Brannok
FOUR
Sleep doesn’t come.
I lie on my narrow bed, staring at the ceiling I’ve stared at for two decades, palm pressed to my neck where the mating mark throbs with steady heat. The sigils glow—not painful, but impossible to ignore. A heartbeat that isn’t mine, keeping rhythm with a presence in the cells below.
Her.
I should be reviewing execution protocols.
Checking schedules, confirming guard rotations, ensuring tomorrow’s hanging proceeds without the complications that plagued today’s.
The council will want a show of strength after the revenant incident.
They’ll want the death witch’s execution to be clean, a demonstration that order has been restored.
Instead, I’m lying in darkness, my body responding to a woman I’ve sentenced to die.
The mark blazes exactly as it did in the first moment it appeared—as if twenty-three years of silence were nothing. As if she were always supposed to be here.
I push myself upright, abandoning the pretense of rest. The movement sends a fresh wave of heat through the mark, and I grit my teeth against the sensation. She’s directly below me. Her presence presses against my awareness, a constant pressure that won’t be ignored.
I cross to the washbasin, splash cold water on my face, force myself to breathe through the urge to go down there. To see her again. To touch—
No.
I grip the basin’s edge until my knuckles ache.
This is chemical. Biological. An ancient magical imperative that has nothing to do with who she is or what she’s done.
The mark responds to compatibility, to a fundamental resonance between two people’s magical signatures.
It doesn’t care about morality. Doesn’t factor in the small detail that she’s a death witch feeding on my executions.
I dress in the darkness, pulling on leather and iron by touch alone. The routine helps—buckles and straps, the familiar weight of armor across my shoulders. By the time I’ve finished, I resemble myself more.
The mark still glows.
I ignore it.
The Execution Hall is quiet at this hour. My guards patrol in pairs, their footsteps echoing through stone corridors worn smooth by generations of condemned prisoners. I pass them without acknowledgment, and they don’t question my presence. The Warden walks where the Warden wills.
Three of my men didn’t make the morning. I’ll learn their names before I do anything else.
I find myself outside her cell.
The iron door is thick enough to stop a battering ram, fitted with locks designed by generations of paranoid jailers. A viewing slot sits at head height—a small rectangle of bars that allows observation without opening the door.
I shouldn’t be here. Should be in my quarters, reviewing tomorrow’s procedures, preparing for the execution that will restore order to Blackhook City. Instead, I’m standing in a dark corridor, fighting the urge to slide open the viewing slot and look at the woman who’s going to die in a few hours.
The sigils on my neck throb. Demanding.
I slide open the slot.
She’s awake.
I can see her in the darkness—pale skin luminous against the stone, ash-blonde hair tangled around her face, arms still stretched above her head where the chains hold her. Her eyes are closed, but her posture tells me she’s not sleeping. Waiting. Conserving what little strength she has left.
She’s beautiful.
The thought surfaces before I can stop it. Not the clinical observation from the execution square—this is rawer. It takes in the curve of her neck, the hollow at her collarbone, the way she breathes with careful control. It wants to touch, to claim, to—
Her eyes open.
Violet light flickers in the darkness, barely visible but unmistakable. She shouldn’t have any power left—the suppression manacles should have drained her completely. But ending magic clings to her like a second skin, refusing to be entirely suppressed.
Her gaze finds the viewing slot. Finds me.
“Couldn’t sleep, Warden?”
Her voice is rough from hours of silence, but the edge is still there.
I should close the slot. Walk away. Maintain the professional distance I’ve cultivated for two decades. Instead, I hear myself answer.
“No.”
“Me neither.” A broken sound escapes her cracked lips. “Funny how impending death interferes with rest.”
I don’t respond. Don’t trust myself to speak, to maintain the cold authority that defines who I am. The mark glows hotter now, responding to her proximity, her voice, the simple fact of her existence.
“Why are you here?” She shifts against her chains, wincing as the movement pulls at her shoulders. “Come to check your work? Make sure the prisoner hasn’t escaped through solid stone?”
“I came to—” I stop. What did I come here for? What possible reason could justify standing in the dark, watching a condemned woman through iron bars?
“You don’t know.” Her head tilts, violet eyes studying me with unnerving intensity. “The great Gallows Warden, who has a reason for everything, doesn’t know why he’s standing outside my cell in the middle of the night.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Can’t.” She gestures with her chin toward her bound wrists. “Hard to relax when your arms are going numb.”
I should leave. Should close the slot and walk away and pretend this conversation never happened. The logic is simple, yet my hand moves for the keys of her cell before my mind can find a reason to stop it.
What are you doing?
The question screams through my mind, but my fingers keep moving. Working the mechanisms I know by heart, releasing catches and sliding bolts. The door swings open on hinges that don’t creak—I maintain them personally.
She watches me enter. No fear in her expression. No hope, either. That measuring gaze, calculating odds and options with the desperation of someone who has nothing left to lose.
“Going to kill me early?” Her voice doesn’t waver. “Save the crowd the trouble?”
“No.”
I cross to where she hangs and examine the chains.
The mechanism is simple—a winch connected to a ceiling pulley, adjustable to keep prisoners in whatever position the interrogator desires.
Right now, she’s stretched past comfort, toes barely brushing the floor, shoulders bearing most of her weight.
I release the winch.
She drops six inches, and her gasp of relief cuts through me. Her arms fall to her sides—still bound, still manacled, but no longer stretched above her head. She sags against the wall, breathing hard, and I watch the tension drain from her body.
“Why?”
The word is barely a whisper. Her violet eyes find mine in the darkness, searching for an answer she doesn’t seem to find.
“You need to be able to climb the platform tomorrow.” The lie comes easily. “Hard to maintain proper procedure when the condemned can’t walk.”
“Right.” She doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me either. “Procedure.”
The cell is small. Four steps from wall to wall, barely room for the two of us to stand without touching. I should leave—I’ve done what I came here to do, whatever that was. Extended whatever small mercy I’m capable of.
I don’t leave.
“You’re staring, Warden.”
“You’re still talking.”
A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “Force of habit. Sarcasm is how I cope with mortal terror. You should try it sometime.”
“I don’t get mortally terrified.”
“No? Then what’s that expression on your face?” She leans forward, chains clinking. “Because it looks like a man wrestling with forces beyond his control.”
She sees too much.
I step closer before I can stop myself. Close enough to smell her—ending magic and something faintly green, like wildflowers crushed underfoot, and the sharp tang of fear she’s working so hard to hide. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.
“That’s not an answer.”
She turns her face away, the chains whispering with the small movement. The silence between us carries everything she’s already said once, and the fact that she doesn’t repeat it says more than the words ever could.
The mark warms between us, a silent confirmation of what I’ve been trying to ignore since my chambers.
I should leave. Should walk away before this conversation goes somewhere neither of us can come back from.
Instead, I reach out and touch her face.
Her skin is softer than I expected. Softer than a death witch’s skin should be. My thumb traces the line of her cheekbone, and I sense her shiver beneath my touch—not from cold.
“It doesn’t change anything.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow, when the sun rises—”
“I know.” She leans into my palm, eyes closing. “I know what happens tomorrow. But right now, tonight, can we pretend it doesn’t have to end that way?”
No. We can’t. This is madness. This is—
I kiss her.
I don’t decide to do it. Don’t weigh the consequences or calculate the risks. One moment I’m standing in her cell, torn between duty and desire. The next, my mouth is on hers, and everything I’ve built is crumbling around me.
She tastes like ending magic and desperation. Her bound hands press against my armored torso, chains rattling as she tries to pull me closer. The kiss is hungry, frantic, two people who know they shouldn’t but can’t seem to stop.
I break away before I lose myself entirely.
Her eyes are luminous in the darkness, her lips swollen, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The mark on my neck blazes with recognition, with certainty, with truths I’m not ready to face.
“Go.” Her voice shakes. “You need to go before—”
“Before what?”
“Before I start hoping.” She presses her forehead to mine, eyes closed. “Before I start believing there’s a way out of this that doesn’t end with me dead.”
I should tell her there isn’t. Should remind her that the law is clear, that the council has spoken, that no amount of kissing in dark cells changes the sentence waiting for her at dawn.
“There might be.” The words escape before I can stop them. “A way. If I’m willing to burn down everything I’ve built.”
Her eyes snap open. “What are you saying?”
I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying, what I’m thinking, what madness has seized me in this midnight hour. All I know is the mark warming against my neck and the woman pressed against me and the absolute certainty that killing her tomorrow will break me in ways I won’t survive.
“Nothing.” I step back, putting distance between us. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
I’m out the door before she can respond. Locks engaging behind me, footsteps echoing through the corridor, heart hammering against my ribs.
What have I done?
I climb to the roof of the Execution Hall.
The platform seems different tonight. Larger.
More present. The death wards carved into its surface glow faintly in the starlight—not the steady containment they’re supposed to emit, but a flickering hunger.
She’s right. A presence is waking down there.
And tomorrow, I’m going to feed it a death witch.
For a woman I’ve known less than a day. A death witch who feeds on my executions. My mate. The word sits foreign in my mind, and yet the sigil burns with absolute certainty.
Four hours until dawn.
Four hours to decide what kind of monster I want to be.
The guards notice a change.
I see it in the way they look at me as I make my rounds. The sideways glances, the carefully neutral expressions, the conversations that stop when I approach. They’ve served under me long enough to read my moods, to know when trouble is brewing.
Captain Halvard finds me in the armory, checking execution equipment I’ve checked a hundred times.
“Sir.” He stands at attention, his grizzled face carefully blank. “The preparations are complete. The platform is ready. The crowd control positions are confirmed.”
“Good.”
He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. Stands there, waiting for an answer I’m not sure I can give.
“The men are restless, sir. They saw the way that… thing… moved in the square. They’re questioning if the platform is still ours, or if it belongs to whatever the witch pulled out of the wood.”
“She is another criminal. She’s been feeding on our executions for years.”
“So have half the death witches in the Gallows Quarter.” Halvard’s jaw flexes. “We don’t hunt them down. Don’t put them on the platform. The council tolerates them because they’re useful—because they keep the ending magic from pooling where it shouldn’t.”
I stare at him. In fifteen years of service, Halvard has never questioned an order. Never expressed doubt about the system we maintain.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the men are scared.” He meets my gaze without flinching.
“I’m saying that creature came out of nowhere and killed three of my best soldiers.
I’m saying the witch saved you when she could have run.
” A long pause. “And I’m saying that maybe executing her isn’t the best use of our resources right now. ”
The mark warms against my neck. For a moment, I consider telling him everything—the mating mark, the awareness I can’t ignore, the terrible certainty that killing her will break a part of me I didn’t know I still had.
I don’t.
“The execution proceeds at dawn.” My words come out cold. Certain. The Gallows Warden, who doesn’t hesitate. Who doesn’t question. Who pulls the lever because the lever needs to be pulled. “Dismissed.”
Halvard salutes. His face reveals nothing.
But as he turns to leave, I see the doubt in his eyes. The same doubt that’s eating at me. The same question I can’t answer.
What happens if we’re wrong?
The door closes behind him. I’m alone with the execution equipment—the ropes and hoods and weights that have been my tools all these years. Everything neatly organized. Everything prepared for morning.
Everything except me.
I press my palm against the mark on my neck. The glow is steady beneath my hand—certain in a way duty has never been. The answer has been forming since the moment I walked through her cell door. I just had to stop fighting it long enough to let it arrive.
By the time the first gray light touches the execution square, I know exactly what I’m going to do.