The White Rose of The Red Devil

"You're so useless!" The words cut through Seraphine like a blade. "You can’t even master the simplest spells. How do you expect to survive?" Vile curses rained down on Seraphine as she silently wished for her parents. An orphaned witch, she had become the punching bag of the witch’s union. Seraphine had never had a friend, never known love. The only affection she had ever received was brutally torn away when her parents died when she was just ten years old. The world seemed determined to deny her any joy. And fate, in its cruel way, played a twisted joke on her. At her awakening at thirteen, when most witches would have felt their powers surge, Seraphine was left with nothing. She couldn’t cast a single spell, rendering her even more useless in the eyes of her clan. Whether she lived or died, they couldn’t have cared less. “Another day of beatings, huh?” Seraphine mused to herself as she dragged her broken body to the witch healer. The healer, in her cruelty, always made her wait outside with her wounds festering before finally calling her in. By this point, Seraphine could no longer summon any feeling. Her life had come to a standstill—no movement, no flow—just stagnant, staring into the void. “I’m used to this,” she tried to convince herself as she slowly drifted to sleep. She awoke to the sharp pain of a kick to her already sore, aching back. Instinctively, she wanted to scream, to finally fight back, but she couldn’t. Instead, she bit her lip and stood up, tears brimming in her eyes as she fought to hold them back. It was the doctor. “Why don’t you just run away and spare us from the sight of you? I wonder why the witch elder insists on keeping you alive.” The doctor’s voice was laced with raw cruelty. Seraphine said nothing, just bowed her head. She had already come to terms with the fact that they hated her for no reason—no reason at all. “I might as well run away,” she finally thought, mustering up the courage she had been waiting for. She had held onto a shred of hope that the world might show her a little mercy, but no longer. “Never again,” she sighed to herself. After receiving her treatment, Seraphine returned to the small shed where she had been forced to live, unable to stay in her parents’ house. She packed what little she could and waited for midnight. When the time came, she ran. She ran and never once looked back. But as she fled, regret began to seep in. She knew nothing of the world outside the witch’s union, and her rashness started to gnaw at her. She came to a halt and sat down to think things through. Looking around, she realized she was in a dense forest, with the union’s clearing still visible in the distance. She decided to press on, moving further away. She couldn’t risk being found, or she might never live through another attempt to escape. As she ran, a strange sense of freedom washed over her, and tears began to flow. The wind, the air, the grass beneath her feet—it was all so wonderful, something she had never fully appreciated before. “I never want to go back,” she thought. “I want to be free.” But she was tired, so tired and afraid. The night was pitch dark, and she couldn’t sleep. Ants and bugs crawled all over her, but she couldn’t turn back—not for anything in the world. Suddenly, she heard the sound of a cart approaching, its wheels creaking under the weight. “People,” she whispered under her breath. She wanted to rush toward them but quickly stopped herself. “What’s wrong with you?” she mused again, her habit of talking to herself taking over. Hiding behind a tree, she peered out, watching as men offloaded cages from the cart. “Cages?” she almost gasped aloud, her heart pounding in her chest. Crawling forward for a better look, her eyes widened in horror. “Children,” she whispered sadly. The men began setting up camp, lighting fires and tending to the horses. But as some of them led the horses toward the forest, they were heading straight for her. Panic set in, her mind racing. “What do I do? Run? No, they’ll catch me. Hide? Scream?” She did what she did best—she ran. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, the sound of footsteps closing in behind her. There weren’t many of them, but it didn’t make the situation any less terrifying. “I shouldn’t have run away,” she regretted, her life flashing before her eyes as she turned back to see one of the men almost within arm’s reach. He tackled her to the ground, the impact sending waves of pain through her already battered body. She was terrified, her thoughts spiraling. She heard them speaking to each other, their voices full of triumph at having caught another prize. They thrust her into a cage, binding her hands and legs. Exhausted, and suddenly reminded of how she hadn’t eaten all day, the last thought that crossed her mind was that she’d rather be anywhere else than that evil place she once called home. Seraphine and the kidnapped children were taken to a merchant’s square, a temporary holding place for sales. They still hadn’t eaten, and now iron collars were fastened around their necks. As people flocked into the building, Seraphine curled up in a corner of the cage, trying to make herself as small as possible. She hid behind the children, their backs shielding her from the leering eyes of potential buyers. But her luck ran out when a man dressed in noble attire strode into the building. “I want a witch,” he announced, his voice cutting through the noise as everyone turned to stare. The gossip spread quickly—he was a butler from Duke Thales Rexhard Gravesand's castle. In the castle, a rumor ran rampant that Duke Thales of Adinburgh had been cursed by a witch, and any witch who entered the castle never came out. Intense fear gripped Seraphine as the magnitude of her fate settled in. As the slave merchants dragged her out of the cage, she fainted from sheer terror. But the butler was merciless. He dragged her unconscious body to the back of the carriage, chaining her before throwing her into another cage. Seraphine woke up, feeling the soreness all over her body. She wondered how she was still alive with all her injuries. “I just want to die,” she thought. “It was bad enough living a life surrounded by people who loved me and then hated me after my parents died. Now, I’m going to die at the hands of strangers.” The cold metal around her neck and the hard floor beneath her felt suffocating. “I might as well just die,” she thought, as the world began to blur, her thoughts becoming less coherent. She couldn’t feel anything anymore, and as she closed her eyes, she just wanted to sleep. I woke to the sight of an unfamiliar ceiling. “Is this heaven?” I mused aloud, the words escaping my lips in a habit of self-conversation. “No, it’s not.” The voice was disconcertingly calm, as if responding to a question I hadn’t quite finished asking. I questioned, my thoughts muddled. Was I conversing with a voice in my head? “So, I didn’t make it to heaven. Where am I?” I chuckled softly. “Not only did I fail to die, but now I’m talking to myself. At least tell me I’m not in the Duke’s castle.” “Sadly, you are.” A mirthless laugh escaped me as I stared at the ceiling, resigning myself to the reality of my situation. “It seems death eludes me yet again,” I mused. “What’s so terrible about the Duke’s castle?” The strange voice persisted. “Huh? Am I losing my mind?” I wondered aloud. “Am I really talking to myself? I’ve finally gone mad, haven’t I?” I closed my eyes, embracing the cold resignation of death, only to feel a chilling hand touch my face. My thoughts raced. “Is this the fabled cold hand of death? Shouldn’t life flash before my eyes first, or does the hand come afterward?” “Wake up,” commanded the voice from above, its tone reverberating through my soul and sparking an unexpected surge of life within me. Life? Wait—am I still alive? My eyes flew open, and all I could see was a pair of intense, reddish-violet eyes. I had never seen anything quite like them. I reached out, my hands trembling as I touched those eyes, whispering, “Beautiful.” But before I could fully grasp the moment, my hands were seized, and I was hauled to my feet. The sudden shift from awe to terror left me pale and breathless. Instinctively, I knew it was the Duke. I fell to my knees, bowing deeply. “My lord,” I uttered, my voice trembling. Fear clutched at me as the rumors I had heard about him slithered into my consciousness. “Am I going to die?” A fleeting thought tempted me—perhaps I should drink in the sight of those eyes before my end. Yet, I quickly dismissed the notion, as swiftly as it had arrived. The Duke was as fearsome as they said. I cursed him silently in my mind as he left me there, kneeling in the oppressive silence.