The executions began at dawn.
Lyra woke to the sound of drums beating outside the high windows—slow, deliberate, like the measured throb of a dying heart. She rose from bed, her body heavy, and pulled the curtains back just enough to see.
In the courtyard below, three men knelt on stone, their heads bowed. Soldiers in Kael's crimson stood around them, halberds glinting. Behind them, the crowd had gathered—nobles and servants alike, faces pale and tense as they watched the condemned.
The charges were read aloud in a voice that carried: spreading poison rumors, conspiring to defect, dishonoring the throne.
The last word was still echoing when the blades fell.
Lyra's stomach twisted. She turned from the window, pressing her hands to her temples as if that could block the sound of the crowd's gasp, the dull thud of heads striking stone.
By the time Kael strode into the chamber, armored still, the scent of blood clung to him like smoke.
