Chapter 17 #3
They were the two she had seen with Damien’s men—the couple discovered praying among the ruins of the old temple. They had been sentenced to Ruin for believing in something higher than the King.
For having faith.
For having hope.
Ellaryn swallowed against the bile rising in her throat and drew her sword, keeping her face carefully blank as the blade whispered from its sheath.
Her eyes swept across the room.
The guests were watching.
Some looked frightened. Others hungry. A sick glimmer shining in their eyes, a twisted mix of fear and fascination. Their stares lingered on the prisoners so intently that some seemed almost afraid to blink.
They knew what was coming.
And yet none of them looked away.
This was the King’s favourite kind of entertainment, and it had become a familiar spectacle at his gatherings.
“Speak your crimes.” The King drawled, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
The prisoners had been forced onto their knees, tears streaming down their faces and carving pale tracks through the ash clinging to their cheeks. Both looked up at Ellaryn, their eyes pleading.
Neither spoke.
They simply lowered their heads, defeated.
“It seems you have both been praying to the Gods.” The King hummed, the sound low and guttural as he descended from his throne and began circling them like a predator.
A ripple of gasps moved through the room, hands flying to mouths.
The King stopped before them.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice suddenly carrying across the marble hall, “where are your Gods now?”
Ellaryn could feel the fear rolling from them.
It clung to their skin.
Their trembling was impossible to hide, bare knees pressed against the cold marble, dirty rags hanging from their bodies as they knelt before a man who had made himself their god.
“In this city,” the King thundered, “I am God!”
The prisoners flinched.
Silence followed.
It was almost more deafening than his declaration.
The guests had paled beneath his temper, none daring to move, until the woman finally lifted her head.
“The reckoning is coming,” she gritted out through her sobs. “The Gods will show you no mercy when you fall.”
She glared at the King.
The man beside her shot her a warning look, silently begging her to stop, but she ignored him.
Ellaryn knew that look.
She had seen it before.
It was the moment when fear disappeared because the mind had already accepted what the body could not escape.
There was no pleading left.
No bargaining.
Nothing to lose.
“Enjoy the feel of your throne while you still can,” the woman continued, her voice trembling but resolute. “Because it won’t last lo—”
The King moved.
One moment he was standing several paces away. The next, his sword had left its sheath.
The woman’s head struck the marble with a sickening thud before rolling across the floor, leaving a thin trail of crimson in its wake.
It came to rest at Ellaryn’s feet, its eyes staring upwards, and for a moment, Ellaryn couldn’t look away.
Perhaps those eyes did have a vendetta against her.
The executioner felt sick.
The reckoning.
The revolution.
They were talking about Xander.
Beside the severed body, the man broke.
He began to sob uncontrollably, rocking back and forth as he stared at the blood spreading across the marble.
Then he did something that shook Ellaryn to her core.
He prayed.
At first, it was barely audible. Whispers. Mutters. Broken words that tumbled over one another as he desperately grasped for something—anything—that might still save him.
His grip was slipping.
The King looked at Ellaryn, and when their eyes met, she knew exactly what to do. Exactly what he was asking of her. She could read his glares like a language.
He didn’t need to speak. She understood all too well.
This was nothing new.
Ellaryn had been severing heads since she was ten years old.
But now, with Xander in the city, with whispers of change spreading through the streets and the possibility of freedom no longer feeling like some distant fantasy, the blade suddenly felt heavier in her hand.
The order was the same.
The execution was the same.
But she was not.
Still, she swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat.
She raised her sword.
And brought it down.
One clean stroke sent the man’s head falling beside the woman’s, his final prayer dying somewhere between his lips and the marble.
For a heartbeat, there was silence.
Then the King smiled.
A dark, satisfied expression spread across his face as he lifted his chalice.
“Music.” He ordered, and the violinists obeyed in an instant.
Their bows dragged shakily across the strings, coaxing music from instruments held by trembling hands. Around them, the guests slowly began attempting to find their way back to the people they had been before the executions.
The Knights were the first. They returned to their drinking and laughter with unsettling ease, accustomed to death in all its forms.
Then came the others.
Conversations resumed in hushed voices, couples began dancing again, glasses were lifted, and laughter slowly returned. As though nothing had happened.
As though two people hadn’t just died on the marble floor.
Slave girls hurried forward with buckets and cloths, scrubbing at the crimson staining the stone while the Defiers dragged the bodies away.
Within minutes, the blood was almost gone.
But Ellaryn could still see it.
She could feel it beneath her boots.
And no matter how loudly the music played, she could still hear the man’s final prayer.
* * *
She continued her rounds long after the music had begun to fade, keeping watch over the dwindling guests until the King finally withdrew to his chambers with the woman who had been perched beside him for most of the evening. Ellaryn grimaced at the thought and quickly pushed it from her mind.
By then, the drunken guests had begun filtering out of the castle, stumbling down the steps and making their way back towards their pedestals, their laughter echoing through the corridors as they disappeared into the night.
At last, Ellaryn had some time to herself. Time she could not afford to waste.
Grabbing her cloak, she quietly walked across the stone patio, the wind cooling her swollen cheek.
“Sneaking out, are you?” a voice called from behind her.
Damien stood in the doorway. Even in the low light, his curly black afro gave him away. He was puffing on a cigar, feeding the smoke of the city. “Don’t tell me your heart belongs to a dweller now.” He shook his head, a deviant smirk upturning his lips.
She sighed. “If you must know, I’m going for a walk, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Ah, yes, I always liked Cinders at night; the embers really do seem to come alive.” He grinned, then took another slow drag. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Ellaryn’s eyes narrowed at the curiosity lining his features.
“Is there something you want?” She asked, still paused before the steps.