The air within the kingdom pulsed with whispers—taverns hummed with murmurs, market stalls exchanged more gossip than goods, and even the palace walls couldn't hush the tide of talk. Only a week had passed since Fifi had been taken as King Arthro's new concubine, yet the court was already stirred once again by a decree that chilled the blood of even the boldest.
"The dancer who dared to raise a blade against the King shall be executed," the crier's voice had rung out from the palace balcony. "In public. On the thirteenth of April."
A collective gasp had swept through the gathered crowd. Not just for the crime, but for the punishment. A public execution—unheard of since King Robert's time, when bloodshed behind closed doors was the preferred method. But King Arthro was not Robert. He had ascended the throne on blood sacrifices and whispers of the occult, with a crown forged from the ashes of rebellion. Mercy was not his language. Fear was.
Now, with the decree echoing through the streets and across the courtyards, the kingdom trembled under the weight of its meaning. This was not just about a failed assassin. It was a message.
So loud was the news that it penetrated even the sanctity of the inner palace. And within the soft-walled beauty of the Hibiscus Palace, it reached Fifi's ears like the slow drip of poison into wine.
She sat by the window, the pale light of dusk catching in her dark curls as she gently plucked petals from a bowl of real hibiscus flowers. Her attendants stood in silence, uncertain whether to speak or to shrink further into the shadows.
"Is it true?" Fifi asked softly, her voice almost inaudible.
One of the handmaidens stepped forward, her head bowed. "Yes, my lady. The dancer... they say she was caught with a blade hidden in her silks. She will be executed at the Grand Square."
Fifi let a petal fall onto the marble floor. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly.
"So soon," she murmured, almost to herself. "So public."
Her gaze moved to the balcony, to the sky dyed in dying pinks and purples. The same square where she once danced beneath moonlight, luring eyes and hearts alike—was now to be stained with death.
A silence stretched between them, but it was not empty. It was filled with memory, fear, and the rising pulse of something deeper—perhaps regret... or perhaps rage.
"They want to make an example of her," said another handmaid in a hushed tone. "To show the people what happens when one raises a hand against the King."
Fifi's eyes narrowed. "Then they've chosen the perfect puppet."
The petals in her bowl were now all but gone.
She rose slowly, her silken robes whispering secrets as she walked to the mirror. Her reflection stared back—beautiful, yes, but haunted. A dove in a gilded cage... or perhaps something else, waiting for the right moment to spread its wings.
"Let them watch," she whispered. "Let them all watch."
---
The 13th of April broke not with birdsong, but with tension. The air above the city was heavy, as though the sky itself held its breath. From the crack of dawn, people began gathering in the Grand Square—peasants from the outer farmlands, merchants from the bustling streets, and strangers with cloaks pulled tight to their faces. Some had traveled days to be here, to witness the spectacle that would be spoken of for generations.
In the center of the square, where the royal fountain once stood, a tall execution tower had been built in haste. Dark stone and iron rods held it together like a monolith of consequence. It towered high so that no matter how far back you stood in the crowd, you would see the blade fall. That was the point. Not punishment—performance.
On this day, the King would show what became of those who dared to defy him. And not just any rebel—but a legend in flesh.
She was known simply as the dancer.
From the southern deserts she had come—not as a herald, not as a bride, not as a merchant. She came wrapped in silks, bearing stories in her eyes and fire in her step. She came to kill the King.
Now she was in chains.
The crowd turned as the iron doors at the edge of the square creaked open. A procession of armored guards marched through, and between them, the prisoner walked. Slender. Silent. Shackled.
She moved slowly, the chains at her feet allowing only measured steps. Her arms were bound at the wrist and elbow, her body draped in a torn garment that hinted at former elegance. The crowd watched with a mix of horror, fascination, and awe. Her skin held the sun-touched warmth of desert winds. Her black hair, though unkempt, still clung to her shoulders like trailing embers. But her face—it held nothing.
No hatred.
No fear.
No sorrow.
Just stillness. The kind that made people uncomfortable, unsure if she was even human.
"That's her?" someone whispered.
"The desert witch?"
"They say she danced for the King the night she tried to slit his throat."
"She failed, didn't she?"
"Obviously."
The tower's staircase loomed ahead, narrow and steep. Two guards flanked her closely as she began to climb. Every clink of her chains against the stone echoed across the square like a tolling bell.
At the top, the silhouette of the King waited.
King Arthro stood tall, his royal cloak cascading behind him in red waves. His silver crown glinted like a second blade beneath the sun, and though his face was calm, it bore the expression of a man who had won—of a ruler who had crushed defiance underfoot. Beside him stood his ever-silent Southern General, Quashin, whose armor bore no shine, only the dull memory of battles won in blood.
The King raised a hand and the square went quiet.
"People," his voice rang out, enhanced by enchantment, "you gather here not for cruelty, but for clarity."
His gaze swept across the crowd, and then settled on the kneeling figure behind him.
"She came to us not in chains, but in beauty. Not as an invader, but as art. A dancer. A vision of grace. And yet"—he stepped aside so they could all see her—"beneath the veil was steel. Poison. Treachery. She came not for peace. She came for my life."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Some voices shouted in rage. Others remained silent.
"She failed," the King continued, "and her failure is the reason we stand today with a kingdom unshaken. But what if she had succeeded? What if the knife had been quicker? The guards slower? You would have woken to chaos. To fire and blood."
He turned, facing her now.
"But that did not happen. And it never will. Because this tower will remind you—loyalty keeps you safe. Obedience keeps you alive."
He nodded once to General Quashin, then descended the tower stairs without another word. His cape fluttered in his wake, like a final red warning.
The executioner, cloaked and faceless, stepped forward. His blade, long and slightly curved, gleamed like it had waited for this very moment.
The guards guided the dancer forward, placing her on her knees before the chopping block. A metallic brace of glowing runes held her in place. Still, she didn't flinch. Her eyes never shut. Her lips didn't tremble.
The crowd held their breath.
The sword lifted.
And in that instant—she looked up.
Not at the blade. Not at the crowd.
At someone.
Across the sea of faces, past the gawking and weeping and wide-eyed stares, a single figure stood apart. Cloaked in violet, unmoving, unreadable. And though no one else noticed them, she did.
Her eyes softened, and—like a candle catching its final flame—she smiled.
Not defiantly. Not smugly. But truly. It was a smile full of longing, of thanks, of remembrance. A farewell disguised as peace.
Her lips moved. A whisper too faint for the crowd to hear:
"Live well, my..."
The sword fell.
One clean, final stroke.
Her body crumpled forward as her head dropped into the basket laid beneath her. The air held for a heartbeat longer—then snapped.
The crowd erupted. Some cheered, fists raised in bloodlust. Others turned away, too shaken to face what they'd just witnessed. A few wept openly. One woman fainted. A child sobbed. A man vomited.
But the violet-cloaked figure remained still.
At the base of the tower, King Arthro stood once more beside General Quashin. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply looked upon the trembling crowd with a quiet satisfaction—his only expression that of measured victory. He hadn't just silenced a threat. He had reminded the people what fear looked like.
And fear remembered.
Guards swept forward to carry away the remains. The square began to clear. The tower would soon be cleaned, its stones washed until no sign of blood remained. But no amount of water would cleanse what the people now carried in their memories.
The violet figure did not leave immediately.
They stood there long after the sun rose higher, after the crowd thinned, after the silence returned. And when they finally did turn away, it was not with vengeance in their stride.
It was with purpose.
---
In the Hibiscus Garden Palace, Concubine Fifi sat still as porcelain, framed by swaying robes and murmuring maids. The royal guards stood at attention nearby, their presence a quiet cage. No one spoke of the execution that had taken place earlier that morning. No one dared to. Yet the air was heavy, and the sky — the sky was screaming.
A flood of colors bled into each other above her — deep violet, rust red, burnt gold. It was a painting smeared by grief. The kind of sky no one forgets.
Fifi's gaze was lifted, calm, unreadable. But her eyes — her swallow-like eyes — chased the horizon as if it held her last breath. It had happened from a distance, beneath the cold clarity of daylight, yet the memory now burned brighter beneath the setting sun. She could still hear it, still feel it, like it had only just been spoken.
Live well, my lady.
Her heart lurched.
The dancer was gone. Executed beneath the harsh sun, without plea or pause. Condemned for attempting to kill King Arthro. A criminal. But once — once — she'd been something else. A flicker of rebellion, a whisper of warmth in the southern Barbarian desert. A woman who had looked at Fifi like she was more than just a pretty smile beneath silk veils.
But now, Fifi sat in her garden like the good concubine she had become.
A tray of tea was placed beside her. A maid fanned her lazily, another tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. They watched her, always. There was no room for tears. No space for sighs. Grief, in this garden, was not allowed to bloom.
So she didn't cry.
But her fingers tightened slightly around her sleeve. Her posture stayed perfect. Her expression soft. Distant.
The guards wouldn't notice. The maids were trained not to ask.
But she couldn't risk a single glance too sharp, a tremble too visible. It wasn't impossible to sneak a spy among maids — to lift her eyes just enough to catch the farewell burning above. But it had to be done with care.
She tilted her chin upward, feigning boredom.
And there it was.
That last, wild burst of color. Like a soul being released.
Live well, my lady.
The wind stirred her sleeve gently, as if brushing against her one last time.
Fifi smiled faintly, as if lost in idle thought.
Inside, she was breaking.
But outside, she was just a flower in bloom.
Unmoving. Beautiful. Untouched by death.
---