The storm had passed, but the village still trembled.
The noble council had retreated into the old chamber above the watchtower—six of them seated in a half circle of stone, their crimson cloaks billowing slightly in the wind that crept through the broken windows.
Lord Ferrin, the most adorned among them, sat in the center.
A man of proud posture and rigid control, Lord Ferrin wore a dark navy tunic lined with gold, the sigil of House Ferrin—a sun pierced by a spear—gleaming on his shoulder. His dark brown beard was trimmed to perfection, his expression unchanging even as his son's lies had fueled a storm of anger.
"He is unstable," Ferrin said, voice steady. "Just like his parents."
The others nodded slowly, each considering what had to be done.
One of the younger council members, a pale woman with sharp eyes and silver hair, folded her hands.
"He saved the boy."
Ferrin didn't blink. "And brought the beast that killed the other two. His presence alone invites ruin. We cannot afford another breach. Mercy is a luxury Velmira lost years ago."
A heavy silence followed.
Then Ferrin said the words.
"He will be executed. Tomorrow, before the village. Let the people see justice, and fear."
None of the others spoke. Not to object. Not to agree. The silence was its own verdict.
Below, in the dungeons beneath the watchtower, Khaos sat on the cold floor of a cell no larger than a closet. Damp stone surrounded him. The bars were thick with rust and locked by magic—faint glyphs glowing dull red in the dim torchlight.
He didn't sleep. Couldn't. The sounds of rats echoed. His head still throbbed from the stone that struck him. His wrists were torn and sore from the bindings.
He stared at the wall, lips dry. His breath came in slow, shallow waves. They believe him. They want me dead.
Khaos didn't lift his head when the footsteps echoed down the corridor. He was cold. Numb. The cell stank of old blood and mold. His arms ached from how tightly the guards had bound him, and his thoughts were a haze of pain and helpless fury.
The footsteps stopped.
"Khaos."
That voice.
Khaos looked up, eyes adjusting to the torchlight.
It was Ser Rothan.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
"…You came," Khaos finally muttered, his voice brittle. "Did you come to say goodbye?"
Rothan's face was grim, but there was something else in his expression—something that didn't match the cold silence of the council above.
"No," he said. "I came to tell you you're not dying here."
Khaos blinked, heart stuttering. "What?"
"I overheard the council. They voted. You're to be executed at dawn. Quietly. No trial. No truth."
He stepped closer to the bars.
"They've already decided what you are. They don't care about what happened in that forest. They just want to bury the fear you stir in them."
Khaos's hands curled into fists, the chains rattling faintly.
"They want to kill a child," he whispered, bitterness curling in his throat.
Rothan's gaze darkened. "They don't see a child. They see your father. Your mother. The people who 'doomed' Velmira. They see your hair, your eyes—" He paused. "You were marked long before today."
Khaos looked down.
He thought about the blood. The way Dylan had screamed. The crowd's silence.
"...So I die for a lie?"
"No," Rothan said firmly. "Because I have a plan. We're getting you out."
Khaos looked up sharply. "What?"
"Tonight," Rothan said. "Just before the midnight bell. The guards will rotate. One of mine will create a distraction. The barrier will drop for exactly forty seconds. That's your window."
Khaos's mouth was dry. "And then what? I run into the forest? Into the wild?"
"I'll guide you through the first stretch," Rothan said. "I've been preparing for this. I never trained you to die in a cage."
Khaos stared at him, disbelief written on his face. "Why…? Why would you risk everything for me? After all this time, you barely said anything beyond instructions. You didn't even like me."
Rothan lowered his head slightly, shadows hiding the flicker of pain in his eyes.
"You reminded me of someone," he said after a long pause. "Someone I failed."
Khaos didn't know what to say.
"I see fire in you, boy. Controlled wrong, it burns everything. But honed… it can light a path through hell. Don't let them snuff that out."
Silence.
Then Rothan reached through the bars, resting a gloved hand gently on Khaos's shoulder.
"Stay strong. Tonight, we run."
Khaos nodded slowly, a fragile ember of hope flickering to life.
But hope, in Velmira, never lasted long.
But fate is a cruel thing.
Evening arrived—and so did the guards.
Before the sky fully dimmed, the cell door clanged open. Two armored knights entered without a word. One grabbed Khaos by the arm. The other shackled his wrists in chains far heavier than before.
"No," Khaos struggled. "It's not morning—what are you—!?"
"The council moved the sentence forward," one muttered. "Too many voices calling for blood."
Khaos fought. "Wait! Rothan—!"
They hit him across the stomach with the pommel of a blade.
The air left his lungs.
They dragged him up the stairs. Through the village.
The streets were quieter now, but torches still burned. Murmurs echoed as they passed—villagers watching from windows, doorways, whispering behind their hands.
The platform stood ahead.
Old wood. Iron restraints. Drenched in shadow.
They hauled him up the steps and forced him to his knees. The chains clicked against the post. His wrists were locked, then his ankles.
Above him, the moon rose full behind a shroud of clouds.
Ser Rothan was nowhere to be seen.
Khaos stared ahead.
Alone.
The crowd began to gather.
And the blade waited in silence