Chapter 504: The Last Second

Morning had barely broken when Cherion was brought into the capital’s central square. A thick fog hung over the streets, dampening the cobblestones and turning the buildings around the plaza into blurry grey shapes.

Cherion didn’t remember being dragged out of the deep subterranean cell, nor did he remember the cold iron shackles snapping locked around his ankles. His feet were numb, raw, and caked with dried mud, trailing faint smears of blood across the damp cobblestones as two heavily armored imperial guards marched him down the stone steps of the royal prison.

He could barely keep his head up. Days in complete darkness without proper food or water had stripped every ounce of strength from his legs. His thin, weakened body swayed with every step. The coarse grey prisoner’s tunic hung loosely from his shoulders, scraping against his bruised collarbones.

The streets surrounding the central plaza were packed tight with thousands of spectators. Commoners, merchant families, and lower-tier nobles had gathered at the crack of dawn, their muffled chatter swelling into a low, roaring hum that vibrated right through the soles of Cherion’s bare feet.

"Look at him!" a voice spat from the front row of the crowd. "The arrogant young lord!"

A rotten turnip struck Cherion squarely in the shoulder, spraying wet, foul-smelling pulp across his neck. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. He kept his hollow, bloodshot eyes fixed dead ahead on the slick wooden steps leading up to the high wooden execution platform in the middle of the square.

"Traitor!" someone else jeered, followed by a handful of coarse gravel that stung his cheek and drew thin beads of dark blood. "Tried to kill the Lord Philia! Hang him! Cut him up!"

Cherion walked like a corpse already returned to dust. His ears rang with a steady, high-pitched whine. He didn’t search the crowd for familiar faces. He knew his family’s name had been officially stripped from the royal registries at midnight. He knew no former allies or friends would dare stand near the scaffold to offer a final glance of pity.

When they reached the base of the wooden platform, the guards shoved him forward. Cherion’s knees buckled immediately, slamming hard against the splintered oak steps.

"Get up," the guard behind him growled, rough leather gauntlets hauling him up by his bound elbows and tossing him onto the broad, wooden deck of the platform.

Cherion lay on his stomach for a long second, gasping for air against the cold, pine-scented planks. The smell of fresh sawdust hit his nose, placed there carefully to soak up whatever bled out when the steel came down.

The official herald stood near the edge of the scaffold, unrolling a long, heavy parchment scroll. His voice boomed across the silent plaza, amplified by a wind-element magic stone mounted on his brass collar.

"By royal decree of His Majesty the King, in concurrence with the High Council!" the herald bellowed, his words echoing off the granite facades of the surrounding townhouses. "The former noble Cherion Antel, stripped of all titles, lands, and lineage, stands convicted of high treason, unlawful dark curse deployment, and attempted murder within the royal residence..."

Cherion didn’t listen to the rest of the charges. He dragged himself onto his knees, his trembling, bruised legs barely supporting his weight.

The heavy wooden block stood at the center of the platform, dark and stained from decades of capital justice. Beside it, the executioner stood tall and motionless, clad in a thick black leather hood that completely obscured his face. In his massive, calloused hands, he held a heavy two-handed broadaxe, its polished steel blade gleaming with a dull, terrifying edge under the pale morning sun.

"Position the prisoner," the magistrate ordered from his raised chair beside the scaffold.

Two guards seized Cherion’s shoulders, pinning his arms back and forcing his upper body down over the execution block. The cold, rough wood scraped hard against his neck and jaw.

"Yerel..." Cherion whispered, his voice nothing more than a dry, broken rattle against the wood.

His eyes instinctively scanned the grand marble balcony of the high judicial building overlooking the plaza. He had hoped, somewhere in the quiet, desperate corner of his broken mind, that Yerel would come down to speak one last word, or at least stand at the front edge of the platform to watch him meet his end.

The balcony was completely empty. Yerel wasn’t there. He hadn’t even come to see the final act.

"Place your head flat," the executioner grunted softly, pressing a heavy, gloved palm down on the back of Cherion’s head to force his neck straight across the curved wooden groove.

"Any last words?" the magistrate asked, his voice cold and procedural.

Cherion closed his eyes, a single, hot tear slipping down his nose and soaking into the blood-stained sawdust below. "He’s going to destroy you all..." he muttered weakly into the dirt. "You let a snake into the house..."

"Proceed," the magistrate commanded, raising his hand.

The executioner stepped back, spreading his boots wide on the slippery wooden deck. He raised the massive broadaxe high above his right shoulder, the heavy steel catching the morning light as he took a deep, steadying breath.

The entire crowd went dead silent. The wind died down, and even the distant squawking of gulls near the harbor seemed to fade into nothingness.

Just as the shadow of the raised blade fell across the back of Cherion’s neck, Cherion forced his chin sideways, straining against the heavy hand holding him down to look toward the far back edge of the plaza, where the high iron gates of the inner court met the public road.

There, standing quietly behind a line of mounted imperial knights, sat a plain dark carriage.

Leaning against the velvet-trimmed door frame of the carriage stood Yerel, dressed in his formal blue crown prince tunic. Beside him, wrapped tightly in a thick fox-fur mantle, was Philia.

Philia was looking directly at the execution platform. His face showed no horror, no grief, and no hesitation. As Cherion’s bloodshot eyes met his from across the vast distance.

Yerel stood right beside him, his hand resting casually over Philia’s covered shoulder, looking out over the square with complete, unbothered indifference. He didn’t even look Cherion in the eyes. His gaze rested squarely on the executioner’s axe.

Cherion’s chest seized in one final, suffocating wave of realization.

The iron hand pressed down hard on the back of his neck, locking his head completely flat against the wood.

The broadaxe cut through the air with a sharp, deafening whoosh.

And Cherion’s head rolled from the execution block.