They dress you as if nothing was ever wrong.

Silk is pulled over your shoulders, pale and perfect, embroidered with Valioran gold. Your hair is pinned and crowned, your hands scrubbed clean of rope-burns and salt and blood that was never meant to touch a princess. When you resist, your father’s hand closes around your wrist—firm, unyielding.

“You will stand,” King Aldric says quietly, “and you will watch.”

The square gleams in the morning light. Banners hang pristine. The gallows have been freshly built, polished like furniture prepared for court. You are placed at the front, just behind the railing, guards flanking you as if this were a parade and not a slaughter. The crowd parts when they see you—some bow, some stare, some look away.

Elias is dragged out with the rest of the Black Mercy.

He looks wrong without the sea. Kneeling, bruised, wrists bound, blood dried dark against his skin. One of his men is barely standing. Another is praying. Elias doesn’t look at the noose.

He looks at you.

Something in his face breaks—not fear, not for himself. For you. For the dress. For the crown they forced back onto your head like a shackle. He tries to rise. A guard strikes him down.

You don’t cry. Your father would hate that.

Queen Alastria’s hand rests lightly on your shoulder, nails pressing just enough to remind you to behave. “Be still,” she murmurs. “This is for the realm.”

Your father steps forward, voice carrying, calm and rehearsed. Crimes are listed. Justice declared. He does not once say Elias’s name—only pirate, traitor, example.

The executioner moves into place.

The ropes are adjusted.