Page 74 of Orc’s Gallows

Brannok’s stride falters. “The port city?”

“The one with its own execution platform overlooking the sea.” I stop at the entrance to the Execution Hall—still standing, still serving as Brannok’s quarters, though the name has become ironic. “The platform there hasn’t been used in months. But my contact reports the ropes have started moving on their own.”

He’s silent for a long moment. The sigil on my collarbone flickers—not alarm, but awareness. The sense of his presence sharpening as his mind works through the implications.

“Another one.” His words are flat. “Another entity forming.”

“Maybe. Probably.” I turn to face him, reaching up to trace the bond on his neck. “The Judge fell, but the conditions that created it exist everywhere in the Veillands. Cities built on terror. Order maintained through blood. Ending magic accumulating in places of mass ending.”

“We can’t save every city.”

“No.” My fingers linger on his pulse point, sensing the steady rhythm beneath my touch. “But we can save this one. And we can help others who want to save theirs.”

“By traveling to port towns where ropes move on their own?” One eyebrow rises. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Dangerous is what we do.” I smile—the sharp-edged grin that makes him growl and pull me closer. “Besides, you’re getting comfortable. I can tell. All these speeches and council meetings—you’re starting to look like a politician.”

The sound he makes is half-growl, half-laugh. His arms wrap around me, lifting me off my feet, pressing my back against the stone wall of the Execution Hall. “Take that back.”

“Make me.”

His mouth finds mine—fierce and practiced and perfect. The kiss deepens, his body pressing against me, the bonds on our skin blazing in answer to each other. Three months of this, and it hasn’t gotten old. Three months of falling asleep in his arms and waking to his touch and knowing exactly where he is at every moment of every day.

When we break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

“Saltgrave.” He spits the word like a curse. “When do we leave?”

“After the council stabilizes. After the new guard rotation is established. After you’ve trained Captain Halvard to handle things in your absence.” I press my palm flat against his sternum—the steady beat that has become known to me as well as my own pulse. “A month. Maybe two.”

“And then?”

“And then we do what we did here.” I hold his gaze, let him see the certainty I sense. “Every gallows that’s fed long enough will have an anchor stone in its foundations—the same death-ward structure I found beneath ours. A death witch who knows what she’s looking for can corrupt it anywhere. A skilled executioner can hang what’s left. We find the entity feeding on Saltgrave’s fear. We destroy it. We tear down the platform and help them build a memorial in its place.”

“And the next city after that?” His words are quiet, but I hear the question beneath the question. How long? How many? How far are you willing to go?

“And the next one. And the one after that.” I rise on my toes, press my forehead to his. “As many as it takes. As long as it takes. The Veillands are full of cities that need saving, Brannok. And we’re the only ones who know how to save them.”

“We.”

“We.” I kiss the corner of his mouth. “The death witch and the executioner. The killers who decided to be heroes. Claimed and choosing, wherever we go.”

His arms tighten around me. His lips find my temple, my cheek, the bond on my collarbone.

“I love you.” The words are rough, worn from a windpipe that still isn’t used to saying them. “You know that.”

“I know.” I press closer, let him sense the truth of my answer. “I love you too.”

We stand like that as the memorial bell tolls one final time—a single note of remembrance, echoing across a city that is learning to honor its dead instead of creating them. The candles flicker in the distance. The names of the wrongfully executed shine in the moonlight. And two killers hold each other in the doorway of the Execution Hall, planning their next battle against the darkness.

It’s not redemption or absolution or the promise that everything will be easy from here.

But it’s ours. And that’s enough.

EPILOGUE

The town’s execution platform—a simple wooden stage overlooking the sea—hasn’t been used in months. The ropes hang slack and weathered, salt-crusted from ocean spray, forgotten by a populace that has grown complacent without regular hangings to remind them of authority’s reach.

But as the prisoners disembark, shuffling in chains toward the holding cells, the ropes begin to move.