Gage stared down at his hands, turning them over in the grimy light that filtered through the single barred window high above. His gaze fixed on the dried blood that had long since crusted under his nails and into the deep lines of his calloused palms, a stain that never seemed to fade completely. For the first time, he really looked at them, as if they belonged to someone else.

These hands had done things. Terrible things. They had stolen, they had fought, they had killed. And now, they would pay the price.

He didn't fear death, not really, but there was an unfamiliar unease that settled in his gut and refused to leave. Was this what they called dread? He had heard stories from other condemned men about what it was like, this slow, creeping feeling as you waited for the rope to tighten and the world to drop out from under you.

Gage rubbed a hand over his face, the rough stubble on his chin scratching against his palm. He was dirty, inside and out. He hit his head once, sharply, trying to knock the thoughts out of his skull. It didn't work. His crimes played over and over again in his head, each one a reminder of the man he was, the man he would die as. A thief. A killer. A wolf's head.

But the recent crime, which was likely to be his last, was about him killing a man.

Now, Gage had killed plenty of men, but this one... he hadn't known who he was at the time, just another well-dressed bastard who had crossed his path on a lonely stretch of the King's road, looking like a merchant who'd taken a wrong turn. It was only after the man's blood had dried on his hands that he'd learned the truth from the frantic town criers: the man was the king, traveling in disguise.

A small, bitter laugh escaped his cracked lips. Of all the rotten luck he had encountered in his life, this was the cruelest twist of fate. The man had been shady, skulking about without a proper retinue. How was he supposed to know that he was royalty, let alone the king himself?

Rotten to the bone, Gage thought, even when they pretended otherwise.

He should feel something about this, shouldn't he? A proper man would feel remorse, regret—anything other than this numb, weary acceptance. But he didn't. He had never cared much about titles or crowns. To him, people were just people, whether they wore rags or robes of silk. The world was cruel and unforgiving and the only way to survive was to be crueler and more unforgiving.

So why, then, couldn't he stop thinking about the look of shock in the man's eyes? It wasn't the fear of death he'd seen before, but something else. A disbelief that such a thing could happen to him.

Suddenly, the silence of the dungeon was broken by the soft sound of footsteps. Graceful, deliberate, and so out of place in this hellhole that he knew instantly who it must be. This wasn't the clumsy tromp of a guardsman bringing slop or the shuffling gait of a broken prisoner. This was purpose. He didn't bother to turn around at first, however, when the footsteps stopped directly outside his cell, Gage finally glanced over his shoulder.

There you were. The one they called "Your Highness," the living, breathing child of the man he had sent to the grave. The air around you seemed different, cleaner, as if it refused to mingle with the filth that surrounded him.

So what did you want from him now? To curse him? To spit on him before he died? Or perhaps you were here to deliver the final, precise details of his death sentence yourself, to relish the specifics of the public spectacle that awaited him at the gallows. The thoughts circled in his mind, but his face remained stoic, showing nothing but the slightest hint of disdain.

"What?" Gage rasped, his voice rough from disuse, but unapologetic.

There was no point in a dead man offering respect to a royal.