"Sylas of no house," the herald's voice rang out across the stone square, cold and sharp as steel,
"known across kingdoms by a hundred aliases and a thousand sins…"
A hush fell over the gathered crowd.
The sky above was cloudless, cruelly blue, as if the heavens themselves wanted a clear view of justice.
"You stand condemned by crown and council alike," the herald continued,
"for driving forty-three noble houses and three dukedoms to ruin with silvered lies, and for the brazen abduction of the three royal daughters beneath moon and torchlight—your fate is sealed."
Chains clinked as Sylas shifted slightly. He stood bound in the center of the execution platform, wrists shackled behind his back, ankles looped with iron.
His dark hair hung loose around his face, tousled by the breeze. A faint, amused smile curved his lips.
"By the will of the realm, by the blood you spilled, and by the silence of those you silenced," the herald intoned,
"may your final breath be a warning to all who mistake cunning for justice."
A long pause followed.
The herald turned to Sylas with disgust.
"Any last words, oathbreaker?"
Sylas blinked slowly. Then he lifted his head, tilted it ever so slightly, and asked—almost lazily
"Can I see a coin? Just once more."
Gasps rippled through the crowd like wind through dead leaves.
"A coin?" someone sputtered. "He still wants to see gold?"
The murmurs exploded into outrage.
"He sold my brother a map to an 'immortal artifact'!" a red-faced man shouted. "It led straight into a cannibal village!"
Another voice cut through the clamor.
"He promised to teach us 'Ten Secrets to Outsmart Royal Taxation'—then vanished with the fees!"
A Bishop, face beet-red, stood and pointed an accusatory finger.
"He ran a brothel disguised as a church! Called it the Order of Sacred Moans! I—I went to confess!"
Laughter broke out—followed by more fury.
"He faked his own funeral! I cried for you, you bastard!"
Through it all, Sylas stood silently, his expression unreadable.
I just wanted to see a gold coin one last time, Is that really so much to ask? Is it such a crime to steal from the rich?
He remembered being five. A jar of honeyed plums glinting in a shop window.
He reached for them, and the shopkeeper slapped his hand away—no coin, no sweets.
His father had laughed and handed him one. Just one coin. It gleamed in the sun like treasure.
He'd stared at it, wide-eyed, before trading it for sugar and delight.
That was the first time he understood: gold made the world say yes.
Then a voice shouted from deep in the crowd—angry, wounded, and very familiar—shattering his thoughts like glass.
"He charged us to attend a lecture on 'How to Avoid Scams!' But when we showed up, the only thing on the board was one word: 'Fools.'"
A chorus of agreement followed.
"Scammer!"
"Thief!"
"Liar!"
"Alright," Silas thought. "I stole from the poor too… though, in my defense, they didn't have much to lose anyway."
"SILENCE."
The word struck like thunder.
The crowd fell still.
All eyes turned to the royal platform, high above the square.
The King had risen.
Once one of the Ten Heroes of the Crimson Calamity, he now stood regal and imposing, his white cloak billowing.
Beside him sat the three princesses—alive and very un-abducted—each glaring daggers at Sylas. Except for one, who seemed suspiciously busy blushing.
"Your charm has faded, Sylas," the King said coldly.
"Your tongue will wag no more."
He gestured to the executioner.
"Continue."
The burly man stepped forward, axe in hand, face hidden behind a dark hood. The blade gleamed in the sun.
Silas took a slow breath. The world felt strangely distant now. The square. The people. Even the sound of chains and jeers.
He tilted his head back, gazed up at the endless sky.
And then, softly—so softly that only the wind seemed to hear—he whispered:
"If there's a next life… I want to be rich."
The blade came down.
A flash of silver.
Then—
Darkness.
---
A body lying still in a small room suddenly jolted upright.
The man gasped, chest rising and falling in ragged heaves, as if he'd just clawed his way out of drowning. Sweat clung to his skin, his eyes wide and wild.
"Am I… dead?" he muttered, one hand flying to his pounding head.
But the sensations around him betrayed that thought. The weight of a thin, itchy blanket over his legs. The creak of old wooden floorboards beneath the bed. Sunlight filtering through a small, cracked window, illuminating motes of dust in the air.
He sat up fully, blinking rapidly.
"If this is the afterlife, it needs some serious renovations."
His gaze darted around. A single bed with a straw-filled mattress. A modest wooden table. A chipped ceramic basin in the corner. Bare walls, save for a rusted candle sconce.
Everything screamed "poor."
He said softly. "Did I really get a second chance?"
A flicker of hope passed through his eyes—quickly followed by a scowl.
"But why here? I said I wanted to be rich, damn it."
Dragging a hand down his face, he stood—wobbled slightly—then caught himself.
"What's done is done. At least I'm alive again... But… who am I now?"
As if summoned by the question, a sharp pain exploded in his skull.
He let out a strangled groan and collapsed back onto the bed, clutching his temples. Images flashed behind his eyelids—memories not his own.
When the pain ebbed, he lay panting, sweat dampening his hair.
"…Sylas Mortis," he whispered hoarsely.
The name settled on his tongue with strange familiarity.
"My name's still Sylas. But now I've got a last name…"
He forced himself up again and staggered to the window.
Sylas caught his reflection in the fractured glass—striking red eyes, sharp cheekbones, a face that could be mistaken for royalty. Or danger.
A slow grin curved his lips.
"This face? Oh, it's going to make me more money than I can count."
A sudden knock pulled him from his thoughts.
Knock. Knock.
He turned toward the door, his hand twitching instinctively—toward a weapon he no longer carried.
Another knock. Gentle. Measured.
He approached the door in silence, resting his palm against the wood. A breath.
Then he opened it.
A knight stood outside—polished light armor, sword at his hip, and a silver emblem sewn into the shoulder of his cloak: a hawk beneath a crescent moon.
The man bowed. "Young master."
He held out a leather pouch and a sealed envelope, its wax insignia unbroken.
Sylas's eyes flicked between them, then he stepped aside. "Come in."
Sir Renald entered without a word, boots pressing soft creaks from the old floorboards. Sylas closed the door behind him with a soft click.
The knight extended the items with both hands.
"Your mother, Queen Alicia Mortis, instructed me to deliver these."
Sylas accepted the pouch. Its weight spoke clearly—coin. He loosened the drawstring, revealing the gleam of gold. Exactly one hundred.
He unfolded the letter next, and read:
My dear Sylas,
I don't believe for a second that you planned what happened to Evan. There's something darker behind all this—I can feel it. I've already started speaking with your father. It won't be easy, but I'll convince him to take back the exile. Just hang on a little longer, alright?
I've sent 100 gold coins with Sir Renald. He's riding under the hawk-and-moon banner, so look out for him. Use the money to keep yourself safe. Please.
No matter what they say out there, you're still my son. And I won't let them break you.
With all my love,
—Mother
~~~~~~
He read it again. Slower.
When he looked up, his expression was unreadable—neither grateful nor bitter. Simply… composed.
Sir Renald stood waiting, rigid and silent, hands behind his back.
Sylas spoke softly. "Your loyalty doesn't go unnoticed."
The knight inclined his head. "The Queen trusts me."
"Of course she does." There was a trace of warmth in Sylas's voice. "She's always had a talent for reading people."
He stepped toward the table and set the pouch down with deliberate care, as if it were something fragile.
Then, without looking up
"Tell me something, Sir Renald. Do you think a hundred coins is enough to keep someone alive out here?"
A pause. The knight didn't answer.
Sylas smiled faintly. "Neither do I."
He turned, finally meeting the knight's eyes. "I imagine the queen didn't expect her son to beg or starve. Not really. Perhaps she hoped someone might… fill in the gaps."
A beat of silence. The knight's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Sylas tilted his head. "You know where her private vault is, don't you? You've served her for years... A few coins... here and there. Unnoticed."
"You're asking me to steal," Renald said flatly.
"Yes... and no," Sylas replied, a slight smile playing at the edge of his lips, his voice cool and deliberate.
"What I'm asking for is your loyalty. You see, the moment I vanish, a different story will emerge. One where a queen abandons her son—and a knight... well, a knight watches in silence, perhaps even complicit in the tragedy."
Sylas's eyes drifted toward the cracked window, where dust danced in the sunlight.
"Perception is a fragile thing," he said softly. "You understand that, don't you?"
Renald stared at him for a long moment. Then, reluctantly, he gave a shallow nod.
"…I will return in a week."
Silas inclined his head. "Thank you. Let's not trouble the queen with details."
The knight paused, jaw clenched and shoulders tense. Then he turned and left, the door closing with a soft, resolute thud.
Silas stood there for a moment.
"I know he won't simply fall for it, of course. He'll scurry off to tell the queen, as any loyal knight would. It's the only sensible thing to do. But then again… that doesn't change a thing, does it?"
He walked back to the table, took a single coin from the pouch, and held it up to the light streaming through the window.
And just like that first coin, it glowed—and made the world say yes again.