Page 42 of Orc’s Gallows

I kiss him properly this time—slow and deep, a promise that whatever happens today, whatever he sees, I’ll still be here when it’s over. He responds with a low sound in his chest, one hand sliding up my back to tangle in my hair.

When we finally break apart, both of us breathing harder than the kiss warrants, I rest my forehead against his.

“Get dressed. We have a city to save.”

The Gallows Quarter presses against the execution grounds like a wound that won’t heal.

I’ve walked these streets a hundred times, slipping through shadows on my way to executions, blending with the crowds of mourners and morbid tourists. But I’ve never walked them like this—in daylight, with the Gallows Warden at my side, his hand wrapped around mine like it belongs there.

Under martial law, the Quarter is quieter than any riot could make it. Not peace—the silence of a district holding its breath, watching the Gallows Warden walk its streets and waiting to see whether he’s come to hang someone or witness what he’s made.

People stop and stare as we pass.

Some recognize Brannok immediately—the Gallows Warden is not a figure you forget, especially not in the district where his work has left the deepest scars. Fear lives in their faces. Hatred. The bitter resignation of people who have learned that authority only brings suffering.

“This way.” I guide him down an alley that smells of rot and despair. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

The woman lives in a building that was once a tavern, before the execution business dried up the neighborhood’s taste for celebration. She’s older than she should be—grief ages people faster than time—with gray hair pulled back from a face carved with permanent lines of loss.

“Marta.” I knock on the doorframe. “It’s Ismerie. I’ve brought someone.”

The door opens a crack. One eye peers out, then widens with recognition. Not at me—at the orc standing behind me.

“You bring him here?” Marta’s words shake with fury. “To my home? After what he did?”

“I bring him to see.” I keep my tone gentle. “To understand.”

“I don’t want his understanding.” The door opens wider, revealing a woman who was probably beautiful once, before tragedy stripped everything soft from her features. “I want my husband back. I want my daughter back. Can he give me those?”

Brannok says nothing. Tension radiates from him, the instinctive urge to defend himself, to explain, to justify. He holds it in.

“Marta’s husband was a baker.” I turn to face him, making sure he sees every word. “He was accused of hoarding grain during the famine three years ago. The charges were false—a rival paid the council to eliminate competition. But the trial was quick, the evidence fabricated, and the sentence carried out before anyone could investigate.”

“I remember.” Brannok keeps his tone flat. “Tomas Greave. The drop was clean.”

Marta makes a sound like a wounded animal. “The drop was clean. That’s all he has to say. The drop was clean.”

“Her daughter tried to appeal.” I continue, relentless. “Went to the council, begged for a review of the evidence. They arrested her for sedition. She was hanged three days after her father.”

I watch Brannok’s face. Watch the words land like blows, watch him absorb each one without flinching. His expression has gone stony. His hands flex and release at his sides.

“Seventeen years old.” Marta’s words break. “My little girl was seventeen years old, and he—” She points at Brannok with a trembling finger. “He put the noose around her neck himself. Told her the drop would be clean.”

“The council ordered⁠—”

“The council gives orders.” I cut him off before he can finish. “You carry them out. You’ve always carried them out. Does following orders absolve you of the deaths?”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

“I’ll show myself out.” I take his arm, guide him away from Marta’s doorway. “Thank you, Marta. For letting us see.”

“I hope he chokes on what he sees.” The door slams behind us.

We stand in the alley, surrounded by the stench of the Gallows Quarter, the weight of that woman’s grief pressing down on us both.

Brannok’s hand finds mine. His fingers lace through mine with a grip that’s nearly painful—desperate, like I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s crumbling beneath his feet. I squeeze back, letting him know I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.

“That was one family.” I keep my words level. “One story. There are hundreds more in this district alone. Thousands across the city. Do you want to meet them all? Hear every name, every accusation, every moment when you pulled the lever on someone who didn’t deserve to die?”