They pointed bayonets at the crowd. All of them looked menacing, and tension crackled in the air.
I wanted to get to the front, to see the count again up close. I grabbed Finn’s hand, and started elbowing my way forward through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of protest. When I reached the front row, I glared at the line of Clovian guards. Then, I lifted my eyes to the scaffold, hardly aware of the rain now drenching me.
The crowd went deathly silent, and goosebumps rose on my skin. The silence was broken only by the rain.
I saw the dark cowl of the count as he climbed the scaffold steps. His features were in shadow, but a sword hung at his waist. Under his dark wool cloak, I caught hints of a somber gray suit. Those clothes alone could be fourteen thousand crowns, and every finely clothed inch of him exuded malice.
“Citizens of Dovren. You may wish to defy me, but it won’t end well for you.” His voice was quiet, yet somehow, it seemed to tremble over the wood and stone. An otherworldly voice forged in the shadows of Hell. “It seems hanging you from my castle walls isn’t enough to deter your rebellious actions. I will execute you, one by one, until I’ve rid all rebels from Albia’s shores. If you strike against us, you will not win. Let today be a demonstration.”
The crowd started murmuring, and jostling, and I suspected the prisoner was coming next. Around me, people started yelling “Albia,” a simple but unified chant.
I stood on my tiptoes to try to get a look at the prisoner. His hair stuck out at all angles. He wasn’t much older than me, but a different sort of class. By the fine cut of his black shirt, buttoned up neatly, he looked positively aristocratic.
The thief in me—the magpie drawn to shiny things—immediately noticed his silver cufflinks. And something gold glinted in the center of the silver. A lightning bolt, I thought.
His hands were bound behind his back. On the right side of his neck, he had the tattoo that all Albian males got at age eighteen—the raven.
My knees shook just watching him. I really didn’t want to see him die here, didn’t want to watch the sword come down on his neck. Maybe he was from a different part of the city, but he was one of us.
“Who is he?” I whispered.
“He’s one of the Free Men,” said Finn.
“Who are they?”
“Patriots,” Finn whispered back. “The resistance. I’ve tried to get involved with them, but I need to prove myself, first. They won’t have me yet.”
That was a word Alice used to call herself—Patriot.
Count Saklas towered over the prisoner, and drew his sword. It gleamed like pale starlight in the gloomy light—a sword as unearthly as he was.
I’d never seen a beheading before. Most executions happened behind the tower walls. Most were hangings. It had been hundreds of years since anyone lopped off a head in Dovren’s streets. It was the sort of thing they might do in other countries, but not here. And here was the Angel of Death, bringing back a gruesome old tradition.
I shivered, and the cold rain slid down my skin.
When I craned my neck, I caught a glimpse of the execution block—dark wood with a curved indentation for a neck.
“Kneel.” The count’s command was so forceful and menacing, I nearly found my own knees buckling.
The young man gritted his teeth, his face red. Hyperventilating, with his hands bound behind his back, he knelt as commanded.
For one blood-chilling moment, the count’s gray eyes flicked to me. Then, he cocked his head at the prisoner. He went still—preternaturally still.
“Lower your head,” the dark menace in his voice made me shiver.
The prisoner lowered his head to the block, and I heard him grunting, trying to maintain his control. He seemed determined to die with dignity, but his whole body was shaking wildly. I could almost feel his fear from here, like a force crackling through the air, making my own heart race faster. Urine was puddling around his knees. No shame in that. This must be fucking terrifying.
With his head resting on the block, an anguished cry of “For Albia!” was ripped from his throat. The crowd roared for mercy.
Count Saklas ignored them completely. He brought the sword up, and the crowd’s cries turned now to rage, a wave of pure fury that rolled up to the scaffold. The count brought the sword down