It was early morning and the sun had not yet risen, rendering the cellblock impossibly dark. After a restless night of tossing and turning to no avail, Sascha had finally started to doze off when all of chaos broke loose. The wooden door flung open, its iron hinges screaming, allowing a stream of armored soldiers and cloaked division witches to pour into the cramped cell block. Disorientated, Sascha barely had time to stagger to his feet before his cell was wrenched open and flooded with jostling bodies.

  The witches stood back, allowing the soldiers to risk their necks bringing Sascha down. The military unit moved in as one in a tight ring, relying on sheer numbers to overwhelm the orc’s raw strength. Rope overhead, crisscrossing over his body as the soldiers worked to immobilize him. Sascha struggled and thrashed, jaws snapping, feet stomping. He knocked two soldiers to the ground and shattered the foot of a third before the unit had his arms pinned securely to his sides.

  Arms bound, tangled in rope, and surrounded by a ring of soldiers pulling to keep the tension tight, Sascha was soon immobilized. He could do little more than sway back and forth. A screeching clamor lit the air behind him. Sascha twisted his head around to find Dewpetal had met a similar fate. Being the size of an orc child, hers was on a smaller scale, naturally, but the crew tasked with her containment looked equally as nervous as the ones assembled around Sascha.

  It was impressive, actually. Sascha wagered Cray had half the military force squeezed into the cell block just for the occasion. Sascha’s gaze swept the cell block, searching for the unit’s commander. It didn’t take long. As expected, he found Sergeant Windshot pressed against the wall near the open exit, actively avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room, Sascha included.

  Oddly, no one had touched Judge Belfast’s cell yet. His barred door was still locked shut. Wincing, the old faun limped to the center of his cell and stood as tall and proud as his broken body would allow. He fixed his solemn eyes on the door to the hallway and remained silent, awaiting the inevitable.

  “Times up, old man.” Aster’s harsh voice preceded her as her cloaked form entered the cell block, lantern in hand. The lantern’s flickering flame spilled into the room, blinding all of those assembled as its warm glow painted the dingy walls in warm hues of yellow and orange. Aster’s deliberately slow steps carried her to the front of Judge Belfast’s cell. She stopped at the barred door and lifted the lantern, highlighting Trant’s battered face. “Mister Cray’s offer remains the same. Tell him where Oralia is hiding and he’ll spare your miserable life. You move back to the main house with the missus, these two here survive to see another sunrise, and your quaint little village lives happily ever after.”

  Trant squinted at the warm light flooding his face but remained otherwise still. He stood motionless, tall, and most aggravating of all, stoically silent.

  Aster tried once more. Not because she wanted the old faun to agree, Sascha suspected, but because she enjoyed drawing the stifling dread out for as long as possible. “It’s a good deal, no?”

  Stubborn, stoic Trant said nothing.

  “What a shame.” Aster feigned disappointment with a tut of her tongue. The cowl wrapped securely around her head kept her face hidden in shadow. And yet, the devilish smile that split across her lips carried over on her voice all the same. “Well, best get to it then. You’ve got an eager crowd ready and waiting.”

  Aster spun around and practically skipped her way back out in the dark hallway, calling over her shoulder, “I trust you can handle the rest from here, Lorn? No excessive hand-holding needed?”

  Sergeant Windshot reluctantly parted with the wall, his face pale and drained of color. There was an unusual hardness in his eyes. It wasn’t malicious, but brimming with the sort of purposeful apathy needed to survive his cold, changing world. “Prepare the prisoners for transfer,” he said, before addressing two of his soldiers by name and rank. “See to Judge Belfast. Escort him to the square.”

  Judge Belfast accepted his fate without resistance. He remained stock-still as the cell door creaked open and the soldiers filed inside. One tugged the judge’s arms behind his back while the other snapped manacles over his wrists before they shoved him forward, tripping and stumbling out the door. Trant broke his silence as he shuffled past. His words, riddled with guilt and sadness, were not directed at Sergeant Windshot, nor the surrounding soldiers, but at his fellow prisoners.

  “I’m sorry,” was all the judge managed as his dark, bloodshot eyes filled with tears. The soldiers marched him from the cell block and out of sight. The haunting echo of his voice grew faint with distance. “I’m so sorry.”

  Trant may have accepted his fate without a fight, but Dewpetal subscribed to the time-honored tradition of battling to the last breath. She threw herself into a violent roll, ripping the rope from her handlers’ hands, screeching at the top of her lungs as she darted between the confused unit’s legs, evading capture. The commotion stirred Cray’s pet into action. The iron crate in the corner rocked and shuddered as the caged beast inside hurled itself against the sides. Its blood-curdling snarls intermixed with Dewpetal’s war cry along with the confused shouts of the soldiers until the entire cell block was one deafening uproar.

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  Dewpetal’s tiny frame scurried past Sascha’s ankles. The soldier hot on her heels followed without thinking. Sascha felled the man with a sweep of his leg and then slammed his foot down. The man’s ribs gave way, snapping with a grizzly crunch beneath the weight of his heel. Gagging, Sascha uttered a soft apology for shattering the man’s ribcage before lashing out with his foot at the next soldier to venture within reach.

  Any other orc, big or small, would have flown into a rampage right then and there. The situation had all the makings of proper rage — the threat of execution; the smell of blood and sweat in the air, the raised, panicked voices; the cutting pain of the braided ropes as they dug deep into Sascha’s flesh each time the soldiers pulled the leads taut. Sascha certainly tried. Gave it his all. He kicked and thrashed and uttered sounds from between his tightly clenched teeth that he hadn’t ever heard before, and still, he got nothing. The blinding surge of red-hot rage refused to be summoned from the depths.

  Despite their best efforts, Dewpetal was recaptured in the end and the pair were hauled kicking and thrashing out of the cell and into the adjoining hallway. Sascha didn’t make it easy for them. The progress was agonizingly slow and he threw whatever obstacle he could to impede the journey for even a few seconds more. Ultimately, he would fail. Execution was not a matter of if, but when. But at the very least could meet his end knowing that he had not gone quietly.

  The arduous struggle from the jailhouse to the gallows was somehow both agonizingly long as if caught in slow motion, and over too quickly. As Aster had claimed, the whole town had been gathered within the square, flanked on all sides by the other half of the military force. Novera Belfast stood front and center with Cray at her side. Her stoic expression broke when Sascha and Dewpetal arrived. Forgetting herself, Novera lunged forward but was quickly wrangled back into place by the division goon positioned at her left.

  This was no mere execution of ordinary criminals. The village authority, Judge Trant Belfast, was being sentenced to death along with two traitors of the realm. As such, Cray intended to make a spectacle of it. He slowly clambered up the solid wood steps and addressed the crowd with a heavy sigh. Sascha didn’t hear a word the damn elf said. It was all an obnoxious hum as Cray laid it on thick, gesturing and emoting somber expressions of regret he obviously did not feel. It was all a farce. Hidden behind Cray’s metaphorical mask, Sascha saw the giddy excitement in his gray eyes. He relished what he was about to do.

  “Any final words?” Cray’s question cut through the noise in Sascha’s head. Snapping back to reality, Sascha ascertained that the question had been directed at Judge Belfast. One last opportunity, perhaps, to change his mind.

  Wordlessly, Judge Belfast forced a blast of air out of his nostrils. His hot breath crystallized into the cold air around him.

  “Very well. The goblin first then.” Cray swept his lithe hand in Dewpetal’s direction. A cutting smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, betraying him as he turned back to the deathly silent crowd. “Unlike before, each prisoner will be hanged one at a time, giving our dear friend Judge Belfast time to reconsider his loyalties. If his mind remains unchanged by the time the others have stopped kicking, then he’ll have the honor of joining them.”

  Sascha moved to shield Dewpetal with his body, but it was no use. His handlers heaved him out of the way before he could interfere. Poor Dewpetal was dragged up the stairs and onto the platform without delay. A noose was slipped over her head and pulled tight before her escorts stepped away, allowing the hangman to conclude the rest.

  The lever pulled. The trapdoor fell. And the little goblin dropped. Her long, clawed feet kicked desperately in the air as her rigid body slowly started to spin.

  Cray’s mouth formed a disappointed pout. “The neck didn’t snap.”

  He turned in disgust to the hangman, prompting a panicked explanation from the would-be-executioner. “The beast is too light. Not enough weight for a clean snap.”

  “I don’t have all day for this. You and you” — Cray halfheartedly gestured at a pair of soldiers assembled near the front of the crowd — “grab its feet and hurry things along.”

  “Stop!” Sergeant Windshot shouldered his way to the front, his voice cracked and filled with an abysmal lack of authority. He’d finally cracked under the pressure, unable to hide in the shadows to save his own skin any longer. He shouted to his men, “As your commanding officer, I’m ordering you to cut her down!”

  The men hesitated. Uncertain, their stares shifted from Sergeant Windshot to Cray.

  “Your orders don’t come from him!” Sergeant Windshot’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. “They come from me. Cut her down this instant!”

  Hot bile spilled from Sascha’s throat into his mouth as he watched, horrified, as the soldiers in question latched onto one of Dewpetal’s furiously kicking feet and started to pull. Cray offered the stammering sergeant a small, cutting smile before ordering his immediate arrest. The crowd shifted, bodies surging, as shouts lit the air. The noise crescendoed until it peaked, melding into an obnoxious, buzzing hum.

  A burst of heat erupted behind Sascha’s eyes. Its warmth spread like wildfire, setting his veins aflame, awakening a fury he had never felt before. His blood-curdling roar cut through the obnoxious hum as he pitched forward, yanking his handlers into striking range. The heat behind Sasha’s eyes swept over his mind, coating it in a protective fog as his vision blinked out. For a few terrifying seconds, he saw only intermittent flashes of what was happening all around him. Blood, broken limbs, the smashed, frightened faces of soldiers before the life left their bodies. The flashes, too, began to fade. Soon there was nothing except blind, red-hot rage.