And that belief is dangerous.
I reach out and rewind the footage.
Slow it.
Watch Marj’s lips curl in triumph as the third body collapses.
There’s something about the way sheperformsdeath — not just administers it — that looks choreographed, rehearsed.
Like she’s speaking to a crowd rather than to casualties.
“Marj isn’t just a tyrant,” I say. “She’s a showman. She’s performance art dipped in cruelty.”
Mayor frowns. “That’s why rumors of your arrival spread like wildfire. She wanted you to hear about it. Wantedthemto hear it. Wanted the legend to become real.”
“You think she’s baiting us into a public confrontation?”
“That’s exactly what she’s doing.”
I stand. The projector hums behind me like a second heartbeat.
“Public confrontation,” I repeat. “Means everything’s on display. No shadows. No cover.”
“And if the Butcher shows,” someone whispers, “Marj’s forces gain everything.”
I close my eyes for a moment and feel the weight settling into my bones.
Two days earlier, three executions staged likeperformances.
Townfolk forced to watch.
Messages directed outward.
A challenge broadcast through fear.
This isn’t mere cruelty. This is a chess board with people as pawns.
But here’s what the optics never account for:
Legends — even fabricated ones — aren’t controlled by the ones who create them.
Legends grow.
They twist.
They take on lives of their own.
I look at the mayor.
“Show me their other surveillance.”
He brings up another feed. Quick snapshots — frightened faces, public squares, crates of arms hidden in civilian storage rooms, half-burned banners proclaiming resistance.
There’s fear etched deep into the footage, but there’s also grit. Eyes that refuse to look away. Bodies that stand, even when shaking.
I rub my temple with one hand — weary more than tired — and speak slow.
“Marj wants a stage and a spotlight. But she doesn’t want a war. Not a real one. She wants ashow— something that can be spun, recorded, manipulated, then sold to the highest bidder.”
