“I’m breaking him out.”
Her muscles tense and her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.
“He doesn’t deserve this,” I continue. “It was just a statue. We did this to stop them from murdering innocent people. What if Father dies and Cee or Eliana are chosen for the next one? What if it’s me who is sent to The Harvest?”
“That won’t happen.”
“If it did? What would you think of it all, then?”
She drags her blond strands through her fingers, then curls several of them around one finger. “It’s not just the statue. The Phovi were killed too.”
“So? They’re awful creatures. One tried to kill me once. Remember?”
“I know.” She bites her lip. “It’s just…I’m scared for you.”
I swallow hard against the lump rising in my throat, then pull her into a tight hug. “Don’t be,” I whisper into her hair. “You have to be strong no matter what happens to me.”
Her grip tightens around me. “Don’t go.”
I pull her at arm’s length. “I have to save him, or at least try, but it has to be now, before Father comes to talk to me, and he and Mother lock me in this room.”
She bites her lip. “Please be careful and try not to get into any more trouble.”
I nod and grab my boots.
She sighs. “He’s at the Incarcuri.”
Anxiety races through my heart as I stop tying my laces midway, staring at a floorboard while stories I’ve been told of the Incarcuri weave through my thoughts. Each scenario of incarns accused of crimes being psychologically tortured is more horrific than the last.
“Thank you.”
“There’s no way the Enforcers will let you in to see him.”
I climb up onto the window ledge, barely focusing. “They can’t stop me. No matter how much they want to.”
TENCalista
Someone’s about to be executed, and I cannot tear my eyes away from the grim spectacle.
I stand in the town’s square, watching the sun’s gentle caress on the mountains, casting a deep orange glow over the cobbled roads and brown buildings. The fading sun rays form a halo around the freshly hung noose swaying from the gallows. Wooden boards creak under the weight of the executioner, dressed in black robes and symbols marking him as one of Azkiel’s coven.
As the day slowly draws to an end, The Night Market becomes a forgotten fantasy amongst the stalls of bread, fish, and fabrics. Behind them, merchants call out to passersby, hoping to make a quick sale before they are forced to pack up.
The hordes of witches and warlocks visiting our small town flood the streets, their colorful robes adding a vibrant energy to the usually quiet atmosphere. The festivities reach a crescendo of noise as they huddle closer to the gallows, drawn to the morbid sight.
Beyond them, children gather in a circle, their eyes filled with awe and anticipation, to witness an enchanting puppet performance showcasing the six deities.
Everyone is so happy, as if we’re not surrounded by unjustness and death.
My heart is in my throat as a hooded man with trembling fingers is led up the five steps toward the rope. Surely, they wouldn’t hang Drake without a trial. It is against our highest law. But then, when have the elders ever respected the rules they force the rest of us to adhere to?
I focus on the details and notice the man’s arms are skinnier than Drake’s. He couldn’t have lost this much weight in the short time we’ve been apart. This man doesn’t even have any tattoos either, and he stands at least three inches shorter than Drake. Yet, I have to make sure it’s not my friend.
I wrap my navy cloak tightly around myself, navigating through the bustling crowds to get a better look. I pause at the front, my shoulders brushing with a man carrying a small child. Beside him, a girl, no older than little Cecilia, watches on with macabre fascination.
The potent smells of incense and ale permeate the air. Liquid sloshes from the tin cups of men, bubbly golden liquid slashing against where the cobblestone fades into dirt.
Covered in inked tattoos depicting the symbols of all six gods, a Devoted dressed in a purple robe steps next to the hooded prisoner. A burst of cheers erupts from the eager crowd as he unrolls a long piece of parchment.
“Jaron Hughmus Endignor has hereby been found guilty of robbery and arson and shall be hanged from the neck until dead here, in our square of Ennismore.”
I’m sure the fire is what led this man to the gallows. Even though they don’t elaborate on it, those who steal are thrown in the Incarcuri or have their fingers hacked off with an ax.
The prisoner’s hood is torn from his head, revealing his blanched face and sullen, icy-blue eyes. He squints, steadying himself as he stands, his hands shackled behind him. Slowly, he climbs his gaze to the rope, his chapped lips parting as the sun lowers in the sky. Then, he shakes his head to himself, as if he could deny his inevitable fate.
Intelligible chattering buzzes around me, the energy of the crowd too high and vibrant for such a sickening event. Whether or not he is guilty, killing him is utterly unnecessary. It’s a miracle that anyone remains alive with traditions so deeply rooted in sacrifice and punishment.
As always, a discerner climbs the scaffolds after the last charge is read. Dressed in an emerald tunic with belled sleeves and black pants, the Discerner steps in front of the accused. A few seconds tick by, and he clasps his hands together before stepping back.
It’s all for show, though. From what I’ve heard, the actual discerning is done at the trials, but it makes me wonder if they’re fair at all.
The discerner announces the accused is guilty, prompting a roar of cheers.
Tears swell in my eyes while I watch the man’s bloodshot eyes, raspy breaths leaving through his open mouth. I imagine Drake standing in his place, staring at me with those big, green eyes that will silently tell me to stop worrying because he is okay, even when he is not. If he is found guilty, the show will be much worse than this. The darker the crime, the more severe the execution method. The gallows will do for robbery and arson, but it is the chopping block for murder and sacrilege.
A shiver shudders my bones, slinking down my back and spreading goosebumps along my arms.
The executioner shoves the prisoner toward the noose, but his legs buckle as he takes a step forward. The devoted man and executioner pull him up from under the arms and carry him, but it is the discerner who forces his head through the noose and holds him in place.
