My lips move, but no sound comes out.

  The words belong to him.

  I’m only repeating them.

  The rope sways slightly above us, creaking in the winter wind, and I keep my eyes fixed on the rough fibers twisting together. It’s easier than looking at the crowd. Easier than looking at the soldiers. Easier than looking at the man standing beside me.

  Eric’s voice is low.

  Steady.

  “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” he says quietly.

  His hands are bound behind his back, the rope tight enough that the skin around his wrists has turned red. Still, he stands straight. Calm in a way that makes my stomach twist.

  “I will fear no evil.”

  My lips shape the words silently.

  I’m not sure if I’m praying or just clinging to the rhythm of his voice so I don’t fall apart.

  “For Thou art with me.”

  The square below us is packed with people.

  Thousands.

  Human faces lifted toward the wooden platform. No one is shouting. No one is protesting. They stand shoulder to shoulder beneath the pale sky, quiet in that strange way crowds become quiet when they’re watching something they can’t stop.

  Eric doesn’t look at them.

  He keeps his eyes forward.

  His lips move again.

  “Thy rod and Thy staff,” he murmurs.

  “They comfort me.”

  My throat tightens as I mouth the words with him.

  I don’t know if he knows I’m repeating them.

  Maybe he does.

  Maybe that’s why he’s speaking loud enough for me to hear.

  The wind tugs at his coat.

  The rope above us creaks again.

  Then the murmuring begins.

  Not from the crowd.

  From the soldiers.

  Boots on wood.

  The sound spreads across the platform as the guards step aside.

  And suddenly everyone in the square is looking in the same direction.

  Cazaro walks forward slowly.

  He doesn’t hurry.

  He doesn’t need to.

  The soldiers part for him as if they were expecting it. His dark coat moves with each step, the fabric catching the light just enough to draw the eye. Even before he reaches the center of the platform, the entire square has gone silent.

  Eric doesn’t stop praying.

  “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me,” he says softly.

  His voice is calm.

  Almost peaceful.

  My lips move with the words.

  “All the days of my life…”

  Cazaro stops a few feet away from us.

  For a moment, he says nothing.

  His eyes move slowly over the crowd. Watching them. Measuring them.

  Then they settle on Eric.

  “You’ve caused quite a disturbance,” he says.

  The words carry easily across the square.

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  Eric lifts his head slightly.

  “I told the truth.”

  A ripple moves through the crowd.

  Fear. Curiosity. Something restless shifting beneath the silence.

  Cazaro studies him for a long moment.

  “The truth,” he repeats quietly.

  Then Eric finishes the prayer.

  “And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

  My lips form the last words with him.

  Amen.

  The executioner steps forward.

  The rope slides down over Eric’s head.

  For a moment the world seems to pause.

  The wind stops moving.

  The crowd stops breathing.

  The lever drops.

  The trapdoor opens.

  The rope snaps tight.

  Eric’s body jerks once before going still.

  A collective gasp tears through the square.

  No one screams.

  No one moves.

  The rope creaks softly as the body sways.

  Cazaro watches it for a moment.

  Then he turns toward the crowd.

  “Let this be a warning,” he says calmly.

  His voice cuts clean through the silence.

  “To anyone who believes they can defy the throne.”

  My legs feel weak.

  The platform seems to tilt slightly beneath my feet.

  Then a hand grabs my arm.

  Strong.

  Unyielding.

  I barely have time to react before Cazaro pulls me forward.

  The movement drags me toward the center of the platform, toward the edge where the entire crowd can see.

  Gasps ripple through the people below.

  I stumble as he stops beside me.

  My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear him.

  He keeps hold of my arm.

  Not cruelly.

  Just firmly enough that I can’t move away.

  “Look carefully,” he says to the crowd.

  His voice carries across the square without effort.

  “This is what happens when curiosity grows into disobedience.”

  The words hang heavy in the air.

  Then his grip tightens slightly and he pulls me closer to his side.

  “From this day forward,” Cazaro continues, “she belongs to the throne.”

  Whispers explode through the crowd.

  Confused. Shocked.

  Terrified.

  He glances down at me briefly.

  There’s something cold and unreadable in his eyes.

  “My blood consort.”

  The words echo through the square.

  Behind us, the rope creaks softly in the wind.

  And I realize, with sickening clarity, that the execution was never the only thing the city came here to see.

  I was part of the sentence.

  ---------

  A week.

  That’s how long they kept me inside before they let me outside the room.

  Seven days of locked doors, whispered footsteps in the hall, and the quiet knock of physicians arriving with their silver cases. Seven days of staring at the same walls until the room began to feel like the inside of my own skull.

  On the eighth morning, the door opened.

  Not for blood.

  For air.

  “Walk,” one of the guards said.

  That was all.

  No explanation. No warning. Just a command.

  I didn’t ask questions. I’ve learned that asking questions here is like knocking on a door that was never built.

  Two guards walked beside me as we moved through the palace corridors. Their boots echoed softly against the marble floors, always half a step behind me, always close enough that I could feel their presence without turning around.

  The palace is beautiful in the way expensive cages always are.

  Tall windows. Gold fixtures. Endless halls that curve and stretch like veins through the stone.

  But there are guards at every intersection.

  And every door locks from the outside.

  They let me outside through the east courtyard.

  Cold air hits my lungs like a shock. For a second I just stand there, breathing it in, letting the wind brush against my face. The courtyard gardens are trimmed too neatly, hedges carved into careful shapes, gravel paths winding through beds of winter roses.

  Freedom dressed up as decoration.

  We walk slowly along the path.

  I don’t fight the guards. I don’t try to run. Running would only prove that they’re right to keep me locked away.

  Instead I do the only thing I still know how to do.

  I observe.

  The path curves toward the administrative buildings along the palace wall. Offices. Records. Government departments that handle the quiet machinery of the city.

  And one building I know very well.

  The editor’s office.

  I pass it every day they let me walk.

  Every single day.

  The first time I noticed it, my heart nearly stopped.

  I didn’t react then. I just kept walking like I was admiring the roses.

  Now it’s routine.

  The guards don’t question it when my pace slows slightly as we approach the windows. I’ve made sure of that. A careful rhythm. Never too obvious. Never too eager.

  Just another prisoner enjoying her hour outside.

  The glass reflects the grey sky above us, but I know the layout inside that building better than I know my own apartment.

  Matt’s office faces the courtyard.

  It always has.

  My fingers tighten around the envelope tucked loosely in my hand.

  I shouldn’t have it.

  Technically, I’m not allowed to carry anything outside my room.

  But the servants don’t search the trays when they collect them.

  And paper folds small if you’re careful.

  We pass the window.

  And then I see him.

  Matt stands inside the office with a stack of papers in his hand, mid-conversation with someone I don’t recognize. His dark hair is messier than usual, his tie loosened slightly like he’s been working too long without a break.

  For a second I think he won’t notice me.

  Then his eyes lift.

  And he freezes.

  Recognition hits his face so fast it almost hurts to watch.

  I don’t smile.

  I don’t wave.

  I just raise one eyebrow.

  The smallest movement.

  Then I stumble.

  It’s deliberate, but it looks convincing enough. My foot catches the edge of the gravel path and I fall sideways straight into the rose bushes beside the walkway.

  Branches snap.

  Thorns scrape against my sleeve.

  The envelope slips from my hand and disappears into the hedge.

  “Careful,” one of the guards mutters.

  They rush forward immediately, pulling me upright before I even finish falling.

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly, brushing dirt from the front of my coat.

  My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear my own voice.

  One guard glances down at the crushed bushes. The other studies me carefully, as if trying to decide whether the fall was an accident.

  I don’t look at the window.

  Not yet.

  “I just tripped,” I add lightly.

  They release my arms after a moment.

  “Watch your step,” the taller one says.

  I nod and start walking again.

  Calm. Steady. Controlled.

  We pass the window a second time as the path curves back toward the palace.

  This time I glance up.

  Matt is standing at the glass.

  His eyes flick briefly toward the rose bushes.

  Then back to me.

  And he nods.

  Just once.

  Small enough that the guards beside me don’t notice.

  Understanding.

  The article is in that envelope.

  Everything Eric uncovered. Everything he died trying to expose.

  And Matt will find it.

  He’ll make sure it gets out.

  I keep walking.

  Because if I look back again, they might realize what I’ve just done.

  And if they realize that…

  Well.

  Then the next walk outside might not happen at all.