“Jonathan Smith, you are sentenced to death for stealing two chickens, three loaves of bread, and six apples,” the guard declares. The crowd is mostly quiet, but a couple of people laugh, and I catch an old farmer glaring menacingly at Jonathan. Johnny-boy is a good lad for me, getting on his knees and putting his head nicely on the block without a problem.
There’s no fighting, no last words, and to be honest, I’m a little disappointed—I do love hearing them cry. Everyone stops moving, and all is quiet. A small sob escapes Johnny-boy, and I let him have his moment, but not for long. I swing, and his head falls into the basket in front of the block with a thud. Again, the guards move his body into a coffin, little more than a pine box, and take it away.
The crowd starts to talk amongst themselves once more. There are some extreme reactions—a few people are vomiting, while others cheer—but most look bored as they wait for the last kill of the day. One more kill, then I can return to my little cottage, wash my clothes, and try to read my book.
But right now, I’m still so hungry. And not for food.
“There he is! That’s the monster who killed my daughter. She was nine, you bastard! Make it hurt!” an angry man shouts from the crowd. I watch the guards escort a cocky-looking fucker, and the crowd goes wild. Food is thrown, and people scream as they try to get onto my stage. Luckily, the guards are standing sentry in front of the stage, ready to block their attempts.God, they really do hate this one.
The man stands before the chopping block, arms tied behind his back, with one guard on either side of him. The air is silent as the prisoner looks to the father of the daughter he killed and says, “She loved every fucking second of it.”
The crowd loses it, attacking the guards in a desperate attempt to get closer. Whilst my colleagues are busy trying to defend themselves, a few people manage to scramble onto the stage and begin beating the man, kicking, punching, and stabbing him with whatever they can find. The guards near me don't even bother trying to stop it. Instead, one of them shouts, “Edgar Turner, you are sentenced to death for the rape, mutilation, and murder of a nine-year-old girl. May you burn in Hell.”
I clean my sword as Edgar continues to be mangled by the crowd. The nearby crow from earlier caws continuously, sounding as mad as I feel.
Since the bloodthirsty fuckers took my last kill, I’m done for the day. I was looking forward to that one too—I was planning to botch it so he would feel the pain of having half his head hanging off until I decided to swing again.
A sudden chill crawls up my spine, and I stop what I'm doing. The crowd freezes and goes silent as time slows.
What the hell?
I look into the crowd below me, spotting black eyes staring back at me. They peer deep into my soul, and my breathing stops for a second.
My trance is broken as one of the guards walks past me, and I breathe again, looking for the black voids that have now vanished.
What was that?
Whowas that?
Chapter Two
I sighas I lean back in my little wash tub. The water isn't hot, but it will do. Most people don't like to wash or bathe, doing so as infrequently as possible, but I like to be clean—though, I must admit, I do relish in blood-soaked clothing, and the way it dries on my skin, flaking off around me. There’s just something so primal in it, and it's intoxicating but I need to remain professional for work, which means clean skin and clean clothes for the first kill of the day. I’ve already soaped up and scrubbed my clothes with the washboard and hung them to dry, so it’s time to wash my body.
As I think of today’s events, my mind focuses on those black eyes in the crowd, the memory of them making me shudder in the water. I didn't recognise who or what it was. I didn't see a face, or even a body. Time seemed to freeze, and it was just us.
My mind starts to wander, and one hand reaches out for my personal knife: a six-inch blade with a plain wooden handle and simple guard—a knife fighter's weapon, lovingly sharpened to a razor edge. Annita is the one thing I love more than anything, save Malenia, and she is just perfect for what I have in mind.
I drag the flat of the blade across my collarbone, slow, deliberate, feeling the cold metal kiss my skin. It’s not about cutting—it’s about the edge, the possibility. My breath catches as I trace lower, the tip grazing the swell of my breast, circling a nipple that’s already pebbled. A shiver hits me, sharp and electric, and I grip the tub’s rim with my free hand, anchoring myself. The danger is what does it for me—knowing that I’m in control, but just barely.
I lift the knife, turning it so the handle hovers near my mouth, smooth and cool. I flick my tongue against it, tasting the faint metallic ghost of the blade, then draw it into my mouth, sucking slow and deep, letting a soft moan hum in my throat. My thighs part, water lapping at my hips. I’m already aching, wet in a way that has nothing to do with the tub.
I slide the handle free, slick with my spit, and guide it down, teasing it along my inner thigh until it nudges against me, blunt and unyielding.
I press it inside me, gasping at the stretch and the way it fills me just right. My hips rock to meet it, water sloshing in time with each thrust, slow at first, then faster, needier. My hand still grips the blade carefully, the edge a quiet threat against my palm. It’s too much—the risk, the pressure, the heat building low?—
I unravel, moans bouncing off the walls as I come hard, trembling.
I slump back, chest heaving, the knife resting on my sternum, and I smile, savouring the quiet, completely spent. Just me and the evening, exactly how I like it.
After drifting for a bit, I grab a bucket and fill it with my tub water, pouring it over my head and gasping at the chill. I soap and scrub at my hair and body, checking to make sure I don’t have any cuts anywhere, then get out. Night is approaching, and I need to eat and relax before bed.
Candles are lit on my bedside table, and a small fire warms the hearth. I curl up in bed to reread a favourite play of mine,Romeo and Juliet. I wonder if this is whatlovetruly is—to die, is the only way to be together.
I blow out the candles, and it isn't long before I start to drift off.
My cottage is out in the suburbs of London; there’s a forest nearby and it’s only a short trek into the city itself. It’s a cramped, creaky place, with timber walls blackened by time and the city’s endless soot. The floorboards groan underfoot, softened only by a tattered rug—faded crimson and frayed at the edges—but I love its stubborn charm, like it’s holding on just for me.
The kitchen is a modest nook in the far right corner as you step through the low front door. It’s barely big enough for my iron pot and the tiny hearth that sputters more smoke than heat. I’ve got a single oak countertop, scarred from years of carving meat, and a shelf above it holds a few clay mugs and a tin plate.
