Page 47 of Orc’s Gallows

“Yes to both.” I squeeze Ismerie’s hand, draw strength from her presence. “The executions stop. The condemned are released. And we find another way to destroy the Judge—one that doesn’t require feeding it more death.”

“You’re mad.” Councilor Marsh—the youngest, the one I’d hoped might be reachable—stares at me with a mixture of horror and fascination. “You’re asking us to abandon everything that keeps this city stable.”

“I’m asking you to stop pretending that terror equals stability.” I pull Ismerie closer, my arm around her waist. Let them see. Let them understand that I’ve chosen her over everything they represent. “Fear isn’t order. It’s only fear. And if Blackhook City can’t survive without the gallows, then maybe it deserves to fall.”

Varn rises from his seat. His face has gone the particular shade of purple that precedes apoplexy.

“Brannok Redrope, you are hereby stripped of your position as Gallows Warden. A bounty of five hundred gold marks is placed on your head. You are declared rogue, enemy of the state, and condemned to death by hanging.” He slams his palm against the desk. “Guards! Arrest him!”

The chamber doors burst open.

Halvard enters first, his loyal guards at his back. Behind them come the council’s men—soldiers who have never served under me, who know the gallows only as a distant threat.

“Captain Halvard.” Varn’s words carry triumphant certainty. “Arrest the traitor and his witch.”

Halvard looks at me. Looks at Ismerie. Looks at the council members in their elevated seats, their hands unstained by the blood they’ve ordered spilled.

“No.”

The word echoes through the chamber.

“Sir?” One of his guards—Torren, who has served the execution platform for eight years—steps forward uncertainly.

“I said no.” Halvard draws his blade, but points it at the council’s men rather than at me. “The Warden’s right. I’ve watched what the gallows have become. I’ve seen the innocent hang alongside the guilty. I’ve sensed the wrongness in the ropes, the hunger in the wood.” He meets my eyes. “If he says the executions stop, then the executions stop. Anyone who wants to argue can take it up with my blade.”

Half my guards step forward to join him. The other half hesitate, torn between loyalty and self-preservation.

“This is treason.” Thessa’s words have gone shrill. “You’ll all hang for this!”

“Maybe.” I guide Ismerie toward the door, keeping myself between her and any potential threat. “But not today. And not on your gallows.”

We leave the council chamber with rebellion at our backs and chaos ahead.

The city fractures within hours.

Word spreads faster than fire through dry timber—the Gallows Warden has turned traitor. The executions have stopped. The platform stands empty, its ropes swaying without wind, its floor unstained by fresh blood for the first time in living memory.

Some citizens celebrate. I see them in the streets as we make our way back to the Execution Hall—families of the condemned, weeping with relief that their loved ones won’t die at dawn. Death witches emerging from hiding, their amethyst-tinged eyes bright with cautious hope. The poor and the desperate, who have spent their lives cowering under the gallows’ shadow, daring to walk with their heads held high.

Others riot.

“Traitor!” A stone flies past my head, missing by inches. The thrower is a merchant I recognize—his brother was hanged for theft three months ago, and now he blames me for not carrying out the same sentence on others. “Orc scum! You let the witches live while honest men die!”

I pull Ismerie behind me, shielding her with my body. More stones follow. More screams. The crowd that has gathered isn’t a mob—not yet—but it’s close. Fear and confusion have curdled into rage, and rage needs a target.

“Keep moving.” Halvard flanks us, his blade drawn. “We need to get off the streets.”

We push through the chaos. Ismerie’s hand grips mine with desperate strength, her ending magic flickering at the edges of my vision. She could unleash it—I’ve seen what she can do when threatened—but she holds back. Killing would only make things worse.

A woman blocks our path. Young, grief-carved, wearing the black of permanent mourning.

“My daughter.” Her words are barely a whisper. “You hanged my daughter. Two weeks ago. Fifteen years old, accused of stealing bread.” She stares at me with eyes that have seen too much death. “Now you say the executions stop. Now you say it was wrong.” Her hands clench into fists. “Where was your mercy when she was begging for her life?”

I have no answer. There is no answer.

Ismerie steps forward, puts herself between me and the grieving mother. “He can’t undo what’s been done. No one can. But he can stop it from happening again. He can make sure no more mothers lose their children to a platform that feeds on innocent blood.”

The woman stares at her. At the claiming sigil visible on Ismerie’s collarbone. At the way I’m holding onto her like she’s the only thing keeping me upright.