Chapter 29 The Punishment
The Punishment
They drag him into the square, and I follow at my own pace, unhurried, letting the sound of it carry ahead of us. By the time we reach the center, people are already gathering, drawn by the blood, by the noise, by whatever instinct tells them something has shifted.
Good.
They force him to his knees, though he can barely hold himself upright. Blood has soaked through his trousers, dark and spreading, dripping steadily onto the stone beneath him. His breathing is uneven, breaking into small, useless sounds that no one bothers to quiet.
I stop a few steps in front of him and let the silence build.
Then I open my hand. Two small, blood-slick pieces of flesh drop from my palm and strike the stone between us with a soft, wet sound. His testicles. No one mistakes them for anything else. A few people turn away immediately, but most remain where they are, staring as the reality presses in.
I feel it then, the moment when something that needed to happen finally does.
“Hurstinal may share my name,” I say, my voice carrying easily across the square, “but he is no family of mine.”
No one speaks.
“But let me be clear.” I let my gaze move across them, meeting eyes where I can and holding them just long enough.
“He tried to harm my child.” I look back at him. He’s shaking now, his body folding in on itself, his breath coming in broken, useless bursts.
“So now you never will have any of your own.” The silence deepens, thick and heavy.
I lift my head toward the crowd that has now emerged. “I’m here. I know what you expected. That I would listen, that I would do what you wanted, that I would accept a bond with the Threns.”
The word feels smaller now than it did before. “It’s not happening.”
Aunt Petunis appears at the edge of the crowd, her expression tightening as she takes in the scene.
“I am your queen heir,” I continue, my voice even, steady in a way that feels new and settled. “You don’t have to like me. That part doesn’t matter.”
A scream cuts through the square.
Venya.
She sees him—sees what lies on the stone—and something in her breaks. Soldiers catch her as she lunges forward, holding her back as she fights against them.
“You can’t—”
I don’t turn fully at first. I don’t need to. Power answers before the rest of me does, lifting her and throwing her several feet back before the soldiers seize her again.
“I can.”
This time I turn, my gaze settling on her as she struggles in their grip, her face twisted, her voice gone thin with shock.
“And it’s Queen Asharin to you, dear Aunt.”
The silence that follows is heavier.
As I turn back toward the square, movement at the far edge catches my attention. Uralish steps into view as if he’s arrived for nothing more than mild entertainment, a flask in hand, his eyes sweeping across the scene: Hurstinal on his knees, the blood, the crowd.
He looks surprised, then amused. Then something closer to impressed.
Our eyes meet briefly. “Uncle,” I say, almost as an afterthought, the word easy now.
He lifts his flask slightly, then winks.
When I turn back, no one is looking anywhere but at me. “If anyone here thinks they can touch me,” I say, letting my gaze move slowly across them, “or my child, or anyone I choose to protect… try it.”
No one does.
“I will kill you.”
I let the words settle before I glance toward the soldiers.
“Bring it.”
They move immediately, dragging a heavy trunk into the center of the square. The lid is thrown open, and gold spills into view, coins catching the light, stacked and overflowing.
A ripple moves through the crowd, different now, something alive threading through the fear.
“This was his,” I say, not looking at Hurstinal as I speak. “He doesn’t deserve it.”
I gesture toward the trunk. “It’s yours.”
For a moment, no one moves. Then one person steps forward.
Then another. And then the square shifts, hesitation breaking into motion, into voices, into something that sounds dangerously close to relief.
I let it happen. Let them take it. Let them understand.
When I look down at him again, my eyes fall on his hands.
They’re still intact, still capable, though one of them twitches weakly against the restraints.
That hand. The one that grabbed my breast. The memory comes back at once.
“Take the whole hand,” I say to the soldier, my voice calm. “And save it. My husband may wish to see it when he arrives.”
One of the soldiers hesitates just long enough for me to notice.
I meet his eyes.
He moves. The scream that follows is weaker now, torn and uneven, fading faster than before. I watch it happen without looking away.
For a brief moment, something close to amusement presses in, quiet and private.
Colsar would be pleased. I almost want to laugh, remembering how disturbed I was the first day we met.
We had been in his study when he told me, "Personally, I find the removal of body parts—some light dismemberment—quite soothing.”
I understand it now. Some people leave no other choice.
“Leave him,” I add. “Tie him up like this. I want everyone to see.”
No one argues. Behind me, the crowd is no longer silent. The sound of movement, of voices, of coins being taken fills the square, no longer cautious, no longer uncertain. They have chosen.
I turn before the noise finishes building.
I’ve already made mine.
The crowd parts as I move through it, a path opening ahead of me without question, without resistance. At the edge of the square, Aunt Petunis steps into my path.
She carries a staff of translucent material in one hand, its length catching the light in shifting, unreal tones, as if it has been shaped from something that does not fully belong to this world. In her other hand, she holds another.
Gold.
It gleams with a living brightness, its surface etched in fine, intricate work that draws the eye and holds it. There is a weight to it beyond what can be seen, something ancient, something that hums faintly beneath the surface, older than the square, older than the palace itself.
She studies me in silence, her eyes moving over me with careful attention, measuring what stands before her.
Then she steps forward. The gold staff is placed into my hand. Its weight meets me at once, firm and certain, as though it has always known this place, as though it has always been meant to rest here.
“This was supposed to be your mother’s,” she says quietly.
Her fingers fall away. “You’ve earned the right to wield it.”
And I take it.