Fox
FOX
AGE 16
When the first king was only fifteen sun cycles old, the truth of the world was revealed to him. The dragons that his tribe and the others of Wueco worshipped were not gods, but demons spreading terror over the land. His revelation did not come from his holiness, but rather he transcended his human birth through the actions he took to free the land from the demons.
-The Legacy of the Kings: A History of Wueco’s Creation by Francis Knoll
B eing handed the axe was one of the greatest honors of ’s life. Chief Commander Harlow’s face was serious, mouth set in a grim line, but he could see the pride lighting up his eyes behind the mask of indifference. They were in front of the entire kingdom and it wouldn’t be decent to show favoritism toward the general’s son.
It wasn’t common practice to allow a high scout to conduct the executions, but he’d been the one to catch the rebel less than a mile from the outer wall. The Dragonborn had been carrying black powder along with a rough schematic for two houses in the royal quarter. The arrest was more than enough to ensure ’s promotion to high scout, but the chief commander had decided he deserved an additional reward for the thwarted plan.
When Chief Commander Harlow had come to dinner with ’s family to announce the plan to his father and him, was thrilled. He’d even seen a flicker of pride that flashed for the briefest moment in his father’s eyes before he turned the conversation back to the ongoing campaign to find out where the schematics had come from and who was working with the man.
And now he was standing on the platform with the cold wood of the axe in his hands and the eyes of the entire city on him.
“For the crimes of treason, weapon smuggling, conspiracy to commit mass murder, Pedro Luz, you have been sentenced to execution. We thank the king and his men for stopping you before you could kill those you’d planned, but their grace does not offer you absolution. Do you have any last words?”
The man on the platform in front of didn’t even move to acknowledge the question. He was already kneeling, head hovering just above the block. He knew the man couldn’t have spoken his last words if he had wanted. They had taken his tongue as his last punishment after weeks of refusing to give up information on the resistance and his co-conspirators. had been invited to three of the interrogations and he even made it through one of them without vomiting.
He wasn’t feeling sick now, though, as he saw the man, laid low and pathetic before him.
The chief commander continued, having given the crowd enough time to be frustrated by the other man’s silence. “You should thank the crown for your merciful sentence, but I know how ungrateful you Dragonborn can be. May your make-believe gods take you.”
“High Scout Ocon, if you will.”
gave a nod of his head before stepping forward, eyes focused on the man’s back. He could just see a quiver of fear in the man’s muscles beneath his tattered tunic. It made him sneer in disgust. The man’s death would be quick and easy, unlike the dozens of people the resistance planned to kill. Or the thirty men, women, and children that died in a bombing near the work farms just two blinks before. Most of them had suffered—the initial blast only killing a handful—but the horrific injuries took the rest over the next few days. This man might not have been one of those who set the fuse, but the weapons he had had were the same type used in the attack.
The chief commander spoke true that this sentence was merciful in comparison to the crimes. And yet the man cowered from his death.
This is for you, Leon. The words were a whisper in his mind—a prayer sent to the old kings in hopes that Leon might hear them.
lifted the axe, the muscles in his arms tensed under the weight, eyes focused only on the neck stretched out before him.
He didn’t hear the whistle of the axe or the thud of the metal into wood that followed. All he heard was the roar of the crowd gathered before him as the head fell forward, rolling off the platform.
He was glad to see it disappear. He didn’t want to witness the judgment in those dead eyes staring up at him. There was nothing for him to regret. The man had planned to commit mass murder. Yet his stomach roiled all the same and acid burned up his throat. He clenched his jaw and breathed slowly through his nose, pushing away the nausea. There wasn’t room for fear or regret in his world.
He didn’t realize he was staring down at the man’s body, laid still before him, until the large hand landed on his shoulder. The chief commander’s grip was firm and warm.
“Well done, ,” he whispered.
’s eyes flickered toward the stands set back behind the platform to where his father stood, looking prouder than he’d ever seen. The tightness that had been constricting his chest for the past week leading up to this execution suddenly released, snapped like a bowstring.
And smiled.