Burned, Not Broken
Her name survived the flames. Hers, not theirs.
Before the flames could devour her flesh, Joan of Arc already smelled the smoke — thick, acrid, and bitter. It stung her lungs and clawed at her throat. The pyre, hastily built with damp wood from the previous night’s rain, failed to burn cleanly. Instead, it smoldered, choking the air with a gray plume that dimmed the morning light and brought coughs to even the most hardened executioner.
