The Circle of Passing had been erected on the outer edge of the village center and my father and I entered through it, our footsteps silent on the cobblestones. The gathered crowd, hundreds strong, stood quietly as we passed.
The haunting call of the bells echoed around us, their crystal tones vibrating at a frequency that made the vereth beads at my throat hum in response.
Before we could reach the elders, a man stepped from the gathered villagers and bowed.
“My brother stands among them,” he told my father in an almost joyous voice. “We thank you, King, for your mercy.”
My belly twisted, threatening to throw up the few bites I’d made myself eat.
Father nodded. His voice carried across the large open area. “May his spirit rise brighter in the next life.”
And that was the crux of it. They were all convinced we’d soon be sending their friends and family to something better. I wasn’t sure such a place existed.
As the man melted back into the crowd, others murmured blessings. They believed we would soon grant their loved ones the peace of knowing they wouldn’t go stark raving mad.
Oddly enough, the madness had yet to come for me.
“It troubles you still,” my father said softly as we continued forward. “Remember what I’ve taught you, Amarissa. There’s kindness in protection. The greatest mercy is preventing further suffering.” The familiar words had soothed me when I was ten, and I wanted to believe them now. Yet Mae’s grief over Leo flickered in my mind, a light refusing to be snuffed out.
The stain from the bloodstem blossom spread across my hand like the blood it had been named from.
With my face dutifully lowered, I walked toward the ceremonial platform behind my father.
A low murmur rippled through the crowd before a pall-like hush descended.
A child cried out but was quickly silenced.
I was about to start up the steps of the platform when my attention was caught byhim.
A man at least a head taller than me stood along the edge of the crowd, a short distance away. Shadows hid his face, but I could still make out the sharp line of his jaw and his black hair, thick and swept back from his brow. His tunic was too simple for a courtier, yet toofine for a tradesman, made up of dark fabric with storm-gray threading and silver clasps, tailored to fit his broad shoulders and muscular frame.
His presence hit like a warning before a lightning strike, and I couldn’t look away.
Catching my eye, he inclined his head. He took a step closer. From the way his gaze swept down my body, I’d think he saw through my robes to the woman quivering beneath.
My pulse thundered. Wrenching my gaze away, I turned toward the stairs and made myself start climbing to the top.
The man caught the hem of my sleeve, bringing me to a halt before I could reach the platform. Heat surged up my arm from the contact. I hated that I didn’t pull back right away.
Glancing down, my gaze locked on the man’s golden eyes rimmed with gray, a color I’d never seen before, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Despite the sardonic twist of his mouth, his face burned with fury. Not mindless rage, but something controlled, directed, and frighteningly intelligent.
A flutter of wings echoed overhead and a shadow swept above the crowd. The cinderhawk landed on the man’s shoulder, its talons curling into the fabric, its soot-colored wings ruffling before settling across its spine.
The man leaned in close, smelling of cedar, spice, and rain-soaked earth. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver across my skin that had nothing to do with fear.
“How does it feel to wear the executioner’s colors, Princess?” His voice came low, rich with an accent I couldn’t place.
The wordexecutionerhit like a blade to the heart. He didn’t know how right he was. No matter how many I helped, my hands would never be clean.
My knees almost gave way. I wanted to shout that I never chose this, that I hated every death this mask demanded, that whenIwas in control, I’d find another way. But the words died in my throat.
This man had stripped away all the ceremony, all the justifications, and named what I truly was.
After years of calling myself the Lady of Mercy, hearing someone name me for what I actually did and what I participated in cracked the part of me I’d spent years carefully maintaining.
His stance reminded me of Commander Thorne’s fighting forms, balanced, centered, and ready to move in any direction without warning. Not the rigid posture of our court’s soldiers, but something more fluid, more dangerous. My own body shifted in response, adopting the first position Thorne had taught me, the place where stillness masked readiness.
“You know nothing of mercy,” I whispered back, but the words tasted like bile on my tongue. Like lies.
