In the summer of 1728, news of Szeged’s witch burnings drifted down the Tisza and unsettled Ratzenstadt and Petrovaradin. Twelve souls had been condemned for selling rain to the Turks, their confessions torn out under torture before the pyres blazed on Witches’ Island. Merchants in the Almaš quarter whispered in fear, soldiers in Petrovaradin scoffed but still crossed themselves. Though the fires burned far away, their glow seemed near: neighbors grew suspicious, remedies were hidden, and the lesson lingered—that in times of hunger, fear triumphs over reason, and any neighbor might be next to burn.
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