The Kumiho's Possession

The village square of Haneul smelled like wet wood and old smoke. Soojin’s wrists were tied with rough rope behind her back, and the knot bit into her skin each time she tried to breathe deeper. The crowd pressed close on both sides, shoulder to shoulder, like they could keep her from escaping just by wanting it.

Chains clinked somewhere near the officials. Witch-hunters in dark armor sat on benches by a raised platform, their boots planted like they owned the ground. Above them, iron poles held bundles of dry kumihoswood—wood meant to catch and hold fire until the body stopped being a threat.

Soojin looked at the burning platform anyway, even when her eyes hurt from not blinking. A pyre waited there, already built. The flames were not lit yet, but the heat was. It slid under her collar like a hand looking for her pulse.