Chapter 3 The Walk to the Block
Sunlight is the first betrayal.
It crashes into me the moment they drag me through the prison gates, brutal and blinding after weeks of darkness.
My eyes burn instantly, watering despite my effort to keep them open.
I grit my teeth and force myself not to flinch.
I will not look weak now. Not when the world has decided it wants to see me broken.
The air outside smells wrong.
Too clean. Too alive.
It smells like bread baking somewhere nearby, like sweat and smoke and summer heat. It smells like people going about their lives as if mine isn't about to end in front of them. The normalcy of it almost knocks the breath from my lungs.
This is where they'll kill me.
Not in shadow.
Not quietly.
But beneath the open sky.
The gates grind shut behind us, and the sound hits me like a wave.
The crowd.
It roars raw, furious, endless. Thousands of voices slam together into one living thing, a creature made of hatred and hunger and anticipation. It vibrates through my bones, through the chains around my wrists, through the fragile calm I've stitched together to survive this moment.
I lift my head.
The square stretches out before me, packed wall to wall with bodies. Faces blur together at first, too many, too fast, but as the guards urge me forward, they sharpen into individuals. Men. Women. Children perched on shoulders so they can see better.
See me die better.
"Traitor!"
The word cracks through the air like a whip.
Another voice follows. Then another. And another.
"Whore queen!"
"Murderer!"
The insults hit harder than the stones beneath my feet. Each one lands with intention, sharpened by rumor and fear and lies repeated often enough to become truth.
I walk.
The chains clink softly with every step, a quiet sound swallowed by the roar. My feet ache. My legs tremble. My body is still weak from starvation and beatings and sleepless nights spent curled on cold stone.
But I walk.
Something wet splatters against my shoulder.
Rotten fruit.
It bursts, foul-smelling, juice seeping into the borrowed cloak. I don't react. I don't look at it. I keep my eyes forward, jaw set, spine straight.
A stone follows.
It strikes my ribs, sharp and unforgiving. Pain blooms white-hot through my side, stealing my breath. My knees buckle for half a second before I force myself upright again, swallowing the sound that tries to claw its way out of my throat.
The crowd cheers.
They like that. They like seeing pain.
Someone spits.
The saliva lands warm and slick against my cheek.
I feel it there, an intimate humiliation, and my vision blurs as tears threaten. I clamp down hard, blinking furiously, forcing them back. I will not wipe my face. I will not bow my head.
I will not give them the satisfaction.
I was crowned here.
Years ago, I stood in this same square with gold on my head and flowers raining at my feet. I remember the sound of cheers then how it filled my chest until I thought my heart might burst. I remember believing, foolishly, that love once earned could never be revoked.
How na?ve I was.
Now those same mouths scream for my blood.
"Hang her!"
"Let her suffer!"
"She deserves worse!"
The guards flank me closely now, not shielding me from the crowd, but guiding me through it, trying to keep me upright as hands reach out from every direction.
Fingers brush my arms, my cloak, my hair.
Some strike. Some grab. Some want to touch me to be able to say they felt the traitor queen before she died.
I feel nothing but exhaustion.
I search faces as I walk, not for mercy, but for understanding. For doubt. For even one person who looks at me and wonders if this spectacle is wrong.
I see fear.
Anger.
Confusion.
A few people look away when our eyes nearly meet. Mothers pull their children closer. A man lowers his fist halfway through a throw, hesitating before flinging the stone anyway, as he hates himself for hesitating at all.
If even a few of them remember that I was human, maybe my death will slow the bloodshed to come.
Because it will come.
I know my husband. I know the ambitions he hides beneath charm and silk. I know what my sister whispers in his ear when no one else is listening.
This execution isn't justice.
It's a theater.
A warning.
I breathe slowly, deliberately.
In.
Out.
I think of the people in the outer villages, far from this square. The ones who won't be here to cheer. The ones who will feel the consequences of today long after my name fades into something cursed.
I think of the children who used to run toward me when I visited, hands sticky with fruit, eyes bright with awe. I think of the older woman who pressed my hands and told me I reminded them of the queens in the old stories, the ones who ruled with mercy instead of fear.
I hold onto those memories like talismans.
A stone hits my temple.
The impact explodes into white light, and for a terrifying second, the world tilts. I stumble, vision swimming, blood warm as it trickles down my forehead.
The guards tense instantly.
"Enough!" one of them snaps at the crowd.
The crowd responds with laughter.
I lift a trembling hand slightly, not in defense, but in command.
The guard hesitates.
I shake my head faintly.
No help.
If I fall, I will get back up.
I wipe the blood away with the back of my hand, smearing red across my skin, and straighten my shoulders again. The motion sends a fresh wave of pain through my body, but I welcome it. Pain reminds me I'm still here.
Still me.
The platform looms ahead now.
The steps rise like a staircase to a throne I never wanted to sit on. The execution block waits at the top, dark with old stains that no amount of scrubbing has erased.
My stomach tightens.
I remember climbing these steps once before on Coronation Day. The sun was just as bright—the square just as full. My sister had walked beside me then, fingers locked tightly in mine, nails biting into my skin with excitement.
She had whispered, We did it.
I didn't know what she meant then.
I do now.
As I near the steps, the crowd presses closer, sensing the end. More things are thrown. Ash. Mud. A piece of broken pottery that shatters at my feet.
"Look at her!" someone screams. "She doesn't even cry!"
Another voice answers, shrill with rage. "She's proud! Of herself!"
I climb.
Each step feels heavier than the last. My legs shake violently now, muscles screaming from effort and hunger, but I refuse to stop. I refuse to be dragged.
When I reach the top, the noise dips not to silence, but a shift. Anticipation sharpens it. The square holds its breath.
And finally, I allow myself to look.
My husband sits on the high seat, draped in royal colors, crown gleaming in the sunlight. He looks immaculate. Calm. Bored, almost.
There is no sorrow on his face.
No hesitation.
Beside him stands my sister.
My breath stutters despite my best efforts.
She is beautiful.
Of course she is.
Her hair is arranged just as I taught her, carefully braided and adorned with jewels that catch the light. She wears a gown of deep crimson, the color of royalty... and blood. Her hands rest lightly on the arm of the throne, fingers decorated with rings that used to belong to me.
She doesn't look away when she sees me.
She meets my gaze directly.
For half a heartbeat, something flickers across her face: fear, perhaps. Or guilt. Or the echo of a bond we once shared.
Then it's gone.
Her chin lifts.
Her mouth curves into something that might almost be a smile.
The betrayal is a physical thing. It slams into my chest so hard I almost forget to breathe. This is what nearly breaks me. Not the stones. Not the spit. Not the chains.
Her.
I had loved her more than myself.
I had protected her and covered for her and trusted her with secrets I should have guarded more closely than my own life.
And now she stands beside my husband as my executioner's shadow.
The crowd surges again, sensing blood in the water.
I tear my gaze away from her.
She does not get my last look.
I turn toward the block.
The guards gesture for me to kneel. I do so without hesitation, lowering myself onto rough wood that bites into my knees. Splinters dig into my skin, sharp and grounding.
The executioner stands nearby, face hidden beneath a hood. His hands are steady. Professional.
He has done this before.
I place my chained hands where they indicate. The iron is cold. Heavy.
The roar of the crowd dulls, like I'm hearing it through water. My breathing evens out, strange and calm.
This is it.
I think of my people one last time, not the crowd screaming now, but the kingdom as a whole. The fields. The villages. The ones who will wake tomorrow and have to live with whatever comes next.
I pray not for myself, but for them.
Let this be enough.
Let my death satisfy their hunger so no one else has to feed it.
The king, my husband, stands.
The sound of his movement carries farther than it should. The square quiets slowly, like a beast settling before it strikes. Even the crowd seems to sense the weight of the moment.
He clears his throat.
The sound echoes across the square.
And the world holds its breath.