27. Sophie
SOPHIE
T he sun hasn’t cleared the horizon yet, but the sky is already bleeding.
From this height, the city looks almost peaceful. Pale stone catching the first hint of gold. Smoke drifting in thin ribbons from somewhere beyond the western ring. Sirens wailing intermittently—cutting off, restarting, overlapping in uneven patterns.
They thought this tower would make me feel small.
It doesn’t.
It gives me perspective.
I stand barefoot on cold stone, wrists bound loosely in front of me—not shackled, just restrained enough to signal spectacle. The air up here tastes thin, metallic, threaded with citrus residue from yesterday’s cleaning ritual.
Below, the square fills slowly.
Not as orderly as before.
Clusters instead of rows.
Murmurs instead of silence.
Something’s off.
I catalog guard rotations automatically. Two at the platform door. One at the inner stairwell entrance. Another pair on the eastern balcony, scanning outward instead of inward.
They’re distracted.
Good.
Footsteps behind me.
I don’t turn immediately. I let my shoulders slope slightly, let my breathing turn shallow. Vulnerability is currency.
“Sophie.”
The voice is younger than I expect.
I turn now.
Dzu’s son stands a few feet away, dressed in ceremonial black like the administrator from yesterday—but less composed. His jaw is tight. His eyes flick from me to the horizon and back again.
“You don’t look frightened,” he says.
“Should I?” I ask softly.
He frowns. “You’re scheduled for execution.”
“Yes,” I reply. “I heard.”
He steps closer, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
“My father believes this is necessary,” he says.
“Do you?” I ask.
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not your concern.”
“I’m about to die,” I say quietly. “Everything feels like my concern.”
He shifts, uncomfortable.
“Why are you here?” I press gently. “He could’ve sent anyone.”
Silence.
“He wants me to observe,” he says finally. “To understand what leadership requires.”
“Does it require this?” I ask.
His gaze flickers.
“You think this is easy?” he snaps.
“No,” I say. “I think it’s loud.”
That stops him.
“Loud?” he repeats.
“You’re killing me to send a message,” I say. “That’s not quiet strength. That’s theater.”
His nostrils flare.
“You don’t understand what he’s built,” he says.
“I understand it very well,” I reply. “I’ve been inside the machinery.”
A siren shrieks somewhere in the lower districts.
He glances toward the sound. “It’s contained.”
“Is it?” I ask.
His fingers tighten around the tablet in his hand.
“You’re afraid,” I say softly.
He stiffens. “I am not.”
“Not of me,” I clarify. “Of being insufficient.”
The words land.
“You think I don’t see it?” I continue. “The way he watches you? Weighs you?”
His voice drops. “Be careful.”
“Or what?” I ask. “You’ll execute me twice?”
His composure cracks just enough.
“You think this makes you brave?” he says. “Standing there, mocking us?”
“I think it makes me honest.”
The square below grows louder. Not panicked. Agitated.
A guard approaches him. “Sir, western corridor breach reports?—”
“It’s under control,” he snaps.
The guard hesitates. “Sir?—”
“Under control.”
The guard retreats.
I tilt my head slightly. “That didn’t sound under control.”
His jaw clenches.
“You want to prove something?” I say quietly. “Do it without theatrics.”
His eyes snap back to mine.
“What are you suggesting.”
“Untie me,” I say.
He laughs once. Short. Disbelieving. “You think I’m an idiot.”
“No,” I reply evenly. “I think you want to show you’re not.”
Silence stretches between us.
“You’re going to die in minutes,” he says. “What difference does it make.”
“It makes a difference to you,” I say.
The sirens shift pitch.
Closer now.
His fingers twitch at his side.
“You could tell them it was a final kindness,” I add softly. “You could say you allowed dignity.”
He studies my wrists.
“You won’t run,” he says.
“Where?” I ask.
The hesitation lasts exactly three seconds.
Then he steps forward and unlocks the restraints.
The leather falls away.
My pulse pounds so hard I feel it in my teeth.
“Don’t make me regret this,” he mutters.
“I won’t,” I say.
He steps toward the platform’s outer edge to look down at the square, trying to reassert composure.
The sun crests the horizon.
Light spills across the stone.
I move.
Two steps. Fast.
I slam the heavy tower door shut and twist the locking bar into place.
Metal shrieks against stone.
“What—” he shouts, spinning.
The bar drops into its slot.
He lunges for it from the inside.
Too late.
“You can’t—” he yells.
“I just did,” I reply through the crack.
His fist pounds against the door.
“Open this!”
“I’m giving you something,” I say calmly.
“What?!”
“Perspective.”
I don’t wait for his answer.
The inner stairwell yawns dark behind me.
Alarms begin to howl—real ones this time. Not ceremonial. Not controlled.
I descend fast, barefoot against cold stone, hands brushing the wall for balance as the tower vibrates with confusion.
Halfway down, I hear shouting above.
“Unlock it!”
“Where’s the key?!”
“Sir?!”
Good.
The lower corridor is chaos.
Guards running in conflicting directions. Civilians pushing toward exits. Smoke drifting in from somewhere below.
I grab a discarded cloak from a fleeing attendant and wrap it around myself, pulling the hood low.
“Which way?” a woman cries.
“Inner ring’s sealed!” someone else shouts.
“No it’s not—west gate’s open!”
I merge into the flow.
A soldier nearly collides with me.
“Get back to your quarters!” he barks.
I lower my head. “Yes, sir.”
He doesn’t look twice.
The throne chamber sits at the heart of this place—not elevated, not gaudy. Central.
I know the route.
Left at the fractured column. Down the narrow corridor lined with field conduits humming erratically. Through the security arch that’s currently unmanned because half the guards are sprinting toward the square.
A blast rocks the lower levels.
Dust rains from the ceiling.
Someone screams.
I keep moving.
A group of civilians huddles near a collapsed archway.
“Is this an evacuation?” one asks me.
“No,” I say. “It’s a correction.”
I don’t know if they understand.
I don’t stop to check.
The doors to the throne chamber loom ahead—massive, seamless, slightly ajar.
Inside, the hum of the field thrums deep and resonant.
I step through.
The chamber is not empty.
And I am not here to be saved.
I am here to finish what I started.