The cold cut the skin.
The people of Aryster filled the castle courtyard, huddled behind the hemp ropes that the guards stretched to keep them back. Heads turned toward the scaffold, a platform of dark wood erected in the center, where Zirinos knelt, his wrists bound behind his back, his broken legs immobile beneath him. His gold-and-blood hair, dirty and disheveled, fell over his face. His breathing was short, heavy, his chest burning with the cold that came from the sky where once two suns had shone.
King Arésyu occupied the ivory throne, placed on a stone dais overlooking the scaffold. At his side, Lindériu, the holy warrior, kept his hand on his sword. The blade, of silver steel, reflected the pale light of the only sun that remained. Sofia, the saint, was absent – locked in her room, they said, since the dream. They also said she wasn't eating, wasn't speaking, only crying.
"Zirinos, the false hero," announced the herald, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Is condemned to death. For rape and murder. The execution will be immediate."
The crowd applauded. Stones, tomatoes, bags of manure flew. Zirinos did not defend himself. He only closed his eyes. He felt the impact of a rotten egg on the back of his neck, the smell of sulfur mixing with the smell of fear. He did not move.
Lindériu approached. The sword shone in the half-light.
"Zirinos," said the saint, low. "You are a monster."
"I know."
"Monsters die."
"I know that too! Do it!" Zirinos shouted with all his rage.
Lindériu raised his sword.
Time stopped. Again, just like months ago, time doesn't 'walk'.
The stones suspended in the air. The voices of the people, silenced. The candles, lit but without flame. The wind, still. The guards, motionless. The very light seemed to freeze, as if the world had been transformed into an unfinished painting.
Only Zirinos could move his eyes. His body, immobile, did not obey. His eyelids, heavy. His breathing, suspended. He felt his heart beat too slowly, as if each beat were the last.
And then he heard the footsteps.
Light. Slow. Cautious. The sound of leather boots on wet stone.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the palace. He wore beige and gold clothes – the same colors Zirinos had learned to hate in the Ban islands, the same colors he saw in his nightmares since arriving in this world. The mask, beige, covered his face. On the left eye, an H.
The masked one.
"Zirinos," he said, in that sweet, hypnotic voice, the voice Zirinos had never forgotten since the day his father died. "My favorite toy. The one who has given me so much joy, even unknowingly. The one who ran so far, who killed so well, who lied with such conviction, just like your stupid father!"
Zirinos tried to speak. His mouth wouldn't open. He wanted to yell and kill this damn bastard, but truth remains the same — he can't kill this man. His way too weak for this shit.
"No, no, no," continued the masked one, approaching, his steps echoing in the absolute silence. "Don't waste the breath you don't have, my dear. I know what you're going to say. That you didn't do anything. That it was Treiza, that demon with her open legs and lying smile. That the king is a fool, a marionette without strings, a man who wears the crown but doesn't know how to use the weight it carries. And you... Killing in a dream does not count as true killing, I too agree, but what about that pretty maid you hid at your fucking bathroom for days? Doesn't she count as a killing?"
He stopped before Zirinos. He tilted his head. The beige mask shone with the light of the frozen candles.
"Forget it, boy. Words, words, words. That's all they are, isn't it? We're all made of words we don't keep, of vows we don't honor, of promises the wind carries away. You swore to destroy Endomyar. I swore to protect your brothers. Look at us. A fine pair of liars."
He stepped away. He climbed the stairs of the stone dais. The steps, motionless, did not creak under his weight. He pushed King Arésyu – motionless, his eyes fixed on the void, his mouth open in a scream that would never come – to the side. He sat on the ivory throne. He adjusted his clothes. He crossed his legs.
"King, lord, majesty," he said, with a wave of his hand that was not for anyone. "Titles, titles, titles. So much pomp for someone who can't even keep his mouth shut when time stops."
He tapped his knuckles on the arm of the throne. The sound was dry, definitive.
"No one plays with my toy," he said, his voice rising in tone, each word heavier than the last. "No one touches what is mine without my permission. No one dares to judge what I myself have condemned. No, no, no. That is not your business. That has never been your business."
He raised his right hand. His long, pale fingers closed slowly.
"Look," he ordered.
The second sun, up in the sky, exploded.
The light was white, blinding, deafening. A wave of heat swept the world – a wind of ember that burned skin, hair, hope itself. Zirinos felt his face burn, even still, even frozen in time. Then, the void. A silence deeper than death. A cold sharper than the ice of Lunos.
The second sun ceased to exist.
The masked one opened his hand. His palm, now empty, smoked. Small embers fell to the stone floor, where they went out without fire.
"This is a warning," he said, rising, his voice now calm, sweet, almost maternal, again. "The next toy you touch, I destroy. The next soul you judge without consulting me, I erase. The next lie you tell about what belongs to you or ceases to belong to you... well, you've understood the pattern, haven't you?"
He descended the stairs. The beige mask fixed on Lindériu, motionless, his sword raised, his face frozen in an expression of horror and obedience.
"Zirinos is mine. Don't kill him. Don't judge him. Don't touch him. Send him to hell, that's where he needs to be. Let him save himself alone, die alone, learn alone. I don't care. But not by your hands. Those hands are too small for such dirty work."
The masked bastard disappeared into the shadows. The beige and gold cape dragged on the stone floor. The sound of footsteps faded, became an echo, became nothing.
Time returned to normal.
The stones fell. The voices of the people returned, now confused, frightened. Someone shouted that the sun had died. Someone cried.
Someone prayed. King Arésyu fell from the throne, his eyes fixed on the sky where the second sun no longer shone. His forehead, sweaty. His hands, trembling.
"What... what was that?" he whispered.
Lindériu did not answer. The sword still trembled in his hand. The blade, which should have fallen, remained raised.
"He said to send him to hell," murmured the saint, finally. His voice came out strange, as if it were not his own. "Let's send him."
Zirinos, still on his knees, looked at the empty sky. The black stain where the second sun had burned still smoked on the horizon. The first sun, pale and sad, seemed smaller than the day before. More distant.
'That's how it is, huh?' A litle smile formed on his beautiful lips.