The morning I died was colder than it should have been.
Winter had not yet reached the capital, and yet frost clung to the stone steps of the Grand Cathedral as if the season itself had been summoned for the occasion. The sky was a flat sheet of iron. No wind. No birds.
Silence pressed heavier than the chains around my wrists.
They brought me out before the third bell.
The execution platform stood at the cathedral's main courtyard—elevated, deliberate, impossible to ignore. Fresh timber. Clean lines. No decoration beyond necessity. The blade mounted at its center reflected no light.
Efficiency. Not spectacle.
My knees touched the wood first.
The chains followed.
They were not ceremonial restraints. Not symbolic. Iron bit into skin worn thin by sleepless nights. Each link carried weight enough to remind me this was not theater. My hands rested before me, shackled together, cold seeping through bone.
The crowd did not jeer.
That was the first thing I noticed.
No anger. No thrown stones. Only the murmur of contained breath. Thousands gathered in the courtyard—nobles in structured black, commoners in muted wool, clergy in pale robes arranged like vertical cuts of ivory.
They were not here for vengeance.
They were here for confirmation.
Incense drifted from bronze censers carried by acolytes in slow procession. Sweet at first inhale. Bitter on the exhale. It mingled with something less refined—fear, perhaps. Or anticipation.
The Holy Church stood at the forefront.
White and gold vestments formed a half-circle behind the execution block. At their center, the High Priest held a scroll sealed in crimson wax. The symbol pressed into it was small from where I knelt, but the red was unmistakable.
Beside the imperial banners, another set of standards hung.
Deep blue. Silver thread.
House Dologany.
Displayed with equal height.
Interesting.
I lifted my gaze slightly.
To the eastern gallery, carved high into the cathedral's stone facade.
My eldest brother stood there.
Adrian Vione Galmasca.
Even at a distance, he appeared composed. Golden hair drawn back. Shoulders straight. The image of a future emperor sculpted from discipline. His expression did not waver as he looked down at me.
If he felt anything, he concealed it well.
To his right, separated by half a pace, stood Lucien Draco Galmasca.
Still. Observant.
His eyes did not linger on the blade.
They lingered on the crowd.
Calculating.
Good.
Further above them—higher still, framed by shadow beneath the cathedral's central arch—sat the Emperor.
My father.
He did not stand.
He did not lean.
He simply watched.
No grief. No anger. No visible satisfaction.
Unreadable.
The High Priest broke the silence.
"Zack Ardy Galmasca, Third Prince of the Empire," he began.
His voice carried without strain. Trained for proclamation.
"You stand accused of high treason against the throne. Of conspiring to destabilize imperial authority. Of secret correspondence with hostile elements beyond our borders. Of endangering the divine order entrusted to this realm."
Each phrase was measured.
Carefully constructed.
I listened.
Not to the accusation.
To the wording.
Conspiring to destabilize.
Secret correspondence.
Hostile elements.
No specific names.
No dates.
No evidence cited publicly.
And most importantly—
No direct statement that I had acted alone.
Curious.
The High Priest continued, listing transgressions with increasing gravity. The crowd remained silent. Not shocked. Not outraged.
Prepared.
This was not revelation.
This was reinforcement.
My chains shifted slightly as I adjusted my posture.
The iron scraped against wood.
The sound echoed louder than expected.
I lowered my gaze again, studying the grain of the platform.
This was never about treason.
Treason implies threat.
A move against power.
But no one here looked threatened.
They looked aligned.
The Church.
The banners of Dologany.
The Emperor.
Even the crowd.
Aligned.
Which meant this execution served a different function.
Consolidation.
Correction.
Removal.
I inhaled.
Incense. Cold stone. Fear.
Not mine.
Someone had miscalculated.
And it had not been me.
The High Priest finished reading.
He rolled the scroll with ceremonial precision and handed it to an attendant.
A nod was given.
The executioner stepped forward.
He wore no emblem.
Professional.
He tested the blade once, lifting it slightly before resting it back in its cradle. The metal whispered against wood.
The crowd's murmur thinned further.
Somewhere in the distance, a child began to cry and was immediately hushed.
The executioner moved behind me.
I could feel his presence rather than see it.
Measured steps.
No hesitation.
The blade rose.
Slowly.
Time did not freeze.
It stretched.
Thirty seconds became an examination.
I reviewed the past month in fragments.
A meeting requested too quickly.
A report delivered too cleanly.
A signature placed where it did not belong.
The Church's sudden involvement.
House Dologany's banners displayed publicly instead of discreetly.
Visible support.
Not hidden manipulation.
Which meant the outcome had been decided long before my arrest.
This was not punishment.
This was declaration.
I felt no regret.
Regret is inefficient at the end.
I felt no fear.
Fear clouds pattern recognition.
I calculated.
If this were about treason, they would have needed proof.
If it were about succession, they would have needed division.
But there was no division.
Only agreement.
Which meant I had threatened something unseen.
Something structural.
The blade reached its apex.
The incense thickened in my lungs.
Adrian did not look away.
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly.
The Emperor remained motionless.
I understood then.
Too late.
The blade began to descend—
—and the world fractured.
Thirty days earlier.
I woke before dawn.
My body moved first.
My breath came sharp and controlled, not panicked.
I was in my chamber.
Soft morning light filtered through silk curtains. The faint scent of cedar lingered in the air. My wrists were unmarked.
No chains.
I sat up slowly.
The memory remained intact.
The cold platform.
The incense.
The wording of the accusation.
The blade.
Not a dream.
Dreams blur at the edges.
This did not.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and placed my feet on the polished floor.
Solid.
Real.
I rose and crossed the chamber to the mirror.
The reflection that greeted me was uninjured.
Alive.
Zack Ardy Galmasca.
Third Prince.
Condemned.
Not yet.
I closed my eyes briefly and replayed the High Priest's phrasing once more.
No specifics.
No names.
Which meant the charge could be constructed at any time.
Flexible.
Convenient.
Thirty days.
The timing surfaced with unsettling clarity.
The execution had been scheduled precisely one month after my arrest.
Which meant—
Today was the beginning.
Not the end.
I opened my eyes.
The palace beyond my chamber walls was quiet. Distant footsteps. The shift of guards changing post. Ordinary sounds of an ordinary morning.
No one knew.
No one suspected.
That I had already died here.
Once.
I exhaled slowly.
Very well.
If the outcome had been decided thirty days from now…
Then I would treat these thirty days as a campaign.
Not against an accusation.
Against a structure.
I turned toward the door.
Thirty days to survive.
Thirty days to identify what I had truly threatened.
Thirty days to dismantle it.
This time,
I would listen more carefully.