Chapter XV
✦
The wet slap of Ysmay's severed head hitting stone rang in Dot's ears long after it stopped rolling.
Coppery blood misted the air, thick enough to coat his tongue with every shallow breath. Somewhere close, fat drops of it pattered onto the flagstones like slow rain.
Boldr's voice cut through the ringing silence — low, almost playful.
"They say you can't be killed."
Dot didn't answer.
The blood from Ysmay's head crept slowly toward his boots.
A smile split Boldr's face. Slow. Cruel.
"Let's find out."
Dot knelt close to a pillar, iron chains biting into his wrists, eyes fixed on Ysmay's severed head where it rested on a bloodstained block. Her eyes were still wide, frozen in the last moment of surprise. Dark hair matted with drying crimson.
The sight pulled him under.
"You're no fun, Dren-kid," Ysmay teased, perched on the gnarled edge of an ancient oak, legs swinging lazily. Sunlight filtered through the canopy and dappled her grin.
"We're not related," Dot snapped, arms crossed.
Ysmay tapped her temple, eyes sparkling. "Surprisingly, he talks."
Hooves thudded softly on the forest path. Dren appeared, swinging down from his horse with practiced ease, a woven basket of fresh-caught fish and wild herbs dangling from the saddle.
"Dren!" Ysmay cried, launching herself off the branch at him. "I missed you! He's no fun at all — why do I have to babysit him?"
"Wait — wait —" Dren barely got the words out before she collided with him. The basket tipped. Fish, onions, and bundles of thyme rained down over both of them.
Dren gently pushed her back, shaking his head. Dot watched — wide-eyed at the easy, uncomplicated affection of it.
Then Dren froze. Something slick and writhing moved across his scalp — a small octopus, tentacles tangling in his hair, brushing his cheeks.
Ysmay burst into laughter, clutching her sides.
Dren glared at her. Then glanced down. Tiny crabs scuttled across the front of her tunic, pinching at the fabric.
Ysmay followed his gaze.
Her scream pierced the forest.
For the first time — Dot laughed. Deep, genuine, helpless. The kind that comes from somewhere past the chest.
Dren and Ysmay both went still, staring at him. Then their laughter joined his, and it echoed through the trees like light breaking through cloud.
No.
It isn't true.
Dot's thoughts raced, frantic and denying. His chest heaved. Rage boiled up from somewhere below grief, hot and unstoppable, filling the space grief had made.
His fingers trembled against the chains.
He lifted his head. Chains rattled. He locked eyes with Boldr across the length of the hall.
"I'm going to kill you," he said. Low. Quiet. Venomous.
Boldr's lips curled into a slow, satisfied smile.
"You stand accused of the mass massacre of innocents," the cloaked judge intoned from the high tier. His voice carried the careful flatness of a man who had learned long ago to keep himself out of the sentences he delivered. "How do you plead?"
Dot met his gaze with cold steel.
"Go to hell." He spat.
Boldr stepped forward. "He pleads trial by combat. To the death."
Vespers moved closer, her voice dropping to a tight hiss. "That wasn't the deal. You said you'd give me the boy. Let me take him to the Council, Arthur."
"Seize her," Boldr said.
Guards clamped irons around Vespers' wrists before she could step back.
"This wasn't the plan!" Her voice cracked, something raw breaking through the composure. "I decide what happens to him. I *deserve* justice—"
"Take the hag to her cell," Boldr said.
He turned to Dren. Dren's face was ashen, eyes hollow, looking at nothing with the expression of a man watching something collapse that he had built over a very long time.
"And the mercenary," Boldr added. "Take him too."
The memory came without warning, surfacing the way they do — sudden and total, crowding out everything else.
"We have the boy you've been traveling with," Boldr said. "Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
"Take the deal, Arthur," Dren said quietly. "Forkbeard's daughter, returned safely. And I'll fight with you in your war."
"No."
"Then I'll take the boy's head instead. For his crimes."
"Then take mine."
"No, Dren!" Ysmay cried, pressing the knife harder against Boldr's throat.
Boldr's eyes gleamed. "No, friend. I want you to suffer. For what you did, all those years ago. You think I'd forget?"
Ysmay turned —
And froze.
Elizabeth stood directly behind her.
A blade flashed.
Ysmay's head fell.
Elizabeth smiled that same strange, private smile.
The memory dissolved like smoke.
Dren was dragged away, chains clanking across stone. A guard leaned close to Boldr and murmured something low. Boldr listened, nodded once.
"Your brother the king wishes to see you," the guard said.
Boldr looked at Dot one last time — something in his expression that might have been anticipation — then turned and walked.
Outside the City Walls
Yiva's boots pounded wet cobblestones, each slap sending jolts up her shins. Her lungs burned with the acrid bite of smoke still clinging to the city air. She reached the stable yard gasping, sweat stinging her eyes.
She threw the saddle blanket over Dot's horse. The animal's hide was warm and slightly damp, flanks heaving with leftover panic. When her shaking fingers brushed its neck the coarse mane tickled her wrist — the horse blew a long, shuddering snort against her forearm and finally stood still.
She swung up. Saddle leather creaked beneath her weight. She gathered the reins — rough, salt-stiff — and kicked the horse into a canter toward the main gate.
Torchlight flickered across the gatehouse ahead. Hooves rang on stone.
Halfway there, her fingers locked around the reins so tightly the leather bit into her palms.
The horse skidded to a halt, iron shoes sparking against the cobbles.
For a long moment she sat frozen. Behind her the city exhaled — distant shouts, the metallic clatter of armor, the low roar of fire eating timber somewhere deep in the alleys. Ahead lay darkness and open road.
Her chest ached.
She turned the horse in a slow, reluctant circle. Its breath steamed white in the cold air.
She looked back at the city.
Another Corner of the City
Sylric tipped the last of the sour ale down his throat. It burned like thin fire all the way to his stomach. Tankards clashed around him, laughter rolled over the bar like low thunder — but beneath it all came the unmistakable rhythm of boots on stone, dozens of them, moving fast toward the capital.
He pushed off the stool. Wood scraped. He stepped outside into air thick with spilled beer, horse dung, and coming rain.
Across the torchlit square, Yiva sprinted — cloak whipping behind her like a black wing, headed the same direction.
Sylric broke into a run without a backward glance.
Behind him, the tavern keeper bellowed and gave chase over an unpaid tab.
The Judgment Hall
The hall had gone quiet in the way large spaces go quiet when something is about to happen that cannot be undone.
Dot knelt in the center of the floor, chains at his wrists, blood still drying on his shirt.
He looked up at the empty balcony where Boldr had been sitting.
Then he looked down at the stone.
At the blood.
At the space where Ysmay's head had been before they took it away.
Somewhere above, a door opened and closed.
"Where is he now?"
The question lingered in the empty hall.
Heavy as iron.
✦
— To Be Continued —