Page 10 of Orc’s Gallows

Not once have I hesitated.

And for the first time in twenty years, I’m not sure I can pull the lever.

THREE

ISMERIE

The chains bite into my wrists with every breath.

Suppression manacles. I recognize the design—iron etched with death-dampening runes, the kind practitioners learn to fear before they learn to walk. The magic carved into the metal drains my power, leaving me gutted, shaking, barely conscious.

I’ve imagined being captured a thousand times. Played out the scenarios in my head during sleepless nights, calculated escape routes and contingency plans, told myself I’d know what to do when the moment came.

I never imagined it would be like this. Like drowning in slow motion. Like watching my own death approach with absolute certainty and absolute helplessness.

The lanterns emit that greasy yellow light I noticed on the way in. The shadows dance and reach in ways that seem deliberate. Water drips in the darkness, counting seconds with maddening regularity.

My arms ache from being stretched above my head. The chains anchor to the ceiling through iron rings, pulling me upward until my toes barely brush the floor. It’s a position designed for interrogation—keep the prisoner off-balance, vulnerable, unable to resist whatever comes next.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Hours, maybe. Long enough for the adrenaline to fade, for the power I expended in the execution square to leave me gutted and raw. Long enough for reality to sink into my awareness.

I’m going to die.

Not eventually. Not someday. Tomorrow morning, when the sun rises over Blackhook City and the citizens gather for their daily entertainment. I’ll climb the platform stairs the way Mira Thornwood did, watch the noose tighten around my neck, see the Gallows Warden’s hand close on the lever.

And then nothing.

Relief.

That’s what registers. No more hiding. No more feeding on deaths I didn’t cause, sustaining myself on suffering I couldn’t stop. No more calculating how many executions I need to attend, how much ending magic I need to absorb, how long I can stretch my survival before the hunger becomes unbearable.

Ending. Quick and clean, if the Warden’s reputation holds.

The door opens.

I don’t lift my head. Don’t give him the satisfaction of watching me strain against the chains, trying to see who’s entered. I already know. His presence registers through instinct, not magic. The way the air changes when a predator enters the room. The way my body responds to threat and power in equal measure.

His footsteps echo on the stone floor. Heavy, deliberate, the measured pace of a man who has all the time in the world. He circles behind me, and I track his movement through sound alone—the creak of leather armor, the soft clink of metal against metal, the whisper of breath that tells me he’s stopped beyond my line of sight.

“Death witch.”

His words roll over me, deep and cold as the grave. He says it the way a doctor might say cancer—clinical diagnosis, not accusation. Stating what I am, what I’ve always been, what I’ll die for being.

“That’s the rumor.” My voice comes out hoarse, roughened by hours of silence and the drain of power depletion. “Though I prefer ‘survival enthusiast.’ It’s more optimistic.”

He moves into my field of vision.

But seeing him up close, in the confined space of the interrogation chamber, makes the reality land harder than observation from a crowd ever could.

His skin is dark green in the lamplight, weathered and scarred. Newer bruises circle his neck—purple fingerprints left by the revenant that nearly killed him.

His gaze finds mine.

Pale amber, almost gold. Cold as winter sunrise, assessing me with the same flat calculation he probably brings to measuring drop distances and knot positions.

My breath catches. My pulse quickens.

Inappropriate. Extremely inappropriate. He’s going to kill you in the morning.