The prisoner stumbled as two armored guards dragged him through the narrow stone corridor. His boots scraped against the ground—
SFX: skrrt… drag… THUD
—each impact echoing like a countdown in the dim torchlight.
A slender-looking man.
A thief, a liar, a rat.
A condemned soul the crowd above had already judged long before the king did.
Sunniless.
They yanked him toward the arena—an open-air colosseum where thousands had gathered, eager to witness "justice," or at least the spectacle of someone worse than themselves being destroyed. A tidal roar of voices thundered overhead.
SFX: ROOOOAAAR—!!!
The sound hit the tunnel like a physical blow.
The king of Elynor had not bothered with trials. Not questions. Not truth.
Blinded by grief, driven mad by rage.
The moment the queen died, he demanded one thing:
A public execution.
And Sunniless—guilty or not—was the easiest man to hate.
The guards shoved him into the blinding light of the arena.
Dust swirled around him as they forced him to his knees.
SFX: KNEEL—CRACK! (knees hitting stone)
Pain shot up his thighs, but he barely reacted.
His wrists, ankles, and even his thighs had been bound with coarse rope, cutting deep into bruised skin. He looked less like a criminal and more like a captured beast.
They pushed his head into the guillotine's wooden frame.
SFX: CREAK… SNAP—! (locks closing)
Dark, damp hair spilled over his face like a curtain hiding the battered ruin beneath. His back was blotched with purple bruises—evidence the guards had beaten him long before the crowd ever saw him. His eyes were dull grey, unlit, lifeless. The eyes of a man who had grown bored of living.
The executioner placed a gloved hand on the rope.
The crowd surged with anticipation.
SFX: KER-CHAK! (blade mechanism tensing)
SFX: HURRAAAH!!!—!!! (crowd frenzy)
The executioner pulled.
SFX: FWOOOOOOSH—!!!
The blade screamed downward, a silver streak of death.
An inch from Sunniless's neck—
everything went black.
Three Days Before the Accused Murder of the Queen of Elynor
Rain crashed down from the heavens in sheets, the kind that blurred buildings into streaks of grey. Wind tore through the streets hard enough to rip tiles from roofs and fling them like knives.
Sunniless sat on the ground where people like him belonged—the gutter-level slums of Lower Elynor. Dirt pooled under him, mixing with spilled gin and broken dreams. His cloak—if it could be called that—was a ragged thing the color of dried blood, soaked through until it clung to him like a second, colder skin.
He reached into his shirt and pulled out a loaf of bread he'd stolen earlier. Fresh. Soft. Steam still rising from the crust. His stomach twisted painfully at the smell.
Finally. Something to—
A violent gust ripped it from his hands.
SFX: WHOOSH—!
SPLASH! (loaf disappearing into a gutter)
"…Damnit," he muttered, voice rough as gravel.
He didn't chase it.
He'd steal another tomorrow.
There was always more to steal.
He wiped his face with a filthy sleeve, leaving a streak of grime across his cheek. Twenty-three years old, and the city had carved its opinion of him onto his body—scars, dirt, and hunger woven into every angle of him.
Everyone hated him.
He deserved it.
He'd betrayed friends.
Stolen from anyone foolish enough to show him kindness.
Sold his own mother for coin—and felt nothing afterward.
Some nights he drowned himself in liquor until he forgot the world. Other nights he woke in an alley with blood on his hands and no memory of how it got there.
Thunder rumbled overhead.
SFX: GGRRRMMMM—
The storm felt almost like a warning.
He leaned his head back against the wall, letting rain wash down his face.
Three days from now, the queen would be dead.
Three days from now, he would be the easiest man to blame.
He had seen Queen Isolde once—from afar.
A radiant figure in white wood and gold, sunlight framed around her like a halo.
He'd hated her for that beauty.
For that warmth.
For that life he'd never know.
He wondered, in the smallest corner of his mind, what it felt like to be loved by an entire kingdom.
Then he scoffed, dragged himself to his feet, and limped deeper into the alley.
He needed a drink.
And after that—maybe he'd rob the palace kitchens.
Rich people always had better wine.
He pulled his hood low and melted into the storm.
Just another shadow the city had already forgotten.