"I don't know what you're talking about…" James spat, turning his head.
"Hahaha… feisty," the commander chuckled as they neared the door. "I'm sure you're wondering who I am. It's only fair to know your captor's name, isn't it?" His grin widened.
"I am Laplace… the Blade of God." With a wave of his hand, the heavy door creaked open.
"I'm certain you've heard of us. Even your old teacher Henry was once among our ranks—until he betrayed us, stole from us, and has been in hiding ever since. Ha... now that I think about it, Surrounded by thieves, aren't you? No wonder you've become one yourself." His words slithered as he pushed James forward.
What is he talking about? What did I steal? The thoughts collided in James's mind, too tangled to unravel before he could organize them—
A blinding light seared his eyes. After so long in darkness, he whizzed, blinking rapidly as tears fell through his eyes; the sudden sunrise was unbearable. Cheers thundered around him. People lined the streets, celebrating as prisoners were dragged out one by one.
At the center rose a cedar platform, where the captives were forced to gather. Opposite them sat the judge—a man crowned with a towering white wig, its curls like clouds. Beneath his black court gown gleamed a sharp purple suit, and over one eye rested a golden monocle that glimmered ominously. His chair was grand, a velvet thing lined with gold.
The prisoners were forced down and sat in a row, facing the sea of spectators.
The master of ceremonies lifted his voice.
"Hear ye, hear ye! By decree of the King of Felton, these sinners stand for trial. Should they be proven innocent, they shall walk free. 'Though I doubt any of them are innocent,' the master thought to himself then continued. "Else… they will be beheaded, as the law demands. And thus, the trial begins!"
When the Master of Ceremonies finished his proclamation, the crowd erupted, each voice shouting something different—but the loudest cries rose above all:
"Off with their heads! Kill the criminals!"
Tap! Tap! Tap!
The judge hammered his gavel for silence, but the mob would not subside. The people were too wild; their hunger for blood was too strong.
"Silence…Silence, please." The judge pleaded, but there was no change. That was until—
A voice thundered, "Silence!"
It was the executioner. A hulking man in a long black mask that covered everything but his eyeholes. His frame was monstrous, his arms thick as tree trunks, and at his side gleamed a massive scythe. His single command stilled the crowd instantly. It seemed the people feared the undertaker more than the judge himself.
James's eyes darted across the sea of faces. Then he froze.
There, dressed in finery he had never owned before, stood the innkeeper. A heavy maroon fur coat draped over his hunched frame, jewelry glittering on his thin hands. His grin was wide, smug, triumphant. Their eyes met.
"You sold me out for coin," James thought bitterly, rage tightening in his chest. His fists trembled, heat rising to his face. "Truly… there is no end to human greed."
His gaze snapped back to the judge.
The judge straightened, and the first prisoner was dragged forward.
"Here we have Sarbath of Tar," the Master of Ceremonies declared. "He stands accused of kidnapping, murder, and rape—of molesting over fifty women and children."
He turned to the man. "What say you, Sarbath of Tar? Are these charges true?"
Sarbath's head hung low, his shoulders slumped. His eyes were hollow, fixed on the ground. Not a word passed his lips.
"The man refuses to absolve himself," the master sneered. "Then it would seem he is guilty."
Tap! Tap!
"I find Sarbath of Tar guilty," the judge proclaimed. "His execution shall be decided by the people."
The master turned to the crowd. "What shall be done with him?"
"Off with his head!" The mob roared, voices uniting in bloodlust.
"So be it," the Master answered coldly.
Two soldiers seized Sarbath, forcing him to his knees. The scrape of iron chains echoed across the platform. Before him rested a straw basket, ready to catch his head. As he bowed forward, tears streaked down his weathered face.
"He didn't do it…" James muttered under his breath.
A low laugh answered beside him. "Hahaha… we know. Everyone here knows. But do you think they care?"
"Then why didn't he try defending himself? They could have reduced his sentence, perhaps, if he said something…" James muttered, turning toward the voice.
"Hahaha… how could he speak with no tongue? They already cut it out. Wooo… the nobles are brutal, aren't they? We common folk have no chance in this rigged game. And look at these fools cheering—they cheer for their own execution, but they can't even see it. What a travesty."
The words were steady, almost philosophical. James blinked, startled. It was Cedric—but nothing like the gruff prisoner he had imagined.
Inside the cell he had been harsh, almost brutish. Now, he spoke with the calm of a sage. Cedric looked barely older than James. His brown hair was slicked back, though streaks of grey had begun to creep along the sides. Broad shoulders carried the weight of hardship, and a rough-cut brown beard framed a face carved by a hard life.
James's eyes flicked back to Sarbath. The man's whole body trembled as the executioner loomed at his side.
The masked figure walked with deliberate slowness, his dark robes dragging across the boards. He raised the blade high.
With one swift stroke—
Shhhk!
The head dropped cleanly into the waiting basket. Blood spattered across the platform as the body crumpled to the ground.
For a heartbeat, silence.
Then James heard it—his own heart pounding in his ears.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
"Yeaaaaah!" the crowd erupted, their cheers crashing like a wave.
James clenched his fists, fury rising from within. "The world is truly rotten… I thought I could save it, but I was a fool," he muttered.
Cedric chuckled low. "No… it's not rotten. Just sick. And there's no sickness that can't be cured—with the right medicine."