In the throne room of Bulcan Palace, King Geoffrey leaned back on his silver and gold chair. His crown sat crooked on his head, eyes half-closed in boredom.
The tall doors opened with a slam. Harper stormed in, he dropped to one knee.
"Your Majesty… we stopped the intruders."
Geoffrey's eyes sharpened. "Intruders?"
Harper kept his head low. "They tried to take the princess. It was a rescue attempt."
"Who?"
"Two men, one with one arm and the other with a wide forehead, along with a girl, a boy, and... Elder Peter."
Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. "Peter? The appraiser?"
Harper nodded. "They worked together. Almost succeeded."
"And the princess?"
"Alive. We caught them before they reached her."
Geoffrey stood. His lips curled into a slow, cruel smile.
"So… a failed rebellion," he said. "Good."
He turned toward the stained-glass window behind him, watching the red sky beyond.
"We will hang them. All of them," he said coldly. "Let the people see what happens to traitors."
Harper furrowed his brow. "Your Majesty… what about the princess?"
Geoffrey's smile widened. "She will watch." He turned back to him. "Tie her hands. Silence her magic. Dress her in rags. I want her standing front and center when we string them up like pigs."
He paused.
"No… not just hang. Make it public. A festival. Bring the stage to the main plaza. Announce it. Let the people cheer while their 'heroes' dangle."
He waved a hand. "You're dismissed."
Harper hesitated. "Your Majesty… one of them. The boy with the axe… he was dangerous.
The king laughed. "Then he should've finished the job. But he didn't, did he?"
Harper frowned. "No."
Geoffrey sat back down and leaned forward.
"If he shows his face… we'll kill him too."
—-----
The capital of Bulcan woke to the sound of iron bells.
Guards shouted through the streets, their voices loud and clear.
"Public execution at sundown! Traitors to the crown will hang!"
By noon, workers had built a wooden stage in the center of the plaza. It was tall, wide, and brutal, fit for a king's justice. Ropes hung from thick beams, swaying like snakes in the hot wind.
A crowd had already started to gather. Whispers flew from mouth to mouth. Some were excited. Others… afraid.
Soldiers patrolled the edges. No one could leave. No one could speak too loud. Not without being watched.
At the front of the stage, the royal crest had been carved into the wood, a golden crown over a burning flame.
And right beneath it, five ropes.
One for Nai.
One for Putol.
One for Ben.
One for Mira.
And one for Elder Peter.
A sixth post stood off to the side, smaller. A chair had been bolted into it. That one wasn't for execution. It was for Princess Aiah.
By late afternoon, all was ready.
Torches were lit. Drums stood at the ready.
And at the highest point of the balcony, the king's throne had been moved outside.
Geoffrey would be watching.
Smiling.
Waiting.
—-----
Meanwhile, in the dungeon, the air stank of blood, rust, and rot.
A narrow window high above let in a thin beam of light, casting long, broken shadows across the stone walls.
Nai leaned against the wall, his head low. Blood had dried on his cheek. His arms were chained above him, too tight, cutting into his skin.
Putol sat nearby, breathing slowly. His nose looked broken. His legs were too weak to stand.
Ben coughed hard. He had taken the worst of the beatings. His shirt was torn, and his ribs looked bruised and swollen.
Across from them, Elder Peter hung by his wrists, barely conscious. Blood dripped from his fingers. He had been whipped. His back was torn open, but he hadn't said a word since they were dragged in.
Mira was chained near the far wall, her hair messy and her eyes red.
She looked over at Princess Aiah, who sat on the floor with her hands bound in thick black gloves designed to suppress magic, and her arms tied tightly behind her.
Aiah stared at Elder Peter with wide, wet eyes.
"They did this because of me…" she whispered. Her voice cracked. "They shouldn't have gotten involved."
Mira looked down, her voice soft.
"They chose to. To save you."
Aiah clenched her fists, the thick magic-bound gloves shaking.
"And now they're suffering… because of me."
Mira shook her head. "No. Geoffrey is the reason."
Aiah clenched her jaw. "We have to do something. We can't die like this."
Mira looked down at her hands, still glowing faintly. "My magic can't work without herbs… and we're too far apart. Even if I had the strength, I can't reach anyone."
Nai stirred. "If only we had a rock. Or anything sharp…"
Putol snorted weakly. "Maybe Isaac will come crashing through the wall like a hero in one of your dumb stories."
Ben coughed a laugh. "I'll take a miracle at this point."
Aiah stared at the damp stone floor, tears drying on her cheeks. Her lips trembled, but she said nothing.
Peter stirred for the first time in hours. His head lifted slightly, lips cracked. "Aiah…"
She snapped her eyes toward him. "I'm here," she whispered, scooting as close as her bindings allowed.
Peter's voice was barely a rasp. "You must… survive this. You have to live."
"No." Her voice cracked. "Not without you."
He shook his head slowly. "You carry… more than blood. You carry hope."
Aiah bit down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood. "Then hope's about to hang."
Peter gave the faintest ghost of a smile. "Not if he comes."
Ben chuckled. "That's what I said."
Silence stretched again.
Mira's eyes flicked to the ceiling. "Do you feel that?"
Nai sat up straighter. "What?"
"I don't know… the air. It's… thicker."
Suddenly, they heard boots. Loud. Dozens of them.
The door slammed open.
Guards entered, grim, armored, and ready.
One by one, the prisoners were dragged out.
No more talking. No more time.
The execution had begun.