Evening bled into nightfall over Velmira.
The sun's last light painted the sky in hues of burnt orange and crimson, fading fast into violet. Shadows stretched long across the cobbled streets, flickering with the angry tongues of torches lining the village square. A heavy silence blanketed the crowd that had gathered—hundreds of villagers, pressed together like cattle, their faces twisted with anticipation, fear, and for some, cruel excitement.
At the center of it all stood the execution platform—old, stained with the ghosts of the past, and now reborn for tonight's spectacle. Iron chains rattled against the wooden planks as Khaos was dragged forward, wrists and ankles bound, his head held down by two armored knights.
The air was thick. The sky above, turning a deep blue, offered no comfort. Not a single star had dared to shine.
Villagers whispered.
"Is that him?" "The cursed boy." "His parents nearly doomed us all."
Khaos's face was bruised, his lip cracked, and his ragged clothes hung loose from his malnourished frame. Yet his violet eyes, the color of storm clouds laced with lightning, stared straight ahead.
From the back of the crowd, Ser Rothan had just arrived. He had been searching for a way in—something, anything—to delay or halt the execution. But when he saw Khaos being dragged onto the platform, a pang of guilt twisted in his chest.
He melted into the crowd, the hood of his dark cloak pulled over his head. His fingers twitched at his sides, knuckles white.
Lord Ferrin stood tall on the dais to the right of the platform, donned in navy robes embroidered with golden lions. His hair was short and peppered with gray, his chin sharp, and his eyes colder than the stones underfoot. Next to him stood several council members—old, grim men clutching scrolls and muttering amongst themselves.
A loud clang rang out as the executioner emerged, his face hidden behind a black iron mask. He dragged a heavy broadsword behind him, its edge gleaming.
Khaos was forced to his knees, and chains were locked to iron bolts drilled into the platform.
A council member stepped forward and unrolled a scroll.
"Khaos, son of traitors, you are brought before the people of Velmira, accused of conspiring to breach the barrier, luring a Xylen into our forest, and causing the death of two noble children. Do you deny these crimes?"
Khaos didn't answer. He stared into the crowd, as if trying to find someone—anyone—who believed him.
"As you refuse to speak," the man continued, "we hereby carry out the judgment decided by the Council of Velmira. Execution, to be held immediately."
A gasp rippled through the villagers. Some looked uncertain. A few even stepped back. A child clung to her mother's skirts, whispering, "Why does he look so sad?"
From his place in the crowd, Rothan's jaw tightened. He couldn't act—not here, not yet. His plan was too fragile, too unready. But the sentence being immediate... he hadn't expected that. Time was slipping.
He turned, pushing back through the crowd. His mind raced. There had to be another way.
On the platform, the executioner stepped forward, lifting the broadsword with both hands.
The air trembled.
One of the knights asked Khaos quietly, "Any last words?"
Khaos raised his head. The wind caught his black-and-white hair, tossing it like ash and snow.
"You all fear me because you fear the truth," he said, voice clear and sharp. "You need someone to blame. My parents tried to escape—yes. But it was you who failed to protect the village, you who let your greed and pride blind you. Ferrin... you raised a son who thought he was a god. I tried to save him, and now I'm here."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Lord Ferrin's brow twitched. Anger flashed in his eyes. A woman in the crowd covered her mouth. Even the executioner hesitated.
Then—
A roar shattered the stillness.
It came from the forest.
Low at first. Then louder. Closer. A sound like the earth groaning in pain, mixed with the scream of something ancient.
"Xylen!" someone shouted from the outer edge of the crowd. A young man, breathless, his tunic torn and stained. "A Xylen breached the forest! It's coming this way!"
Panic erupted like wildfire. Screams pierced the air as villagers stumbled back, some running, others frozen in place. The council members began to shout orders. Knights ran for the perimeter.
Lord Ferrin barked, "Get the execution done now! Do it before—"
But Rothan was already gone.
He disappeared into the panic, his heart thundering in his chest. He didn't know how, or why, another breach had occurred—but it was the window he needed. He had one chance to save the boy who should never have been on that platform.
On the platform, the executioner looked to Ferrin.
"Do it!" Ferrin roared.
The blade rose.
Khaos, chained, bleeding, his body trembling from pain and exhaustion—looked up at the sky.
No stars.
Just the storm.