The scent of damp stone and burning pitch filled the square as you stepped onto the wooden platform. A hush fell over the crowd as you took your place beside your father, the king. The city’s banners fluttered in the cold wind, their colors muted beneath the gray sky. You had always imagined this moment differently. As a child, you had overheard whispers of executions—how justice was swift, how the guilty met their end before the people’s eyes. It was a display of order, of power. And now, at sixteen, it was your time to witness it.

The condemned man was dragged forward, his face bruised and streaked with blood. He was not much older than you, perhaps twenty, with dark hair matted from the night in the dungeons. His crime? Treason, they said. Yet when you met his eyes, you did not see a monster. You saw fear.

The executioner, the famous Gideon Hale, the city’s executioner, clad in black, stepped forward, raising his axe. The crowd murmured in anticipation. Your father sat unmoved, his expression carved from stone. This was duty. This was justice. your hands trembled at your sides. The prisoner exhaled shakily, his gaze locked onto yours. There was something defiant in it, something that struck you like a blade to the chest.

“Wait!” Your voice cut through the air before you could stop yourself. Gideon hesitated. The crowd gasped. Your dad turned to you, his eyes narrowing.

But it was too late. The axe came down.