Midnight is when he died. It is barely dawn the next morning that they prepare to cremate him. Burial in a mass grave is reserved for normal prisoners. Witches must be cremated, lest their bodies curse the grounds at which they died.

"I heard you're supposed to remove the heart and burn that too," Said one guard to another as they made their way to the storage caverns. "'Else the witch will back to life."

"Bah!" His comrade scoffed. "An old children's tale. Coming back from the dead's a myth—it's only impersonators who want the fame. We burn the bodies to dispel whatever curse has been cast."

"Ah," The first guard said disappointedly. "But what if there's some truth, ya know? Vengeful witches haunting the countryside… makes you shiver, right?"

"Not me." The second guard fished out his keys and opened the grate leading deep underground. As they descended the narrow stairwell, the muggy summer air turn cold and dry. These caverns were always unnerving to even the sternest of individuals—whether there was a body in it or not.

"Alright, should be right over…" The second guard paused, looking around the cramped room. There was a sheet on the floor, crumpled next to a long plank of wood where the body should have been.

But it was not.

Yuuri gasped as he sat up, clutching his neck in agony. He felt around, waiting for the blood to sprout, to see god condemning him to hell or flames to erupt around him. But he was fine. Not even in pain, save for one thing. He heaved out raspy breaths—his mouth felt dry and he was incredibly thirsty. He was relieved to see a mug of water on the nightstand next to him, and took a thankful sip. But his relief was short-lived.

He was somewhere unfamiliar, and wearing strange clothes—definitely not the ones from his dream. In his dream he'd been in ratty and torn slops, but now he wore a nice pressed button-down shirt, and stark black pants.

So many questions whirled about in his head, but he realized he had none of the answers. He couldn't recall anything before that memory; he couldn't even remember that man's face.

He stood up from his, thinking he needed to get out of this room and clear his head. He tried the door, but to his dismay it was locked. He tried it again—tried shoving his weight against it, but the door was sturdily built. The room was old and rotted, but the locks on the door seemed to be brand new. As he let his hand fall from the handle, he noticed something peeking from beneath his sleeve. His arm… something was wrong with it.

Gingerly, he unbuttoned the cuffs and pulled back his sleeve, then cringed. There was an ugly scar encompassing his forearm, all down from his wrist to his elbow, wrapped around as if fire had grabbed him. He winced again and clutched his head as something came rushing to him—it was another memory.

Fire did grab him—a burning clamp wrapping around his arm and taking all his skin with it.

Stranger still, this memory did not make sense. In his memories, his arm was unrecognizable from a log in the fire. But the scar seemed like… like something that had been healing for a long time.

"I have to get out of here." He tried the door once again, but once his hand landed on the knob, it opened. He stepped back into the room as a person entered—an old man with a stooped back carrying a candle.

"Rest easy, your plight is over." The old man set the candle down on the night table and beckoned Yuuri back over to the bed.

"Rest, you've much work to do."

"Who are you? Do you know what happened to me? My memories?"

"Rest, young one." The man said once more, gesturing towards the bed. Reluctantly, Yuuri conceded and sat down gingerly.

"You don't need to worry. You aren't in danger anymore. I am your ally." The old man pulled up one of the covered chairs at the far end of the room and sat down in it. "My name is Yakov. I'm your new master."

"Master?" Yuuri asked, incredulously.

"Yes. You were going to be executed, but we saved you and gave you life anew. Tell me, what do you remember?"

"I remember… there were people yelling. I was about to get my head cut off… Viktor. That was his name, he was calling after me." Yuuri said, though it was straining to recall even these small bits and pieces.

"I see, I see. Of course the prince would be there." Yakov remarked. "You were tried for tricking and bewitching the prince into your thrall. Bold move on your part. But nevertheless, of course he would stay to see your execution."

"I tricked him…?" Yuuri could hardly remember his last moments—only Viktor calling his name, and the imminent presence of the axe above his head. Everything else was a blur.

"It was a nasty spell," Yakov shook his head, though from his tone it was as if he were praising Yuuri. "You had the prince completely under your thumb! Why'd you go and ruin it? Ah well, what's done is done. Now, at the very least, we can get our revenge."

"Revenge?" Yuuri echoed.

"Yes. Revenge against the prince and the royal family. This new body of yours has a renewed vigor. With training, you can become a fearsome assassin."

"Assassin?!" Yuuri stiffened now, shocked at what he was hearing. "But I… I don't know if I want to do—"

"This is not a matter of want or choice." Yakov closed his eyes and sighed. "Plain and simple, you have no say in this matter. You are no longer the free and powerful witch you once were, you will do as we say or suffer the consequences. Oh, and you can attempt to run. But your face is remembered—and with those scars, you will be killed if we cannot find you. Either waste your life now, or fulfill your new purpose."

Yuuri reached up and felt his neck. When Yakov mentioned his scarring, he did not gesture to his arms—but to his neck. The skin he had thought was smooth… well there was a slight rubbery feel to a small portion on his neck. It went around in a ring—one long circular scar around his neck. Because they'd put his head back on.

"Again, I ask that you use this night to rest." The man rose from his chair, lifting his candle once more and casting its light onto Yuuri. "We shall be very busy tomorrow. Tomorrow we begin your training."

With that he left the room, and to Yuuri's dismay, he locked the door behind him. After he heard the man's footsteps retreat down the hall, Yuuri stood up once more to survey his surroundings.

The room was quaint and obviously rundown—the wooden walls and floors were rot-eaten and molded in some areas, and the windows had no panes. There was covered furniture in the room besides the bed Yuuri woke up in, and of course the night stand, which stood out in the room; it seemed brand new, whereas even the bed was uncomfortable and old. Yuuri took another look at the night stand—there was a scrap of paper underneath where his mug had been. It stuck to the table with a ring of water in the center, but Yuuri picked it up and read it.

"'Yuuri Katsuki…" He felt a shudder course through him once he saw the words written after his name.

"Twenty-three, beheaded. Time of death: fifteen after the midnight, twenty-fourth day of the twelfth month, year of the golden harvest…"

Beheaded. It wasn't a dream, then? He was really executed.

He tossed the paper to the side, sitting back down on the bed to gather his thoughts—he had to remember everything in his dream. No, it wasn't a dream, but a memory. The details were foggy, and of it he could only remember bits of colors and the emotions they evoked—but what happened before it? He was being tried for something? A man—a man named Viktor—was calling out to him, trying to save him. Yuuri remembered feeling so distraught and angry and sad. Distraught because this Viktor had to see him like this. Angry because there was nothing he could do. Sad because he was dying.

Why was he executed? A crime? A curse? Why him?

There were too many questions running through his head, and despite just waking up he still felt exhausted. Though he did not trust these circumstances, he had to get as much rest as he could. Even with restless thoughts milling about in his mind, as he laid down and closed his eyes his body seemed accustomed to idea of eternal slumber.

He heard it before he opened his eyes.

Someone was humming behind him. They seemed happy and jovial, though at the moment Yuuri was quite terrified.

"Please… just let me go." He asked for what felt like the millionth time that day. The man continued to hum, and there was a hiss and crackle of fire behind him.

"Be a dear and hold out your arm—Oh! I see you're already ready." The torturer came into sight, holding a pair of circular clamps that were bright red with heat. Yuuri's arms were chained to the wall in front of him—he could only stare in misery at the fate that awaited him.

"Now, hold still and it'll all be over soon." The torturer held the clamps up towards Yuuri's arm—his left arm and the mark there—in concentration, as if trying to get an intricate detail just right. Before the hot metal had even touched his skin, he could feel the heat radiating off of it, and it was burning him.

Without warning, the torturer closed the clamp on his arm. The pain was so sudden and searing that he couldn't even scream—only open his mouth in pain as tears streamed down his face the smell of burning flesh and smoke seared his nostrils. Instinctively, he tried to pull his arm away, but the fire of the clamp was tight on him, and he only aggravated the pain further. This time, he did scream. He could feel fire all the way down to his core, palpable pain that was inescapable. When the clamp finally did come off, his arm was unrecognizable. His mark was but char among dead skin—gone. Forever.

"Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Shall I fetch your afternoon tea, milord?" The servant offered, bowing deeply as Viktor turned his way.

"No, thank you. If you could leave, actually, that would be fine." Viktor waved his hand absently, keeping his gaze fixed on nothing in the distance. The servant seemed affronted, but did not press further. Once more he gave a deep and gracious bow before backing out of the room. Finally alone, Viktor let out a deep sigh, turning his attention towards the window as he began to gently tug away at the silken modesty cloth on his arm. The nobility of the kingdom of Atleaus considered it only proper to cover their marks from unfamiliar people, only sharing it with those whom they were intimate with. He held up his right forearm, looking at the black half-heart in the center. From there, curving lines spread down his arm to his elbow, like the wings of a beautiful creature. Once, long ago, it was considered one's life purpose to find their matching mark. That was your soulmate—the one you were destined to be with, the one to bring you happiness and joy even through the roughest of times. In this day and age, however, finding one's soulmate was considered a fool's errand. Very few actively searched, and fewer still found theirs. If you married, you married for wealth or stability. Love and intimacy was extraneous.

That's what my father wants, Viktor thought bitterly as he traced the lines running down his arm. His father always talked of establishing friendly ties with the neighboring country, and he always insisted that the only way to do so was with marriage. Viktor was one of the hopeful few that believed in one day finding his matching mark. His father had condemned his hopeful outlook, and all but ignored it until fate deigned to step in.

He hardly noticed as the door to his chambers opened once more, but he knew it was not the servant. Eyes lidded in fond but oh so bitter thoughts, he thought of the person who shared his mark. The person who everyone told him had tricked him for his wealth and royalty.

"He was a witch." Viktor heard his father say, walking up behind him slowly. "And he wished to see you give away all our riches with fanciful ideals of love and happiness."

"Mm." Viktor hummed, ignoring him.

"It is best you take your mind off the trivialities of marks and soulmates." His father pressed further, walking up beside him and staring out the window with him. "Dwelling in this is not healthy. Do you still feel the pull of the witch's curse?"

"Was it a curse?" He mused under his breath.

"Nonsense! Of course! You saw the proof for yourself. The witchcraft, the false mark made with ink and magic. It was but a ploy to steal your heart and capture your soul. That damned witch would have turned you into an eternal puppet, and then turned this entire kingdom on her head. Is that what you would rather have?"

"I heard someone stole his body from the caverns." Viktor said abruptly.

"You… who told you that?" The king ruffled, taking his mind for a second off his talking of witchcraft.

"Nothing ever stays secret for long in these walls." Viktor reminded his father.

"'The courtroom gossip doth flicker.'" His father quoted bitterly. "Nevertheless, that is irrelevant. Nothing but bandits and grave robbers who want to see what treasures there are to pilfer. Worse yet, a witch seeing what residual magic they can claim from his corpse."

"Are you going to hunt them down?" He asked his father, letting his hand fall to toy at the silk cloth on the window sill.

"…An investigation will be pending forthwith. But right now there are more important matters to attend to. That of a missing corpse does not concern us so much as diplomatic… Do not walk away while I am talking to you, young man!"

Viktor was walking over to an ornate table. On top of it was a beautiful ceramic vase, shipped in from overseas colonies and emblazoned with filigrees of gold and silver. Around the top edge, jewels were pressed into it of various colors, sending light scattering across the sides when the sun hit it just right.

He dropped it onto the marble floor.

"Oh, how clumsy of me!" Viktor lamented, putting a hand to his mouth in mock surprise as his father gasped and stiffened. He turned bright red, like a berry, and Viktor was worried he might just burst.

"I am calling for the priest, tomorrow." His father said through gritted teeth. "Obviously the witch's curse lingers with you. Obviously your judgement skills still greatly are impaired. For now, why don't you retreat to your chambers? Perhaps some time alone to think will do you good."

"I was doing that before." Viktor said. His father simply pointed at the far door, before leaving himself. Once he shut the door, Viktor clenched his fists and kicked the table that held the vase over. Anger and emotions suddenly boiling over, he made his way to his room in a blind fury. He pushed open his door and sent it banging into the wall with a satisfying noise. He then proceeded to take everything that seemed of value and throw it onto the floor—he emptied drawers of expensive clothing and tore their fabrics in half, sent posh paintings onto the floor, not hesitating to rip the canvases in two or three. Soft but expensive gold jewelry was crushed beneath his feet but still, it was not enough. The emptiness inside of him tore at his heart, practically burning a hole into his chest.

He ripped off his coat, suddenly feeling too confined, and cast it on the floor after tearing it in two with a satisfying rip. By the time most of his rage subsided, his room was an absolute disaster. And still, he felt miserable.

He sunk to the floor next to his bed, realizing that his face was wet with tears from crying that started long ago. He tried so hard to believe that he'd been tricked into falling in love. He wanted to believe that he was under a vicious curse. It would make Yuuri's death hurt so much less.

But try as he may, he could not do it. He could not believe that his lover's mark was false, nor that this love was just a curse. His feelings had been genuine, and so had Yuuri's—he knew it. It had to be. Why did this come to happen? No, deep down, though he did not wish to confront it—he knew his father had something to do with all of this. The accusations of witchcraft did not come from the blue, yet still Viktor had let worry plague his mind. But what did that matter anymore? The deed was done, and Viktor had dragged his feet when Yuuri needed him most. There, in his most desparate moments, was when Viktor's mind had deigned to act. Not when he was being accused. Not when he was being tortured below, and Viktor was still brewing over what was right or wrong. But when his head was on the executioner's block.

He should have held his resolve; he should have fought harder to be with Yuuri. Yet when doubt covered him like a plague, he faltered. And Yuuri died—right before his eyes, right when he realized this was all a huge mistake. But it had been too late. He tried his hardest to reach him, but he had been far too late.

He could blame his father and his schemes. It would be so easy to take his anger out on his father—easier than accepting the lie of a curse. But in the end the blame laid heavy on his shoulders like a robe. And the more he thought about it, the more it dragged him down.