They had planned, had hoped, to only ever see that place as smoke in the distance. To never crane their neck and still be unable to see past that smoke to the open sky.

To never smell the temple’s charnel breath as its doors ground open before them. They had known that, if they ever crossed its threshold, it would mean they had made a mistake the world wouldn’t forgive.

It would be in chains, with hands wrapped shackle-tight, too, around their arms, to drag them down the temple’s throat. But they had never feared, never thought, that she might be there beside them.

Chained as well, though she’d had no part in their mistakes. She had made no mistake except trusting them, yet she stared down the gaping darkness without fear. The flame licking its hungry lips, without regret. She looked to them, must have felt their eyes on her, and offered them a small, firm, undeserved smile.

“I’m not sorry,” she said.

But the keepers of that temple would ensure she was before the end. By brand and whip, they would make her recant, and then they would kill her anyways. It wasn’t remorse they sought, wasn’t redemption they offered. They proved their righteousness by making their victims beg for judgment, for death as penance and escape.

If only they could have spared her that. If they begged soon enough, recanted passionately enough, could they at least beg for her to be forgiven? If they sacrificed all of their other hopes, could one, could she, at least, live on?