I’m just a son of these lands staring at the bodies of the men who raised me into someone worthy of leading.
Daelen, who taught me how to forge my first blade.
Merrik, who called me “son” long before I earned his love.
Seeing them like this—bound, displayed, dishonored—it hits like a blade to the gut, sharp enough to cleave bone.
This isn’t death.
This is desecration.
This is a message carved in rope and ruin.
My throat burns with something violent, something primal, something grief-shaped that has no place in a warrior—but it’s there, splitting me open anyway.
They were my family.
My anchor.
My proof that goodness could survive in a world carved by cruelty.
And now they hang like trophies.
Something in me fractures.
A cold, lethal sickness punches through me.
Not fear.
Not shock.
Something worse.
Something fucking lawless.
And the part of me that stayed human all these years dies.
The wind nudges them like a cruel hand.
No sound. Only the slow creak of the ropes and the hum of Elyssara’s breath beside me.
THUD.
Jax’s knees hit the dirt, a silent scream twisting her face.
No.
NO!
Her fingers claw into the dirt like she’s trying to anchor herself to something that isn’t loss.
I promised Merrik he’d have a warrior’s death—on the battlefield, sword in hand.
And this feels like the Stars laughing in the face of a warrior.
Our quivering breaths fill the air, trembling hands of shock chatter in the wind.
Steel rasps free, cutting through my grief.
