Page 16 of Orc’s Gallows

She watches me enter. No fear in her expression. No hope, either. That measuring gaze, calculating odds and options with the desperation of someone who has nothing left to lose.

“Going to kill me early?” Her voice doesn’t waver. “Save the crowd the trouble?”

“No.”

I cross to where she hangs and examine the chains. The mechanism is simple—a winch connected to a ceiling pulley, adjustable to keep prisoners in whatever position the interrogator desires. Right now, she’s stretched past comfort, toes barely brushing the floor, shoulders bearing most of her weight.

I release the winch.

She drops six inches, and her gasp of relief cuts through me. Her arms fall to her sides—still bound, still manacled, but no longer stretched above her head. She sags against the wall, breathing hard, and I watch the tension drain from her body.

“Why?”

The word is barely a whisper. Her violet eyes find mine in the darkness, searching for an answer she doesn’t seem to find.

“You need to be able to climb the platform tomorrow.” The lie comes easily. “Hard to maintain proper procedure when the condemned can’t walk.”

“Right.” She doesn’t believe me. I don’t believe me either. “Procedure.”

The cell is small. Four steps from wall to wall, barely room for the two of us to stand without touching. I should leave—I’ve done what I came here to do, whatever that was. Extended whatever small mercy I’m capable of.

I don’t leave.

“You’re staring, Warden.”

“You’re still talking.”

A ghost of a smile crosses her lips. “Force of habit. Sarcasm is how I cope with mortal terror. You should try it sometime.”

“I don’t get mortally terrified.”

“No? Then what’s that expression on your face?” She leans forward, chains clinking. “Because it looks like a man wrestling with forces beyond his control.”

She sees too much.

I step closer before I can stop myself. Close enough to smell her—ending magic and something faintly green, like wildflowers crushed underfoot, and the sharp tang of fear she’s working so hard to hide. Close enough that she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

“That’s not an answer.”

She turns her face away, the chains whispering with the small movement. The silence between us carries everything she’s already said once, and the fact that she doesn’t repeat it says more than the words ever could.

The mark warms between us, a silent confirmation of what I’ve been trying to ignore since my chambers.

I should leave. Should walk away before this conversation goes somewhere neither of us can come back from.

Instead, I reach out and touch her face.

Her skin is softer than I expected. Softer than a death witch’s skin should be. My thumb traces the line of her cheekbone, and I sense her shiver beneath my touch—not from cold.

“It doesn’t change anything.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Tomorrow, when the sun rises⁠—”

“I know.” She leans into my palm, eyes closing. “I know what happens tomorrow. But right now, tonight, can we pretend it doesn’t have to end that way?”

No. We can’t. This is madness. This is⁠—

I kiss her.

I don’t decide to do it. Don’t weigh the consequences or calculate the risks. One moment I’m standing in her cell, torn between duty and desire. The next, my mouth is on hers, and everything I’ve built is crumbling around me.