Page 12 of Orc’s Gallows

I expected him to. Expected the cold dismissal, the turn toward the door, the professional distance he maintains with everyone else. Instead, he stays exactly where he is—close enough to touch, close enough that I can see his pulse beating in his neck.

The bruises there are darkening. The revenant’s fingers left marks that will take weeks to fade, purple shadows against green skin. He would be dead if I hadn’t made the choice that landed me in these chains.

“Whatever raised that revenant is still out there.”

My words sound strange in the thick silence. Too loud. Too desperate. But I can’t stop them from coming—self-preservation instinct, maybe, or the need to matter. To leave behind more than another name carved into these walls.

“It called me sister. Said it’s been waiting for someone like me.” I lean forward against the chains, ignoring the bite of metal into my wrists. “This wasn’t random. Wasn’t an accident. A presence has been growing under that platform for a long time, feeding on your executions the same way I have. And it’s finally strong enough to act.”

Interest flickers in his gaze. Cold, calculating interest—the look of a man assessing a threat, gathering intelligence, planning his response.

“You know what it is.”

“I know what it resonates like.” I shake my head, as much as the chains allow. “Ending magic. Old ending magic, the kind that accumulates in places of mass death. Your Grand Gallows have been standing for centuries, Warden. How many people have died on that platform? How many of those deaths were unjust?”

He doesn’t answer. But his expression shifts—the faintest tightening around his eyes, the barely perceptible clench of his jaw. He knows. He’s always known. He hasn’t let himself dwell on it.

“Every wrongful death generates more power than a just one.” The words tumble out, information I’ve gathered over years of feeding on execution magic. “The universe notices when innocent people die. It marks those deaths, remembers them, stores the energy they release. And that energy has to go somewhere.”

“The gallows.”

“The gallows. The square. The soil beneath, saturated with generations of blood.” I meet his gaze, willing him to understand. “A presence is living in all that accumulated death. Waiting for the right moment to wake up. And when it does⁠—”

“You think killing you will trigger it.”

Smart. Faster than I expected. Most people need more explanation, more hand-holding through implications they’d rather not face.

“I think killing me will feed it.” I hold his stare. “I’m a death witch, Warden. My power comes from ending. When I die—especially when I die on that platform, surrounded by all that concentrated death magic—every bit of energy I’ve absorbed goes somewhere. Gets released back into the system.” My laugh sounds hollow even to my own ears. “You’ll be giving that thing the biggest meal it’s ever had.”

I watch him process the information, watch the calculations happening behind that cold gold gaze. He’s weighing options. Assessing risks. Doing exactly what I hoped he would—treating me as an asset instead of a condemned prisoner.

“You could be lying.”

“I could be.” I don’t look away. “I’m a death witch facing execution. I have every reason to say whatever might save my life. You’d be a fool to take my word for anything.”

“But?”

“But I’m also the only person in this city who sensed what that thing was. Who understands what made it, what feeds it, what it wants.” I lean back against my chains, exhaustion dragging at my bones. “Kill me, and you lose that. You’ll face whatever’s coming blind and ignorant, with nothing but your blade and your reputation to protect you.”

He considers this. I can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes, the ruthless pragmatism warring with duty and law and two decades of conditioning.

“You’re asking me to spare your life.”

“I’m asking you to think about what happens after my life ends.” The distinction matters. “I’ve made peace with dying, Warden. I’ve been making peace with it for years. But I’d rather not be responsible for unleashing a force that kills everyone else in the process.”

More silence. The water drips in the darkness, counting seconds that stretch like hours.

Then he moves.

Not toward the door. Toward me.

His hand rises, and I flinch before I can stop myself—instinct, pure and shameful. But he doesn’t strike. Doesn’t threaten. His fingers brush the side of my face, calloused and surprisingly gentle, tilting my chin up until I’m forced to meet his eyes.

The touch sears through me. Not painfully—heat of a different kind. Heat that sends fire racing through my depleted veins, that makes my breath catch and my pulse stutter. His skin against mine resonates like a brand, like a claiming, like a force I should fight against but can’t.

“You’re not what I expected.”

His words come lower now. Rougher. Shifted into something I can’t name.