The roar of the crowd was a living thing—a beast starved for blood. Thousands pressed into the grand arena of Elynor's capital, faces twisted in righteous fury, cheering as though the gods themselves had ordained this execution a holy sacrament. The air reeked of sweat, cheap ale, and the metallic tang of anticipation.
At the center stood the guillotine, its wicked blade gleaming under the merciless sun, hungry for the neck of a worthless rat.
Sunniless.
Two burly guards dragged him through the dim tunnel like a sack of refuse, gauntleted hands biting into his emaciated arms. He didn't resist. Why bother? His body was a map of bruises, old scars crisscrossing his skin like the veins of a dying leaf. Scrawny, unwashed, eyes dull grey beneath matted black hair, he looked every inch the gutter trash the kingdom believed him to be. Accused of murdering Queen Isolde herself. As if a slum dog like him could breach the palace without being skewered.
King Eldric didn't care for truth. The queen was dead—poisoned in her chambers—and the king, mad with grief, needed a scapegoat. Someone to blame. Someone to hate. Sunniless fit perfectly: thief, betrayer, man who'd sell his own blood for a handful of coppers. Guilty or not, he would die today, and the people would sleep better for it.
The guards shoved him onto the platform. THUMP! He fell to his knees, face smashing into dust-choked wood. Grit ground into his split lips. Ropes bound his wrists, ankles, and thighs like he was some feral beast—tight enough to cut circulation, leaving him utterly helpless.
They yanked his head forward, pressing it into the lunette. His damp hair stuck to the sweat and blood on his face. He didn't scream. Didn't beg. Expression blank, bored even—like a man long since tired of this shitty world.
The executioner, a mountain of a man in black hood and leather apron, gripped the rope. The crowd swelled to a deafening crescendo. CHEERS—SHOUTS—FISTS POUNDING AIR!
"For the queen!"
"Death to the traitor!"
The rope slipped from the executioner's hands.
The blade plummeted.
WHOOSH—CUTTING AIR—A SILVER STREAK OF DOOM!
Closer… closer… an inch away…
Everything went black.
Three Days Earlier
The storm raged like the fury of the heavens unleashed. Rain lashed the slums of Elynor in sheets, turning cracked cobblestone alleys into rivers of mud and filth. Wind howled through narrow streets, strong enough to rip shingles from roofs and send stray dogs yelping for cover. Thunder BOOMED overhead, shaking the very ground.
Sunniless huddled in a doorway that offered as much shelter as a whore's promise—none. His threadbare cloak, once black but now mottled grey, clung to his bony frame like a second skin. He was soaked to the bone, shivering, but hunger was a loyal mutt gnawing at his guts.
Twenty-three years old. Nothing to show for it. Less than nothing. Broker than a beggar's bowl, reduced to stealing crusts from bakeries and pockets from drunks. The city hated him—and the feeling was mutual. He'd been tossed in the dungeons more times than he could count for theft, fraud, whatever crime could stick. But he always escaped. Slippery as an eel. Clever as shadow. Guards too stupid, locks too weak—or maybe the gods just enjoyed watching him squirm a little longer.
Friends? Ha. The last fool who tried to "help" him woke up missing his purse and facing charges for Sunniless's latest scam. Family? He'd sold his own mother to a slaver caravan for three silvers and a bottle of rotgut. Remorse? Not a flicker. Why feel bad when the world had never given him a damn thing?
He pulled the stolen loaf from under his cloak—soft, warm, fresh from the oven that morning. His stomach growled GRRRAAAAH— a caged beast.
A gust of wind snatched it away.
The bread tumbled, end over end, and vanished into a storm drain with a mocking PLOP!
"Damn it all," Sunniless rasped. No chase. There'd be more tomorrow. There was always more.
He slumped back against the wall, wiping rain from his eyes with a sleeve that smelled of piss and despair. Scars laced his knuckles and face—reminders of brawls, beatings, knife fights in taverns. His grey eyes, dull as storm clouds, stared at nothing. The city had marked him: scum. Rat. Traitor-in-waiting.
In three days, they'd drag him to that arena. In three days, the queen would be dead, and he'd be the one with his head on the block.
He smirked—a bitter twist of yellowed teeth, one missing from a bar fight years ago. Funny how fate worked. He'd never even seen Queen Isolde up close. Just that one glimpse, years back, when her carriage rolled through the slums. Beautiful. Radiant. Untouchable. Loved by all.
What must it be like to be adored like that? To have a king who'd raze the world for your death?
Sunniless pushed to his feet, bones aching, and limped deeper into the shadows. The rain pounded like a drumbeat of despair.
He needed a drink. Something to burn the cold.
And after that? Maybe the palace kitchens. Royals always had the best wine.
With hood pulled low, he melted into the storm—a ghost the city had already buried alive.
But ghosts… sometimes come back hungry.