Page 20 of Orc’s Gallows

The crowd chants for blood. Thousands of voices raised in a single demand, the sound washing over the platform in waves. They want death. They need it. The fear that’s kept this city in line for generations demands satisfaction.

The council watches from their balcony—seven figures in expensive robes, their faces expectant. They signed the death warrant. They ordered this execution. They’ll accept nothing less than compliance.

My hand reaches for the lever.

The claiming sigil sears my neck like a brand.

She’s yours. Your mate. Your responsibility. Your⁠—

I stop.

My fingers hover over the lever, trembling with effort I refuse to show. Twenty years of discipline and certainty. The weapon this city needed me to be.

And one woman. One death witch with eyes like captured lightning and a sharp tongue and the absolute conviction that killing her will doom us all.

What kind of monster do you want to be?

The question she asked without words. The question I’ve been avoiding since the sigil first blazed to life on my neck.

I know the answer.

I’ve always known.

I stride toward her.

The guards tense, hands moving toward weapons. The crowd’s chanting falters, confusion replacing bloodlust as the Gallows Warden abandons his position at the lever. The council members lean forward on their balcony, faces shifting from expectation to alarm.

I rip the noose from her neck.

The rope tears free with more force than necessary, leaving a red welt across her pale skin. She gasps—surprise, not pain—and stumbles backward into the guards who were holding her.

“Sir?” One of them reaches for his blade. “What are you⁠—”

“Stand down.” The command comes out in the voice I use for riots. The voice that brooks no argument. “Release her. Now.”

“The council has ordered⁠—”

“The council can go fuck themselves.”

The words land like a thunderclap. The crowd falls utterly silent. The guards release her arms and step back, faces pale with shock.

I take her hand.

The sigil blazes the moment our skin touches—recognition, completion, certainty that scorches through every doubt I’ve ever harbored. Her fingers tighten around mine, and her racing pulse beats against my grip.

“What are you doing?” Her whisper is ragged. “They’ll kill you. They’ll kill us both.”

“Probably.” I pull her toward me, positioning her behind my body, shielding her from the crowd. “But I’m not pulling that lever.”

The council has risen from their seats. Varn’s face is purple with rage, his aged hands gripping the balcony railing. Councilor Thessa stands frozen beside him, her expression cycling through confusion, fury, and calculation.

“Gallows Warden!” Varn’s words cut across the square. “You will complete this execution immediately or face charges of treason!”

“The execution is cancelled.” I don’t shout—I don’t need to. The crowd’s silence carries my words to every ear. “This woman is under my protection.”

“Your protection?” Thessa’s laugh is sharp and mocking. “You’re an executioner, not a sanctuary. You have no authority to⁠—”

“I have the authority of blood.”