Hewes's smile was cold. Cruel. The smile of a man who genuinely enjoyed what he was about to do.
"He was wrong."
The crowd roared its approval, a tsunami of sound that crashed over me.
"Let this be a lesson!" Hewes shouted over the noise, his voice cutting through the din. "Anyone who stands against me—against us—will face the same fate! There is no mercy for traitors! No forgiveness for those who would see us remain weak and powerless!"
He turned to the executioner and nodded, a single sharp gesture.
"Proceed."
The guards shoved me forward. My knees hit the stone in front of the block—hard enough to send pain shooting up my legs. They forced my head down, rough hands on the back of my skull, pressing my neck against the blood-stained surface.
The stone was cold against my skin, shockingly cold despite the warmth of the morning sun.
I could smell the old blood. Taste the copper tang of it in the air, mixing with the dust and my own sweat.
The executioner moved into position, his massive form blocking out the light. I heard the whisper of his blade as he raised it, the soft sound of metal sliding against leather, preparing for the killing stroke.
This was it.
The end I'd been courting for the past ten years. The punishment I'd convinced myself I deserved.
I closed my eyes and thought of Merrilee.
Her smile. Her laugh. The way she'd looked at me like I was something worth saving instead of something that should have died a long time ago.
I felt the executioner shifting his weight above me, preparing for the downward stroke. I'd seen enough executions to know the timing—the slight pause at the apex, that fraction of a second before gravity and muscle brought the blade screaming down.
That's when I'd move.
The plan crystallized in my mind with perfect, terrible clarity: Wait for the blade. Dodge at the last possible instant—my speed would be enough, had to be enough. Snap the chains. Three strides to reach Hewes on his platform. My hands around his throat before his guards could react.
They'd shoot me. Of course they would. Fill me with so many holes I'd look like a sieve. I'd be dead before I hit the ground.
But not before I ripped Hewes's windpipe from this throat. Not before I watched the light fade from his eyes and knew—with absolute certainty—that he couldn't hurt anyone Merrilee ever again.
It was a shit plan. A suicide plan.
But it was better than dying here, while that bastard watched and smiled.
I felt the executioner's weight shift. Heard the intake of breath that preceded the strike.
My muscles tensed, ready to explode into motion.
The executioner's blade began its descent, cutting through the air with a whistle that sounded like a funeral dirge.
And all hell broke loose.
The first arrow took the executioner in the throat.
He made a wet, gurgling sound and dropped his weapon. It hit the stone beside my head with a clang that rang in my ears, the vibration traveling through the block and into my skull.
Then the screaming started.
Arrows rained down from the city walls—dozens of them, maybe hundreds, falling like deadly rain. They struck Hewes's guards, his supporters, anyone who'd been standing too close to the platform. Bodies fell, some silently, some screaming, blood beginning to pool on the stone.
The crowd panicked. Stampeded. Bodies pressed against bodies as everyone tried to flee at once, creating a crush that killed as many as the arrows.
