WRATH OF THE WHITE DOVE - Free Reading 1
PROLOGUE The white dove did not fly. It remained perched on the beam above the pyre, feathers unmarked, stark against the pitch-soaked wood below. The fire had not yet been lit, yet the bird was unnervingly still—neither fleeing nor struggling, as if it understood that this moment was not about escape. The prisoners were already screaming. Chains rattled as bodies strained against iron and timber. Voices broke—some begging, some cursing, some reduced to raw, animal noise as terror stripped away language itself. Fear thickened the air, sharp and cloying. No one answered them. The crowd pressed closer. Boots ground against frozen earth. A single prayer was whispered and instantly swallowed, cut short as though even faith feared being overheard. Augustine watched the executioner raise the torch. The flame flickered beside the pitch-blackened stakes, patient, waiting—not for an order, but for consent already given. So this is how it begins. Not with debate. Not with mercy. Just fire…...