The courtyard reeked of blood, sweat and a bad case of dead resolve.
Corvin watched from above, his new crown gleaming in this gloom. He hadn't spoken a word all morning. He didn't need to. The weight of his gaze was command enough. His fingers ordered Damian and Damian ordered death.
So it wasn't Corvin they feared. Not really.
Three rebels had been executed until now, all nobles who had conspired to kill the former king. He watched their heads roll into the pit — open mouths, frozen mid-prayer or curse. The audience kept it's silence. Not out of reverence. No one prayed for traitors here, they prayed that the next head isn't theirs.
He could never understand what prompted the common folk to come out of their homes to see such bloodshed. This wasn't a public execution, no one was forced to come and yet people stood there wide-eyed, never blinking as heads flew in their direction. They would only look down in shame when Damian glared at them.
The rumors had long escaped the garrison. The King's Dog, they called him. The one who moved without hesitation. A man who obeyed so loyally, so brutally, that even disloyal thoughts died near him. He didn't need chains or torture rooms. Only names.
He stood beside the executioner as the guards brought in the final prisoner.
'I know those footsteps.' Damian had to look up.
Agnes stumbled, lips black with dried blood. His shirt had been torn down the back like every other suspected rebel. The lash marks streaked across his back like tattoos as fresh blood still flowed down. He didn't look at the crowd. He looked at Damian.
Not a word. Not even a plea. Just a familiarity that asked for nothing more.
They had grown in the same slums. Stolen bread and shared beatings.
'In the barracks, he took lashes meant for me. And I, more than once, killed for him.' Damian remembered.
The hush in the yard stayed for more than it should as a cold wind swept through.
Corvin raised two fingers from the balcony, a gesture Damian knew what meant.
"Commander," the herald announced, voice echoing, "as appointed by His Majesty, carry out the sentence."
He stepped forward and took the axe from the executioner.
Agnes didn't flinch.
Damian raised the axe.
"Any last words?" He asked, because ritual demanded it. He had no room for mercy.
He chuckled. His voice came out like torn fabric. "Yes."
Damian waited.
"You deserve the truth, brother."
He smiled with relief.
"…but not today."
The axe dropped.
The crowd gasped.
And for the first time in years, Damian felt cold again.