Page 41 of Orc’s Gallows

Every muscle protests the waking. The battle’s cost is written in bruises along my ribs, in the dull ache of depleted magic that will take days to replenish. But his arm across my waist is warm and solid and real, and for the moment that is enough.

For a moment, I let myself pretend this is normal. That we’re simply two people who fell asleep tangled in each other, who will wake to ordinary problems and mundane concerns. That the message radiating on the wall doesn’t exist. That the Judge isn’t gathering strength beneath the gallows. That we have time.

I shift carefully, trying not to wake him, but his arm constricts around my waist—an instinctive response, even in sleep, to keep me close. The gesture makes my chest ache with something I’m still learning to name.

In sleep, the tension that defines his waking hours has eased. The lines around his eyes have softened. He looks younger, peaceful—nothing like the Gallows Warden who has delivered death for two decades. I trace the line of his jaw with my fingertip, and warmth spreads through the roughness of stubble beneath my touch. He stirs, turns his head to press a sleepy kiss against my palm.

Gods. When did this become so easy? When did touching him become as natural as breathing?

The message on the wall catches my attention again. Pale luminescence radiating faintly in the pre-dawn dimness: COME TO YOUR THRONE, GALLOWS WARDEN. JUDGMENT WAITS.

A challenge. A taunt. The Judge knows we drove it back last night, but it also knows we can’t destroy it while the execution platform still stands.

I ease out from under Brannok’s arm and rise from the bed. My body carries aches that have nothing to do with the battle and everything to do with what came after. Pleasant aches. Aches I’d happily earn again.

Focus. We have work to do.

I cross to the window, pulling the cloak around my shoulders against the morning chill. The execution square is visible from here—the Grand Gallows rising against the gray sky, its damaged timber still bearing the scars of Brannok’s blade. The ropes hang motionless. The platform stands empty. But the presence beneath thrums with patience and hunger, waiting for its next meal.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

Rough with sleep, his words reach me. I turn to find him propped on one elbow, watching me with those pale eyes that see too much. The blanket has slipped to his waist, exposing the broad expanse of his chest, the scars I traced with my lips last night.

“Someone has to.” I manage a faint smile. “You were too busy snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You absolutely snore. Like a bear with a head cold.”

His lips twitch—nearly a smile. “Come back to bed.”

The invitation sends heat curling through my belly. Part of me wants to accept. Wants to crawl back into that warmth, lose myself in him, pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.

“We can’t hide here forever.” I turn back to the window. “The Judge is waiting. The council is plotting. And every hour we spend tangled in sheets is an hour the city churns without us.”

The bed creaks as he rises. He crosses to me and settles his hands on my shoulders, pulling me back against his chest, his chin resting on top of my head. We stand like that for a long moment, watching the gallows through the window, his heartbeat firm against my spine.

“Then we face it.” His breath warms my hair. “Whatever comes. We face it.”

We. The word settles into my chest with unexpected weight.

I turn in his arms, loop my hands behind his neck. His eyes darken at the contact, his hold firming on my waist.

“There’s a truth I need to show you first.” I hold his gaze. “Before we decide how to fight the Judge, before we confront the council—you need to see what you’ve built. What your gallows have cost this city.”

His jaw clenches. “I know what it’s cost.”

“You know the numbers. The statistics. The calculations of death per day and order maintained per execution.” I press closer, his heartbeat matching mine. “You don’t know the people. The families. The children who grew up without parents because you pulled a lever.”

“Ismerie—”

“I’m not trying to hurt you.” I rise on my toes, press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m trying to make you see. Because if we’re going to tear this system down, you need to understand exactly what you’re dismantling. And why it deserves to collapse.”

A long silence. I watch thoughts move behind his eyes—resistance, doubt, the instinctive defensiveness of a man who has spent decades justifying his choices. His hands flex on my waist, pulling me closer even as his expression wars with itself.

Then he nods.

“Show me.”