10. Ismerie #3
“We’ll figure it out.” I whisper the words against his lips. “After we save the city. After we destroy the Judge. We’ll have time to figure out what this is.”
“And if we don’t survive?”
“Then at least we’ll die knowing we tried.” I pull back, lace my fingers through his. “Come on. We have work to do.”
We turn to leave the graveyard, hand in hand.
Then the bells begin to toll.
Not the execution bells.
Those have been silent since Brannok stopped the hangings, their keepers fled or hiding. These are different—deep, resonant, echoing across the city with an urgency that makes my blood run cold.
“Emergency bells.” Brannok pulls me closer. “They haven’t rung in a generation.”
“What do they mean?”
“Martial law.” His face has gone grim. “The council is making a move.”
We leave the graveyard at a run, pushing through the Gallows Quarter streets that are already filling with panicked citizens. The bells keep tolling—not a rhythm, but a continuous peal that beats against my skull like a hammer.
Halvard meets us at the edge of the execution square, his face gray with exhaustion and dread.
“Sir.” The captain falls into step beside us. “Messenger came while you were gone. The council has declared martial law. All guards are to report to the Bell Towers for deployment orders.”
“What orders?”
Halvard’s expression hardens. “Mass execution of all suspected death witches. Starting at dawn tomorrow.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumble, and only Brannok’s arm around my waist keeps me upright.
“How many?” My words come out strangled.
“The warrant lists thirty-seven names.” Halvard won’t meet my eyes. “But there are rumors of more. Anyone with suspected magical ability. Anyone who’s been seen attending executions regularly. Anyone the council considers a threat to public order.”
Thirty-seven. Maybe more. Innocents and guilty alike, fed to the platform because the council is afraid.
“They’re feeding the Judge.” Brannok’s words are a growl. “They have to know—after everything that’s happened—”
“They know.” Halvard’s expression says he’s thought the same thing. “But they’re more afraid of losing control than they are of the Judge. If you won’t pull the lever, they’ll find someone who will. And they’ll use the emergency to justify it.”
“Who’s on the list?” I force the question out. “Anyone we know?”
Halvard hesitates. Then he reaches into his coat and produces a folded paper. “Era’s name is first. Then Senna. Then…”
He trails off. I take the paper from his hand, unfold it with fingers that won’t stop shaking.
The names blur before my eyes. Death-witches I’ve seen in the crowds. Practitioners I’ve nodded to in passing. Women and men who have survived by doing exactly what I did—feeding on the gallows’ magic, hiding among the mourners, trying to stay alive in a city that wants them dead.
And near the bottom of the list, in the council’s precise handwriting: Ismerie Ashfall.
“The claiming protects you.” Brannok’s words are tight. “They can’t execute you while you’re marked as mine.”
“The council is bound by law and custom—the claiming supersedes their authority. The Judge is something else entirely. It doesn’t recognize human law.”
“They can try.” I fold the paper carefully, tuck it into my pocket. “And even if they can’t touch me, they can execute everyone else on this list. Every death feeds the Judge. Every hanging makes it stronger.”
“Then we stop them.”
I look up at him—at this man who has spent two decades pulling levers, who is now proposing to defy the council that gave him his power. Who moments ago told me his feelings are real and they’re mine. Who is choosing me over everything he’s ever known.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.” His face sets with the determination I’ve seen before, the certainty that used to terrify me and now makes my heart ache. “But we have until dawn to figure it out. And I refuse to let thirty-seven people die so the council can pretend they’re still in control.”
He pulls me close, one arm wrapped protectively around my waist. In front of Halvard, in the middle of the execution square, with the bells tolling overhead and the world crumbling around us—he holds me like I’m the only solid thing left.
I lean into him. Let myself take comfort in his strength, his certainty, the unwavering beat of his heart against my cheek.
The bells keep tolling.
Somewhere beneath the gallows, the Judge stirs with anticipation.
Brannok pulls back far enough to look at me. His expression has gone still—not the cold stillness of the Gallows Warden, but something harder. The stillness of a man who has made up his mind.
“Tomorrow at dawn.” His words are quiet but absolute. “I walk into that square alone. I give the Judge what it’s wanted since the beginning—me, standing on its platform, accepting its judgment.”
My chest tightens. “And while it’s focused on you—”
“You reach the anchor stone.” He cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “End it the way we planned. Tear it out by the roots while I hold its attention.”
“Brannok—”
“This is what we’ve been building toward.” He pulls me close until I’m tucked against his chest. “Everything tonight, the graveyard, the families we met—it was never just about understanding. It was about knowing exactly what we’re fighting for. And what we’re willing to sacrifice to end it.”
I hold his gaze. The execution square stretches behind him, the gallows a dark shape against the pre-dawn sky, the bells still sounding their grim rhythm.
Then I nod.
“Dawn.” The word is a promise and a sentence and the beginning of the end of everything. “We end it at dawn.”