Page 23 of Orc’s Gallows

“I made a choice.” The words are inadequate, but they’re all I have. “The consequences are mine to bear.”

“Ours.” Her correction is gentle but firm. “Your crimes are my crimes. Your life is my life. That’s what you said. The claiming works both ways, Warden.”

For the first time since I placed her in chains, I hear an undertone other than sarcasm in her voice. Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of acceptance.

It’s more than I deserve.

“Brannok.” The word slips out before I can stop it. “My name is Brannok.”

Her lips curve into that sharp smile, but softer now. Less desperate.

“I know. I’ve watched you execute people for years, remember? I know your name, your schedule, your habits.” She moves closer, and I have to fight the urge to reach for her. “What I don’t know is why you destroyed everything for a death witch you’ve known less than two days.”

“The sigil⁠—”

“Don’t.” She cuts me off, amethyst light flickering in her irises. “Don’t tell me it was only the sigil. Don’t tell me ancient magic made your choice for you. I felt what you felt in that moment, Brannok. That wasn’t instinct. That was decision.”

She’s right.

The brand responded to her presence. Recognized her as compatible. But the choice to claim her, to defy the council and the crowd and everything I’ve built…

That was mine.

“You saved my life.” The admission comes slowly, dragged from a place I don’t often access. “And I don’t know what that means, or what happens next, or how we survive the council’s response. But I know that letting you die on that platform wasn’t an option. The sigil gave me an excuse to do what I already wanted.”

She’s quiet for a long moment.

Then she closes the distance between us, rises on her toes, and presses her lips to mine.

The kiss is brief. Barely a brush of contact before she pulls back. But the heat that floods through me has nothing to do with the mating bond, nothing to do with old magic or claiming rituals.

“Thank you.” Her whisper barely sounds. “For choosing me.”

Before I can respond, the passage door crashes open behind us.

Halvard stumbles through, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. Three guards follow, supporting a fourth whose arm hangs at an unnatural angle.

“Sir.” Halvard’s words are tight with controlled panic. “The mob has breached the front entrance. The council has called for your arrest. We have maybe five minutes before they reach the lower levels.”

The moment shatters. I step back from Ismerie, reaching for the blade at my hip, letting the Gallows Warden’s mask fall back over my features.

Later, I tell myself. Deal with what that kiss meant later. Right now, survive.

“Seal the passage behind you. Rally everyone who’s still loyal to the second defensive position. We hold them here until I can get her to safety.”

“Sir.” Halvard hesitates. “Where exactly is safe? The entire city is calling for your head.”

Good question. The Execution Hall is compromised. The streets are filled with a mob that wants us both dead. The council has the authority to override any sanctuary I might claim.

There’s only one place in Blackhook City where the council’s reach doesn’t extend. One place so saturated with ending magic that even the most determined pursuit might think twice.

“The crypts.” I take Ismerie’s hand. “We go to ground until the mob exhausts itself. Then we figure out how to stop the thing beneath the gallows before it stops us.”

She nods, no argument, no questions. Trust that I’m not certain I’ve earned.

We run.

Behind us, the sounds of battle echo through the Execution Hall. Guards fighting guards. Citizens storming chambers that have stood for centuries.