Page 17 of Orc’s Gallows

She tastes like ending magic and desperation. Her bound hands press against my armored torso, chains rattling as she tries to pull me closer. The kiss is hungry, frantic, two people who know they shouldn’t but can’t seem to stop.

I break away before I lose myself entirely.

Her eyes are luminous in the darkness, her lips swollen, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The mark on my neck blazes with recognition, with certainty, with truths I’m not ready to face.

“Go.” Her voice shakes. “You need to go before⁠—”

“Before what?”

“Before I start hoping.” She presses her forehead to mine, eyes closed. “Before I start believing there’s a way out of this that doesn’t end with me dead.”

I should tell her there isn’t. Should remind her that the law is clear, that the council has spoken, that no amount of kissing in dark cells changes the sentence waiting for her at dawn.

“There might be.” The words escape before I can stop them. “A way. If I’m willing to burn down everything I’ve built.”

Her eyes snap open. “What are you saying?”

I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying, what I’m thinking, what madness has seized me in this midnight hour. All I know is the mark warming against my neck and the woman pressed against me and the absolute certainty that killing her tomorrow will break me in ways I won’t survive.

“Nothing.” I step back, putting distance between us. “Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

I’m out the door before she can respond. Locks engaging behind me, footsteps echoing through the corridor, heart hammering against my ribs.

What have I done?

I climb to the roof of the Execution Hall.

The platform seems different tonight. Larger. More present. The death wards carved into its surface glow faintly in the starlight—not the steady containment they’re supposed to emit, but a flickering hunger. She’s right. A presence is waking down there. And tomorrow, I’m going to feed it a death witch.

For a woman I’ve known less than a day. A death witch who feeds on my executions. My mate. The word sits foreign in my mind, and yet the sigil burns with absolute certainty.

Four hours until dawn.

Four hours to decide what kind of monster I want to be.

The guards notice a change.

I see it in the way they look at me as I make my rounds. The sideways glances, the carefully neutral expressions, the conversations that stop when I approach. They’ve served under me long enough to read my moods, to know when trouble is brewing.

Captain Halvard finds me in the armory, checking execution equipment I’ve checked a hundred times.

“Sir.” He stands at attention, his grizzled face carefully blank. “The preparations are complete. The platform is ready. The crowd control positions are confirmed.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. Stands there, waiting for an answer I’m not sure I can give.

“The men are restless, sir. They saw the way that… thing… moved in the square. They’re questioning if the platform is still ours, or if it belongs to whatever the witch pulled out of the wood.”

“She is another criminal. She’s been feeding on our executions for years.”

“So have half the death witches in the Gallows Quarter.” Halvard’s jaw flexes. “We don’t hunt them down. Don’t put them on the platform. The council tolerates them because they’re useful—because they keep the ending magic from pooling where it shouldn’t.”

I stare at him. In fifteen years of service, Halvard has never questioned an order. Never expressed doubt about the system we maintain.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the men are scared.” He meets my gaze without flinching. “I’m saying that creature came out of nowhere and killed three of my best soldiers. I’m saying the witch saved you when she could have run.” A long pause. “And I’m saying that maybe executing her isn’t the best use of our resources right now.”