Page 36 of Orc’s Gallows

“The Warden approaches.” The Judge turns toward the streets leading to the square. “I can feel him coming. The claiming brand blazes so bright, doesn’t it? Leading him straight to you. Straight to me.”

Brannok.

He’s close. Getting closer. Running toward danger because the magic demands it, because I’m his mate and the bond won’t let him ignore my peril.

“When he arrives, I’ll show him what real justice looks like.” The Judge’s voice carries a note of anticipation. “I’ll conduct his trial right here, on the execution platform he used to deliver so many false verdicts. I’ll let his victims speak. Let them testify to the deaths he caused, the lives he ended, the innocence he ignored.”

“He’ll destroy you.” The words come out fiercer than I intend. “He’s killed monsters before. He’ll kill you too.”

“Will he?” The Judge laughs again. “On my throne? Surrounded by my power? With you bound and helpless, watching every moment?” The dead visages twist with dark delight. “I think not. I think he’ll listen. I think he’ll finally understand what he’s been part of. And when he does—when the weight of all those deaths crashes down on his conscience—I think he’ll welcome the noose.”

The Judge opens its mouth.

All of its mouths. Every face in that amalgamated form speaks simultaneously, a chorus of stolen lives that echoes across the execution square like thunder.

And from those hundred throats, I hear my own voice.

Brannok.

A single word. My voice, in a register I barely recognize—stripped of every defence, carrying the full weight of every question I’ve buried in the dark.

The Judge has reached into my mind. Stolen the most unguarded thing it could find. Turned it into a weapon.

“Stop.” I strain against the ropes. “That’s not—you don’t get to use that⁠—”

“Your secrets are my secrets now, death witch.” The Judge looms over me, its rotating faces frozen in expressions of cruel triumph. “Every doubt you’ve harbored. Every fear you’ve hidden. Every moment of weakness when you questioned whether the claiming was genuine or magical compulsion.” Its voice drops to a whisper. “I know what you truly think of your mate. And when he arrives, I’ll make him hear every word.”

Horror crawls through my chest like ice water. The Judge isn’t planning to kill Brannok. It’s going to destroy him first. Use my own words—my own fears—to shatter whatever confidence he has left.

“He’s a good man.” I force the words out. “Better than he believes. Better than you know.”

“Then let him prove it.” The Judge straightens, turning toward the streets where the sound of running footsteps grows louder. “Let him face the truth of what you think of him. Let him hear the doubts his mate harbors, the fears she can’t voice, the questions she asks in the darkness.” The stolen visages reshape into anticipation. “If he truly loves you—if the claiming is more than magical compulsion—he’ll survive the hearing. If not…”

The Judge spreads its arms, and the ropes around me tighten.

“If not, then the noose will find another neck to claim.”

I see him enter the square.

Brannok. Running, sword drawn, armor gleaming in the moonlight. His face is set in the expression I’ve come to recognize—the cold calculation of a man who has weighed risks and decided violence is the answer. But beneath that calculation, I see fear. Not fear of the Judge or fear of death—fear for me. Fear of what might happen if he arrives too late.

The claiming bond surges between us. I sense his relief at seeing me alive, his fury at seeing me bound, his absolute determination to destroy anything that threatens what’s his.

Turn back. Please, turn back. You don’t understand what it’s going to do.

But the bond can’t carry thoughts. Can’t communicate warnings. All I can do is watch as he charges toward the gallows, toward the Judge, toward the trap that has been waiting for him since before either of us understood what was waking beneath the execution platform.

He reaches the base of the stairs, blade raised, ready to cut through anything that stands between us.

The Judge steps to the edge of the platform, looking down at him with a hundred dead faces.

“Gallows Warden.” The voice echoes across the empty square. “How punctual. The claiming bond is such a reliable leash, isn’t it?”

Brannok doesn’t respond to the taunt. His gaze finds mine, and I see the question there—are you hurt, are you broken, is there still time to save you?

I’m fine. I’m fine. Please don’t listen to what it’s about to say.

The Judge laughs with a hundred stolen voices.