Page 33 of Orc’s Gallows

They don’t believe. Or they don’t want to believe. Either way, they’re not going to accept my explanation.

“The scaffold responded to her presence.” I keep my words level. “You saw it yourself. The ropes moved without wind. The timber groaned. The entire structure oriented toward her like a predator sensing prey.”

“We saw a magical disturbance.” Councilor Thessa’s words are silk over steel. “Easily explained by the presence of a powerful death-witch. Your… mate… was drawing on the scaffold’s accumulated energy. Using it to strengthen herself, perhaps. Nothing supernatural about that.”

“The revenant⁠—”

“Was destroyed by the same death-witch who claims to be protecting us from such threats.” Thessa’s smile widens. “How convenient. She creates a problem, solves it publicly, and the Gallows Warden is searing his claiming brand into her flesh. Some might call that manipulation, Warden. Some might wonder who is actually controlling whom.”

My teeth clench. My hand wants to reach for my blade, wants to remind this witch that her political power means nothing against two decades of combat experience.

But violence won’t help here. Violence will only confirm their accusations.

“What do you want?” I cut through the verbal fencing. “You didn’t summon me for a philosophical debate. You have demands. Make them.”

Varn and Thessa exchange a glance. Something passes between them—not a plan being agreed upon, but a performance being cued. I’ve interrogated enough liars to recognize the difference.

“We want to offer you a path back.” Varn’s words take on a measured, almost paternal tone I have never heard from him before. “You have served this city with distinction for two decades. The council is prepared to overlook what happened on the scaffold. The claiming—a regrettable instinct, we understand that such things cannot always be controlled. The defiance—a man under extreme pressure. Forgivable, if addressed.”

I wait. Varn doesn’t disappoint.

“Execute the old woman in the Gallows Quarter. The witch called Era—she’s been stirring unrest, spreading nonsense about hauntings, undermining public confidence in the scaffold. One execution. Clean. Quiet. And the council will formally reinstate your position. Your record will show no infraction. The claiming will be registered as—” he waves a hand — “a private matter. Nothing more.”

Era—the blind witch Ismerie found in the Gallows Quarter. The only person who truly understands what we’re facing.

“Era is not a criminal.”

“Era is what the council says she is.” Thessa’s smile carries no warmth. “That’s how this city has always functioned, Warden. You know that better than anyone.”

I look at Varn. At the reasonable expression he has arranged over his features. At the patience of a man who has already decided what he will do once the answer is given.

The deal is real—as real as any document the council has ever produced with my name on it. I execute Era. I return to the Hall. And within a fortnight, I am arrested on some convenient charge and the problem of the Gallows Warden who defied them resolves itself quietly. They would keep their word long enough to get what they want, and then they would break it, the same way they have broken every promise ever made to every condemned prisoner who begged for mercy on my platform.

They never intended to let either of us survive this. They only needed to know if I could still be made to pull the lever on command.

Now I know the answer. And so do they.

“No.”

The word lands in the chamber like something heavy dropped from height. Varn’s reasonable expression does not break—but the patience behind it vanishes.

“You’ll want to reconsider that.” His words have shed their paternal warmth entirely. “The council’s generosity has limits.”

“Then send your mercenaries.” I turn toward the door. “Or arrest me here, in front of witnesses, and explain to the citizens why the Gallows Warden is being imprisoned for refusing to execute on command. Either way, this conversation is over.”

Silence.

I walk out without looking back.

I return to the Hall at a controlled pace, the council’s ultimatum turning in my mind. The corridors are quiet—too quiet. Halvard’s men hold their positions, but the usual sounds of the Hall—footsteps, the clink of armor, a guard’s low voice—are absent.

My quarters are empty.

Not resting. Not sleeping. Gone.

Then I see the desk.

THE GALLOWS ARE MY THRONE NOW. YOUR WITCH IS MINE. COME WATCH, HANGMAN—SEE WHAT YOUR JUSTICE BREEDS.