A few more days passed after the meeting with the Emperor.
During this time, Mikhail ordered Maria to keep watch over everything while he prepared for the journey to Blackfen.
Exactly four days later, the royal carriage departed from the palace.
A small escort of Royal Knights rode alongside. Inside the carriage, Mikhail and Miyako sat together on the crimson cushions. Across from them, Gwenllian sat stiffly, still unable to fully overcome her fear and respect for the Crown Prince.
Three riderless horses were tethered to the back of the carriage—something Mikhail had planned for.
As the carriage passed through the capital and into the common districts, Mikhail noticed a massive crowd gathered ahead.
He leaned forward.
"Stop the carriage."
The driver obeyed.
A knight approached the carriage door. Mikhail opened the window.
"What's happening over there?"
The knight bowed.
"The High Commander is performing divine judgment on a group of heretics, your Highness."
Mikhail raised an eyebrow.
"I want to see."
The knight bowed again and signaled the others. The escort moved forward, carving a path through the crowd.
Mikhail watched from the carriage window.
In the center of the square stood the High Commander.
Lancelot.
Seven feet of holy armor and cold steel. His white cloak was stained red. His greatsword—six feet of blessed metal—dripped with blood.
Bodies lay at his feet. Already butchered. Cut cleanly in half.
He walked toward the remaining prisoners, dragging the massive blade behind him. It scraped against the stone, a low, grinding sound that cut through the murmurs of the crowd.
He stopped before the next prisoner and raised the sword high above his head.
"Do not be afraid." His voice was deep, resonant, amplified by the helmet. "Your salvation is here. I will guide you to paradise."
The blade fell.
The prisoner was split in two.
Another.
Another.
The crowd watched in silence.
At the end of the line knelt a young woman. She was sobbing, her hands bound behind her back.
Lancelot stopped before her.
She looked up at him, then threw herself forward, clutching at his legs.
"Please—please—I haven't done anything wrong! I only stole because my child was starving—"
Lancelot shook his head slowly.
"Death is the only reward for heresy, my child."
Her grip loosened. Her eyes went empty.
He leaned down and reached for her throat with one gauntleted hand. He lifted her off her feet effortlessly, holding her in the air like a doll.
"The God will be pleased with your decision." His voice was gentle, almost tender. "Let go of this life. Embrace paradise."
Then, in a single motion, he crushed her neck.
Blood poured from her eyes and nose. Her body went limp.
He released her. She crumpled to the ground.
Lancelot knelt and clasped his hands together in prayer. His voice was soft, reverent.
Then he stood.
He turned toward the carriage.
For a moment, through the narrow slit in his helmet, his gaze found Mikhail.
They stared at each other.
Then Lancelot gave a small, deliberate nod.
Mikhail snapped his gaze away.
"That's enough. Let's go."
The knights obeyed immediately. The carriage turned and began moving south, away from the square, away from the bodies.
Once they were far enough away, Mikhail looked down at his hands.
They were shaking.
He clenched them into fists.
"Fanatic dog," he muttered under his breath.