10. Ismerie
TEN
ISMERIE
Iwake to the weight of his arm across my waist and the constant rhythm of his breathing against my hair.
Every muscle protests the waking. The battle’s cost is written in bruises along my ribs, in the dull ache of depleted magic that will take days to replenish. But his arm across my waist is warm and solid and real, and for the moment that is enough.
For a moment, I let myself pretend this is normal.
That we’re simply two people who fell asleep tangled in each other, who will wake to ordinary problems and mundane concerns.
That the message radiating on the wall doesn’t exist. That the Judge isn’t gathering strength beneath the gallows. That we have time.
I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but his arm constricts around my waist—an instinctive response, even in sleep, to keep me close. The gesture makes my chest ache with something I’m still learning to name.
In sleep, the tension that defines his waking hours has eased.
The lines around his eyes have softened.
He looks younger, peaceful—nothing like the Gallows Warden who has delivered death for two decades.
I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip, and warmth spreads through the roughness of stubble beneath my touch.
He stirs, turns his head to press a sleepy kiss against my palm.
Gods. When did this become so easy? When did touching him become as natural as breathing?
The message on the wall catches my attention again. Pale luminescence radiating faintly in the pre-dawn dimness: COME TO YOUR THRONE, GALLOWS WARDEN. JUDGMENT WAITS.
A challenge. A taunt. The Judge knows we drove it back last night, but it also knows we can’t destroy it while the execution platform still stands.
I ease out from under Brannok’s arm and rise from the bed. My body carries aches that have nothing to do with the battle and everything to do with what came after. Pleasant aches. Aches I’d happily earn again.
Focus. We have work to do.
I cross to the window, pulling the cloak around my shoulders against the morning chill.
The execution square is visible from here—the Grand Gallows rising against the gray sky, its damaged timber still bearing the scars of Brannok’s blade.
The ropes hang motionless. The platform stands empty.
But the presence beneath thrums with patience and hunger, waiting for its next meal.
“You’re thinking too loud.”
Rough with sleep, his words reach me. I turn to find him propped on one elbow, watching me with those pale eyes that see too much. The blanket has slipped to his waist, exposing the broad expanse of his chest, the scars I traced with my lips last night.
“Someone has to.” I manage a faint smile. “You were too busy snoring.”
“I don’t snore.”
“You absolutely snore. Like a bear with a head cold.”
His lips twitch—nearly a smile. “Come back to bed.”
The invitation sends heat curling through my belly. Part of me wants to accept. Wants to crawl back into that warmth, lose myself in him, pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.
“We can’t hide here forever.” I turn back to the window. “The Judge is waiting. The council is plotting. And every hour we spend tangled in sheets is an hour the city churns without us.”
The bed creaks as he rises. He crosses to me and settles his hands on my shoulders, pulling me back against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. We stand like that for a long moment, watching the gallows through the window, his heartbeat firm against my spine.
“Then we face it.” His breath warms my hair. “Whatever comes. We face it.”
We. The word settles into my chest with unexpected weight.
I turn in his arms, loop my hands behind his neck. His eyes darken at the contact, his hold firming on my waist.
“There’s a truth I need to show you first.” I hold his gaze. “Before we decide how to fight the Judge, before we confront the council—you need to see what you’ve built. What your gallows have cost this city.”
His jaw clenches. “I know what it’s cost.”
“You know the numbers. The statistics. The calculations of death per day and order maintained per execution.” I press closer, his heartbeat matching mine. “You don’t know the people. The families. The children who grew up without parents because you pulled a lever.”
“Ismerie—”
“I’m not trying to hurt you.” I rise on my toes, press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m trying to make you see. Because if we’re going to tear this system down, you need to understand exactly what you’re dismantling. And why it deserves to collapse.”
A long silence. I watch thoughts move behind his eyes—resistance, doubt, the instinctive defensiveness of a man who has spent decades justifying his choices. His hands flex on my waist, pulling me closer even as his expression wars with itself.
Then he nods.
“Show me.”
I kiss him properly this time—slow and deep, a promise that whatever happens today, whatever he sees, I’ll still be here when it’s over. He responds with a low sound in his chest, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing harder than the kiss warrants, I rest my forehead against his.
“Get dressed. We have a city to save.”
The Gallows Quarter presses against the execution grounds like a wound that won’t heal.
I’ve walked these streets a hundred times, slipping through shadows on my way to executions, blending with the crowds of mourners and morbid tourists. But I’ve never walked them like this—in daylight, with the Gallows Warden at my side, his hand wrapped around mine like it belongs there.
Under martial law, the Quarter is quieter than any riot could make it. Not peace—the silence of a district holding its breath, watching the Gallows Warden walk its streets and waiting to see whether he’s come to hang someone or witness what he’s made.
People stop and stare as we pass.
Some recognize Brannok immediately—the Gallows Warden is not a figure you forget, especially not in the district where his work has left the deepest scars. Fear lives in their faces. Hatred. The bitter resignation of people who have learned that authority only brings suffering.
“This way.” I guide him down an alley that smells of rot and despair. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
The woman lives in a building that was once a tavern, before the execution business dried up the neighborhood’s taste for celebration. She’s older than she should be—grief ages people faster than time—with gray hair pulled back from a face carved with permanent lines of loss.
“Marta.” I knock on the doorframe. “It’s Ismerie. I’ve brought someone.”
The door opens a crack. One eye peers out, then widens with recognition. Not at me—at the orc standing behind me.
“You bring him here?” Marta’s words shake with fury. “To my home? After what he did?”
“I bring him to see.” I keep my tone gentle. “To understand.”
“I don’t want his understanding.” The door opens wider, revealing a woman who was probably beautiful once, before tragedy stripped everything soft from her features. “I want my husband back. I want my daughter back. Can he give me those?”
Brannok says nothing. Tension radiates from him, the instinctive urge to defend himself, to explain, to justify. He holds it in.
“Marta’s husband was a baker.” I turn to face him, making sure he sees every word.
“He was accused of hoarding grain during the famine three years ago. The charges were false—a rival paid the council to eliminate competition. But the trial was quick, the evidence fabricated, and the sentence carried out before anyone could investigate.”
“I remember.” Brannok keeps his tone flat. “Tomas Greave. The drop was clean.”
Marta makes a sound like a wounded animal. “The drop was clean. That’s all he has to say. The drop was clean.”
“Her daughter tried to appeal.” I continue, relentless. “Went to the council, begged for a review of the evidence. They arrested her for sedition. She was hanged three days after her father.”
I watch Brannok’s face. Watch the words land like blows, watch him absorb each one without flinching. His expression has gone stony. His hands flex and release at his sides.
“Seventeen years old.” Marta’s words break. “My little girl was seventeen years old, and he—” She points at Brannok with a trembling finger. “He put the noose around her neck himself. Told her the drop would be clean.”
“The council ordered—”
“The council gives orders.” I cut him off before he can finish. “You carry them out. You’ve always carried them out. Does following orders absolve you of the deaths?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t.
“I’ll show myself out.” I take his arm, guide him away from Marta’s doorway. “Thank you, Marta. For letting us see.”
“I hope he chokes on what he sees.” The door slams behind us.
We stand in the alley, surrounded by the stench of the Gallows Quarter, the weight of that woman’s grief pressing down on us both.
Brannok’s hand finds mine. His fingers lace through mine with a grip that’s nearly painful—desperate, like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling beneath his feet. I squeeze back, letting him know I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.
“That was one family.” I keep my words level. “One story. There are hundreds more in this district alone. Thousands across the city. Do you want to meet them all? Hear every name, every accusation, every moment when you pulled the lever on someone who didn’t deserve to die?”
“No.” The word breaks out of him. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“But you need to.” I step closer, cup his face with my free hand, force him to look at me.
“You need to understand what you’ve been part of.
What the gallows have cost. Because the Judge isn’t wrong about everything, Brannok.
The system you’ve maintained is monstrous.
The only question is whether you’re willing to tear it down. ”