“The kingdom is mine.” From between cracked lips she whispered, as the pyre caught ablaze and the mob fell silent.
He heard her. He should have ignored her, for the mumblings of heretics should not concern kings.
He should have kept walking, dusted his hands free of the soot, turned his back on the orange fingertips of flame that already stroked her skirts.
Instead he turned, a sneer on his face.
“Say that again, peasant. And louder, so I may hear you.”
She did, and she was right. The mob bayed, the guards were overrun.
She died, a blazing icon, seared on their memories.
He died, his head on a pike.
Written for BeKindRewrite.