines blacken and crackle as raw emotion erupts from within her—grief, fury, recognition.

“You lied,” she chokes out, voice trembling between rage and heartbreak. “You didn’t betray me… **you were cursed for saving me**.”

Malakar’s cold mask shatters—for just one second—a flicker of pain crosses his face.

Then he whispers:

“Yes… my witch.”

“And now you burn brighter than ever because *my soul is your fuel*.”

The air stills.

The fight wasn't ever about power...

It was about **a love buried in ash**.

Now? It’s rising too.

A tear slips from Picoca's eye — but where it lands, the ground *sizzles*. Not with sorrow… with fury reborn.

"You gave your soul... for *me*?" Her voice trembles, low and dangerous. "And then you let them call me monster? Let them burn me... while you watched?"

Malakar doesn't flinch. "I had to break you — so you’d become strong enough to survive what’s coming."

A deep rumble echoes beneath the earth. The church cracks further. Shadows swirl like storm clouds above them.

Then—voices.

Not human.

From the darkened crypt below: something ancient begins to *answer*.

Malakar’s eyes widen in true

— Not fear for himself, but *dread*.

"The seal is breaking," he whispers, the cold mask gone. "They're waking up."

Picoca stares at him. "Who? Who’s down there?"

Before he can answer — **the earth splits**.

Stone tears apart beneath the church ruins, and from below rise **three hooded figures**, floating on black smoke. Their hands are stitched shut with iron thread, their mouths sewn closed… yet their voices echo inside every mind:

*"Isolde... you returned in flame."*

*"You broke the vow."*

*"Now we take your name. And burn the world behind it."*

Malakar steps in front of Picoca — wounded, drained — but standing.

“The real witches were never us,” he mutters to her. “We were just... their prisoners.”

The truth hits like thunder:

This was never about revenge.

It was about **a curse older than fire**.

And now?

The true enemies have risen.

Should she fight them?

Or finally remember who she really is?