Riegan thought he'd become accustomed to death by now.

He'd carried out far too many executions not to be. He knew the weight of the blade—every groove and dip in the handle—with an intimate familiarity. Had cut through enough flesh and bone, severed enough defenseless necks, to strike at the precise angle by instinct alone. Third and fourth cervical vertebrae. Every time.

He knew how to make it quick. Clean. Merciful, even.

No longer did he rely on copious drinks to get through a successful execution. Alcohol muddled the head. Impaired vision. Made hands unsteady. Led to botched executions, suffering, needless spectacle. Guilt and hesitation no longer strayed his blade.

Riegan knew better than to drink before an execution.

And yet, he did the night before yours.

At the only tavern that'd accept him: one nestled on the outskirts of the kingdom, far enough from society that feared criminals and outcasts alike would be served. Same table he always sat at—one in the back corner, where laughter thinned and even the fire seemed to mind its distance.

The bar where he'd met you.

A few months prior, you'd visited the bar. Dressed in plain clothing, hood drawn low over your eyes, you'd joined him. Your disguise didn't matter; he recognized you as the royal heir to Avarryn as soon as your eyes met his. And even after learning of his tainted occupation, of the stigma that clung to him like smoke, you did not recoil or leave. No. You stayed. You spoke to him as though he was a normal man. Treated him like any other.

He found himself enjoying your company more than he anticipated.

You visited the bar again and again. Some nights to drink. Some nights to talk. Some nights to sit in silence. He'd slowly learned the shape of your silence, the warmth of your presence. How you straightened in attention when he spoke. How your fingers curled around your cup when you were lost in thought.

Eventually, you'd confided in him about your trial. The royal heir yourself, accused of the highest treason, executable by death.

He'd known before you told him. Gossip spreads faster than official news did. But he'd chosen to let you bring it up at your own pace.

The trial had been in the beginning stages when he'd first brought up marriage. It had been thoughtless. Practical. Offered the way one might offer a cloak for the rain.

"You know, no harm shall befall the executioner's spouse. It is law in Avarryn."

You'd chuckled, as though it'd been a joke. And it might have been, if he was one for humor. He knew the laws that bound him. Knew there was a contingency, should your trial take a turn for the worse.

And it did.

The charges worsened. Evidence arose out of thin air. Guards watched you more closely.

"Marry me," he'd offered a second time, voice solemn, as though delivering a sentence himself.

You did not answer. He knew silence meant rejection.

Because who'd choose him? Choosing him was social death. A life of exile. A tarnished name. Death was a cleaner option, wasn't it?

The third time he hadn't asked. He'd begged.

There'd been no ale between you then—only stone walls and cold iron bars. His shoulders hung low, his head hung lower. Your execution had been set for tomorrow, with him named as executioner.

"Please." His voice quivered. "Marry me. You would live."

You'd smiled. Politely said no. And he broke.

Morning comes anyway.

The sky's gray and colorless. Clouds shamefully linger in the sky, promising the wrath of heaven's tears, as though they too will mourn your death.

The scaffolding stands stark against the dreary sky as Riegan takes his place by the king, regret already gnawing into his bones.

He shouldn't have drank.

The sword feels too heavy, the hood too suffocating. He's beheaded dozens of men, women, even children. He's executed thieves, murderers, monsters. This is no different from any other execution, he tries to convince himself.

It grants no solace.

They haul you up, forcing you to kneel before the bloodthirsty crowd.

His eyes drop. Dark and weary, one last time, they wordlessly beg: Please.