Page 44 of Orc’s Gallows

“You’re not the villain, Brannok—but you’re not innocent either. You’re complicit. We both are.”

“You?”

“I fed on their deaths.” The confession sears in my chest. “Every execution I attended, every hanging I watched—I drank the magic they released. I needed it to survive, yes, but I also… I also sensed the power. The rush. The way my scars brightened when someone died on that platform.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “I told myself I was merely surviving. Doing what I had to do. But I was part of the system too. A different part, but part of it nonetheless.”

His forehead drops to mine. We breathe the same air, surrounded by the dead we’ve both helped create, and for the first time I think we truly understand each other.

“What would you have me do?” His tone is rough when he finally speaks. “Stop the executions and the city descends into chaos. Continue them and the Judge grows stronger. There is no good choice.”

“There’s a third option.” I press a kiss to his jaw—tender, reassuring. “You stop being the Gallows Warden. Stop pretending that terror equals order. And we find a way to destroy the Judge without feeding it more death.”

“The council will never allow⁠—”

“The council is using you.” I pull back enough to look him in the eyes. “They’ve been using you for decades. You’re their weapon, their scapegoat, their convenient monster. When things go wrong, they blame you. When the public needs someone to fear, they point to you. You’ve given them everything, and what have they given you in return?”

He doesn’t answer. The truth is written in his silence.

“Be different.” I cup his face, my thumb brushing his cheekbone. “Choose differently. Or admit that you enjoy the killing too much to stop.”

“I don’t enjoy—” He stops. Swallows. “I used to take pride in my efficiency. In doing the job well. But enjoyment…” He shakes his head. “No. I never enjoyed it.”

“Then why did you keep doing it?”

“Because someone had to.” The words come out like a confession. “Because if I didn’t, someone worse would. Someone who did enjoy it. Someone who wouldn’t ensure the drops were clean, who wouldn’t check the knots, who wouldn’t—” He breaks off, runs a hand over his face. “I told myself I was the lesser evil. That my competence was a mercy.”

“Was it?”

“I don’t know anymore.” He looks at the graves surrounding us, the evidence of his life’s work laid out in stone and silence. “I thought I knew. Thought I understood what I was building, what I was maintaining. But seeing it through your eyes…”

“What do you see?”

“Fear.” The word comes out heavy. “Not order. Not justice. Nothing but fear, wearing the mask of civilization.” He meets my gaze, and I see the decision crystallize. “You’re right. It deserves to collapse.”

He understands. Finally, he understands.

The relief that floods through me is staggering. I pull him down into a kiss—fierce and grateful and full of everything I can’t put into words. He responds instantly, his arms crushing me against him, his mouth claiming mine with a desperation that says he needs this as much as I do.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“I love you.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Before I can think about what they mean, what they cost, what they change.

He goes still. His eyes search my face, looking for doubt, for deception, for the catch that surely must exist.

“Ismerie—”

“You don’t have to say it back.” I press my fingers to his lips. “I needed you to know. Whatever happens next, whatever we have to face—I love you. Not the Gallows Warden. Not the orc who claimed me. You. The man who’s standing in a graveyard full of his mistakes and choosing to be better.”

He pulls my hand away from his mouth. Kisses my palm. Then my wrist. Then the inside of my elbow.

“I stood in a graveyard today.” His tone is rough, the words coming slowly. “With the evidence of two decades laid out in stone around me. Watched you show it to me without sparing a single thing. And you didn’t pull away.” He cups my face in his scarred hands. “Every person I’ve ever known has either feared me or needed something from me. You know the worst of what I’ve done, and you’re still standing here telling me you love me.” His thumbs brush my cheekbones. “I don’t know what to call what I feel. But it’s real. And it’s yours.”

It’s not poetry. It’s not a declaration. It’s the most honest thing anyone has ever said to me.

I kiss him again—softer this time, a seal on a promise neither of us has fully spoken.

“We’ll figure it out.” I whisper the words against his lips. “After we save the city. After we destroy the Judge. We’ll have time to figure out what this is.”

“And if we don’t survive?”