Page 58 of Orc’s Gallows

“It makes it worse.” The Judge leans close, close enough that I can smell the decay beneath its robes—the rotting-sweet stench of preserved corpses, of ending magic concentrated into flesh that should have returned to earth centuries ago. “A cruel executioner can be understood. Hated. But you? You turned killing into administrative procedure. You made death routine.”

The bond on my neck blazes hot. Ismerie. Closer now. Moving through the chaos of spirits toward the gallows’ foundations, toward the anchor she couldn’t reach before.

Keep fighting. Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop.

“Any last words, Gallows Warden?” The Judge’s formal pronouncement returns, carrying weight that presses against my eardrums. “Any defense? Any justification for the lives you’ve taken?”

I could beg.

The thought surfaces unbidden, dragging with it decades of professional observation. I’ve watched hundreds of condemned prisoners stand where I stand now, sensed the noose where I sense it now, faced death where I face it now. Most of them begged. Pleaded for mercy, for understanding, for one more chance to make things right. They promised to change, to atone, to spend the rest of their lives doing good if only they could have a few more years to prove it.

The words never saved anyone. I pulled the lever regardless. The trapdoor opened, the rope snapped taut, and their promises died with them.

I don’t beg.

“I did what I thought was necessary.” My words come out unwavering—the same tone I’ve used to pronounce sentences for two decades. “I believed fear was the only force holding this city from chaos. That without the gallows, without the noose, without public executions to remind people of the cost of disobedience, Blackhook would tear itself apart.”

The spirits shift around me. The young witch’s expression doesn’t change, but the merchant’s head tilts slightly. Listening.

“I was wrong.”

The admission costs more than I expected. Years of certainty collapsing in three words—the foundation of my identity crumbling into rubble.

“Often. Maybe always.” I meet the eyes of the spirits surrounding me. “I told myself I was maintaining order. Protecting the innocent by punishing the guilty. But I stopped asking who was truly guilty a long time ago. Stopped caring whether the warrants I executed had any basis in justice.”

Garrett the Scribe drifts closer. His empty gaze holds no forgiveness—I don’t expect any—but there’s recognition there.

“I can’t undo what I’ve done.” My gaze moves from face to spectral face. “Can’t bring you back. Can’t make it right.”

The young witch’s form flickers. Her broken neck is still wrong, will always be wrong, because of me.

“But I can make sure no one else dies the way you did.” The words seem inadequate against the weight of accumulated grief surrounding me. “I can tear down the system that killed you. Destroy the gallows. End the executions. Build a city that doesn’t trade death for peace.”

The Judge laughs.

The sound echoes across the transformed courtroom—countless voices harmonized in bitter mockery, the accumulated rage of centuries given form.

“Noble words from a man about to die.” Rope-wound hands reach for the mechanism that controls the trapdoor beneath my feet. “Do you think your deathbed promises mean anything to them? To me? You’re offering to demolish a system you profited from for twenty years. The courage of a man who discovers ethics when the noose is around his own neck.”

The sigil blazes suddenly hotter—Ismerie, reaching the anchor stone, beginning her work. Ending magic surges through the foundations of the gallows, the wards beginning to destabilize as she pours her power into unmaking them.

“Not words.” I keep my tone level, keep my eyes on the entity that wants me dead. “A promise.”

The Judge’s visages cycle through expressions of contempt, amusement, anticipation.

“Let me show you what promises are worth.”

The trapdoor opens.

I drop.

The fall lasts forever.

The fall lasts less than a heartbeat.

Time stretches and compresses, impossibility overlapping impossibility as my body plummets through the gap where the gallows’ heart used to be.

The rope snaps taut.