The Executioner peered into the cell, his gaze settling on Zephyr before curling his lips into a mocking grin.
"Oh, you're still alive? I thought I'd be hanging a dead rat today," he said, his voice laced with cruel irony.
Then, with a dismissive nod, he jerked his head at the guards. "Take them."
The two men behind him moved fast, like they'd done this a hundred times. They unlocked the cell with a clang and grabbed Zephyr and Dianna, tying their wrists with rough, scratchy rope. Zephyr didn't fight—his mind was spinning, searching for a way out. I need to talk to the Count, make him see I'm worth keeping alive. But then a guard pulled a gag from his belt.
"Wait, no ... uhm uhm" Zephyr's protest was cut off as the cloth was shoved into his mouth, silencing him. Damn it. His one shot at talking his way out was gone.
Once both prisoners were secured, the guards roughly shoved them forward.
The guards pushed them forward. "Let's go to the gallows," one grunted, his voice flat and bored.
Zephyr's stomach dropped. He had always prided himself on planning ahead. It was the habit that had led to his success in the academy, always thinking two steps ahead, always preparing a contingency. But this time...
I'm out of moves, he thought, a cold wave of hopelessness washing over him. All this for stealing bread in this miserable world.
Shackled and gagged, he had nothing. His mind was blank, his thoughts drowning in helplessness.
Death felt closer than ever, its scythe resting against his neck, waiting for the moment to sever his soul from his body. His footsteps dragged as if he were already halfway into the grave.
They shuffled through shadowy corridors, chains rattling against the stone floor, until they reached a black steel door. Two guards in silver chainmail stood watch. The Executioner flashed a silver badge—a wolf's head with glinting eyes. "Open it," he barked.
The door groaned open, revealing a dirt road under a twilight sky. The sun was a faint glow on the horizon, painting the sky purple and red ... beautiful, but cruel, like it didn't care about the nightmare unfolding below.
The beauty of it struck Zephyr, he had only seen such sights a handful of times, back in the countryside.
Across from the towering, jagged citadel, the village sprawled out—rickety houses of wood and straw, patched with mud, leaning together like they might collapse any second. Villagers peeked out as the group passed, then darted back inside. A woman stared from a doorway, her eyes wide with fear, before slamming it shut.
They really feared the Executioner.
Zephyr could feel it in their eyes, the raw terror, the silent loathing for the count's men, and the quiet sympathy for himself and Dianna.
The walk to the gallows was long, yet to Zephyr, time passed in an instant. The gallows loomed ahead, a dark shape against the cliff's edge. Nooses dangled like coiled snakes, swaying in the breeze. Beyond them, the ocean roared, waves smashing the rocks below.
Dianna walked beside him, unshaken. He glanced at her. She was calm, her eyes burning only with hatred whenever they landed on the Executioner. But fear? There was none.
So she had spoken the truth. She did not fear death.
Zephyr clenched his fists, repeating a desperate mantra in his mind.
"Everything will be alright. After I die here, I'll wake up again. Back in my room. Back home."
For the first time, he even missed the familiar ache in his skull.
A voice cut through the air, sharp and dripping with authority.
"Put them on the ropes. Orianna will need their bodies soon."
A man stepped into view. His skin was so pale it looked like he'd never seen daylight, and his crimson eyes glowed like embers in a dying fire. Long, dark hair streaked with silver spilled over his fur-lined cloak, hiding scarred armor underneath. Zephyr's gut twisted. This guy's not human. He's death in a fancy coat.
Zephyr knew without introduction. This might be Count Geofri.
As the guards led them onto the gallows, the Executioner muttered under his breath, "Damn Orianna and her gallows. I'd rather chop heads—much more satisfying."
Zephyr locked eyes with the Count, desperation screaming in his stare. Look at me. I've got something you want. But Geofri's gaze slid past him, cold and empty, like Zephyr was already a ghost.
"It's time," the Count finally said, his tone as casual as if he were ordering a meal.
Zephyr's breath quickened.
The Executioner pulled the lever.
The trapdoor beneath him gave way.
Zephyr dropped. The rope snapped tight, crushing his throat. Pain exploded through him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. His body jerked, fighting for air that wouldn't come. Darkness clawed at his vision.
Is this it? Is this how I die? helpless, broken, just another forgotten soul swinging in the wind?
But something inside him screamed, No. He wouldn't die like this—not here, not now.
His will, honed through years of struggle, sharpened into something else. His existence, his very soul, burned with defiance.
A surge of unseen power roared through him, an unshakable force driven by his unyielding will. The pressure constricting his throat loosened, not by mercy, but by his command. The air around him vibrated, the rope creaked as if straining against an invisible force.
With a final, explosive surge of willpower, the rope snapped like a dry stick.
His body plummeted, and when he hit the ground, a crushing exhaustion overtook him. The adrenaline drained from his veins, and with it, the raw force that had saved him vanished, leaving only a hollow emptiness in its wake.
In that moment of defiance, Zephyr realized he had burned away something vital, something that had once anchored him, leaving behind a void he could not name. T
Darkness closed in, and his consciousness slipped away.
It had all happened in mere seconds. Shock spread across the faces of the guards, even the Executioner, their breaths caught in stunned disbelief.
All except for Count Geofri.
His crimson eyes remained fixed on Zephyr, unshaken, unreadable. And then, in a voice just above a whisper, he spoke.
"Awakener."