He dropped to his knees without a word, head positioned along the executioner’s block.
No last words. No pardons sought. Only the search for a quick death, uncaring for those left behind.
The executioner, a giant of a man dressed in black with a dark hood, waited, eyes fixed on us.
Nienna nodded.
The ax arced through the air, slamming into wood with a sickening squelch. Then a thud. The head rolled free, blood running in rivulets into the garden planters below. Their just death would feed a new generation of life. The only good to come of it.
It was a pruning. No tree enjoyed having its branches chipped or its buds snipped, but it was necessary for the plant to flourish. If Radaan was to thrive, the rotten, cancerous growth had to be cut.
My men dragged his body aside, then dumped it into a wagon. They tossed his head in after; the thumps deafening in the silence.
They yanked the next man up. Face red and sheened with sweat, he thrashed against their hold, stripped of all pride. Once they reached the center, they kicked the back of his leg, bringing him to his knees to meet our judgment.
“It’s your fault!” he wailed, spittle flying past his lips. “You left us no choice! Following that wretched–”
“May your death nourish the earth,” I cut in, silencing him. The guards wasted no time forcing his head onto the block. One fist tangled in his dark, shaggy hair, gripping tight, holding him in place as the ax fell.
His shrieks ended mid-cry.
The force of the blow, combined with the guard’s grip, sent the severed head arcing outward, spraying bystanders with a scarlet mist. Gasps and shrieks rippled through the crowd as people stumbled back. The traitor, limp and lifeless, was dragged aside and dumped into the wagon.
Body after body followed. Blood spilled from the stage, thickening into syrup as it pooled. Crimson seeped from the wagon’s corners, soaking into the dirt, staining the ground with death.
It was supposed to hurt. I should have mourned their loss, but grief had long hardened my heart. Now it was nothing more than a callous, their screams bouncing off it without mercy.
They had their chance for repentance, and they squandered it.
A young man squirmed, whimpering, as the guards carried him to the stage, slick with gore. Thin legs struggled to kneel, blond hair falling into his face. “Mercy! Mercy, my king!”
Something wormed through the crack in my armor. He couldn’t be much older than Nienna; gangly limbs still clinging to youth.
“Mercy?” My eyes narrowed. “You rebelled against your nation, denied your gods, resisted your sovereign. If mercy is to be found, it’s not within me to give it.”
“Pardon me, Queen Nienna—please! I beg you!”
Her hand twitched as he sobbed. He had a right to plead, and she could grant it. But I would not fault her for ordering his death.
“Speak your crimes,” she said, fingers stiff beneath mine, voice clear—the authority of a queen, not some uncertain girl. “Release him.”
The guards dropped his arms, and he crashed to the bloody planks, forehead striking them like stone.
“I killed a man, Your Majesty,” he choked, mouth pressed to the blood of his comrades. “A soldier entering the palace. I knew it was wrong! But I—I wasn’t thinking!”
Her face tightened, jaw set. “You killed for the usurper.”
“I did! But—please! I never meant to. It happened so fast!”
She glanced at me, conflict swirling in her eyes. He was the only one to ask for mercy, to acknowledge wrongdoing. She wasmy equal now. I had little say in whom she could pardon. I would not leash or restrain her. This was her choice. She needed tobethe Queen of Radaan with all its burdens.
I studied her face, offering no guidance. She was asking permission that I didn’t need to give. It was already hers.
A small, frustrated sigh escaped her as she faced the man. “Elohios honors justice—and justice calls for your death.”
The man’s shoulders went slack; a small, whimpered sob passed his trembling lips.
“However,” she continued, “he also favors truth. You have admitted your sin before King and Queen. We respect your responsibility and grant pardon.”
