The ropes around Kyros’s wrists dig painfully into his skin, but it is the blindfold that bothers him the most. Being tugged and yanked through darkness, tripping over even the smallest pebbles, Kyros finds himself cursing under his breath every few steps or so.

To make it all the worse is Sir Jernal, and the miserable noises of triumph he keeps making.

“Make way, make way! For the Captain of the South Gate and his prisoners! Make way, make way, for the traitors of Kesrock, for sure!”

Though he cannot see it, Kyros can hear the arrogant smile in the man’s voice.

“Make way, for the traitors of our King!”

“The twin goddesses damn him, the pig bastard,” Cathra swears from behind Kyros. “I’m going to scoop out his eyes and chew them between my teeth like cherries.”

“Shut up, traitor,” a gruff male voice grumbles from somewhere off to the side, “unless you want me to rip that treacherous tongue straight out of your mouth.”

“Try it and you’ll lose your fingers,” Cathra snaps back.

Kyros hears a fleshy slap followed by Cathra’s surprised yelp. The rope binding their hands together tugs sharply and Kyros’s heart leaps to his throat. He holds his breath, waiting for the tightening yank that means Cathra’s collapse, but it never comes and they keep on walking.

“Make way,” Sir Jernal continues to shriek from the front, “for the traitors of the realm!”

The march across the city feels much longer than it should. Kyros can feel the sunlight shifting over him but he has no way to tell if it is mid-day or afternoon. He knows they started from the Northern Sector early this morning, but has no idea which sector he and Cathra are in now.

Actually, he has some idea.

First, it was likely the East Sector, where the majority of eateries and food venues are located. He knows that by the scraps of rotten foods hurled at his face. Someone must’ve thrown an egg too, because the gel has hardened and now sticks against the side of his head like paste.

After that, they must’ve gone directly through the city towards the West Gate, as the things that were thrown at them were a combination of stones and wood shavings, all leftovers of the craftsmen and tradespeople populating the West.

That means we are most likely in the South Sector now.

Kyros guess this mainly because he has not been hit by anything for a while. And he also hasn't heard any booing from the crowd, now that he's paying more attention to it.

“Make way, citizens!” Sir Jernal’s voice cracks, the strain in his vocals obvious now that Kyros has a sense of time. “Make way for the traitors!”

He must’ve yelled for half a day, Kyros thinks as he forces his legs to keep carrying him. I hope the bastard goes mute after this.

A sharp jerk on the line makes Kyros stumble. He lurches forward, his feet still locked in their trance-like state even though his body has stopped moving. He does not fall as he expects though, and is instead grabbed by rough hands and hauled across the hard ground.

"Up," a gruff voice commands.

Kyros feels wooden steps beneath him, his feet fumbling as he is forced to climb.

“Com’on,” the same voice barks. “Get movin’ or I’ll shove yer up there with a stick up yer arse.”

After a few jostles later and Kyros is finally on the platform, standing somewhere high up where the wind blows comfortably against his sunburnt face.

He knows exactly where he is, even before someone shoves him against a cold pillar of wood.

They’re going to whip us in front of our own people.

The ropes around his wrists come off briefly so he can be tied to the wooden pillar, and the short respite comes so suddenly Kyros doesn't have time to enjoy it before splinters pierce into his arms and wrists. Next to him, he hears the sound of Cathra undergoing the same treatment as him.

"Move, wench, before I shove yer-"

"Stick up my butt, I get it," Cathra cuts the gruff man off. "Why don't you try climbing stairs with a blindfold on?"

Another slap silences her.

Kyros tries not to imagine the utter humiliation and pain his captain must be in.

I failed us. If I was stronger, I could’ve fought the Blood Devil alongside her. Then we might’ve been able to capture it and give solid, undeniable proof.

His blindfold is whipped off, flooding Kyros's world with light. After so long in the dark, the brightness feels intrusive. Kyros tries to turn away but he is bound too tightly to the lashing pole.

“Can't move, eh scoundrel? I tied yer up good.”

A man in a cracked leather vest steps in front of him, holding a length of short, coarse rope. He has a beard so dirty Kyros cannot tell if it’s supposed to be black or brown.

"On second thinks, maybe I outta loosen you a bit," says the man. "Then I can try out me new crossbow." He gives his leg a tap, where a small wooden crossbow is strung. "Yer look like yer run fast."

Kyros stays still and lets the man finish binding him. His body aches from the many cuts and bruises he sustained during the walk through the city, and he bites back cries of pain whenever the rope grazes over them.

Think of Cathra, he tells himself. Think of Cathra and be strong. Do it for her.

“Hey, I think I can see the Blacksmith from here.”

Kyros turns to Cahtra, shocked by her casual remark. But the greater shock comes at seeing her state. Bits of lettuce and fruit are stuck to her matted hair in clumps, and dried blood runs down one side of her face from where a rock must’ve struck her.

Yet, amazingly, the woman still manages to smile.

“Damn that guy. He still owes me seventy-five silver bits.”

“Be quiet wench,” growls the bearded man. “I’ll get to yer soon enough.”

Cathra chuckles. “I see the Lord Commander still employs filth to do his dirty work.”

The bearded man backhands Cathra across the face. “I says to be quiet!”

Kyros starts to shout, but his voice is nothing compared to Cathra’s roar.

“Untie me you swine! Fight me like a man!” She thrashes against the pole so hard Kyros hears the sound of wood splitting. "Unless you don't have the balls to do so!"

The bearded man goes up to slap her again but Cathra snaps towards him and catches his fingers between her teeth.

There is a moment of horrified silence as everyone realizes what has happened.

Cathra chomps down, snapping digits like carrots.

The bearded man howls and stumbles backward across the platform. Kyros watches, his shock mounting, as the man trips near the ledge and titters over it. The man's eyes bulge, his arms pinwheeling. He spots Kyros and reaches out with one fingerless hand, but then Kyros blinks and the man is gone.

A second later, he hears a heavy thump below.

Cathra spits out the remains of the bearded man. "Amateurs!" she yells, blood trickling down her chin. “You better whip me till I die because the moment I get off this pole-”

An armored man steps up and strikes Cathra in the side of the head with the butt of a spear. Her head jerks violently to one side and she slumps against the ropes.

“You bastards!” Kyros starts to yell but a swift jab to his gut silences him.

From off to the side, a longhorn blows. When Kyros looks up again, Sir Jernal is standing next to the now unconscious Cathra. “Gag this one,” the captain orders with a flick of his stump. “We do not need to be listening to her cries. We are not barbarians.”

Kyros watches on in horror as a length of dirty cloth is lashed around Cathra’s mouth. “Sir Jernal!” he calls quickly, straining against his bonds. “By all that is good, call this off. I’m begging you, have some sense. I’ve worked alongside you for so long. Surely you of all people should know that we at least deserve a more thorough investigation.”

Sir Jernal turns to give him a sad look. “Did I not warn you, Kyros? That if you keep shirking your duties then one day you’re going to end up in the north. I warned you, for sure I did.” He waves his stump at him. “Now be quiet and suffer your due punishment or I’ll be forced to gag you too, like an animal. I don’t want to do that to you, for sure not. None of us want that. We are not barbarians.” He turns and marches to the front of the platform, his red cape flapping behind him.

“People of Kesrock!” Sir Jernal’s voice echoes in Kyros’s ears, too loudly for any of it to make sense. “Behold, the traitors of this city!”

A wave of murmuring, confusion, and shock spices the air with a tangible bitterness.

Kyros turns his gaze on the crowd below. More than a hundred people, their eyes wide and faces drawn with bafflement, stare up at him. Most of them seem to be from the Southern Sector, but Kyros does not recognize their faces. They whisper and point at him. Some are shaking their heads. A few are starting to leave already.

Get a good, long look, he thinks, staring back at the crowd. And see how unjust this city really is.

The platform he and Cathra are tied to stands more than two stories higher than the nearby houses, which gives Kyros a splendid view of the city. Directly in front of him, he can see the stone wings of the south gate's griffons. It is a post he never will guard again.

He looks to his left, where Nranhana’s Needle can be seen poking out from its little island. Since his first day in Kesrock, Kyros has wondered what the white flower bulb on top of the crystal dome is supposed to be, but even a decade later he has not found an answer to that question.

Sir Jernal waves his stump across the crowd and starts to scream. “My citizens, these two here have been found guilty of treason! In the eyes of goddesses and men today they have proclaimed their guilt, and are here before you to accept the punishment they deserve for their crimes, for sure!"

Shock ripples through the crowd.

From behind him, an armor-clad knight Kyros doesn’t recognize marches past to stand next to Sir Jernal, clutching a thick ornate scroll in one hand. The knight is a child next to the captain, and when he unfurls the scroll to read it, his voice is squeaky with youth.

And very familiar to Kyros.

“B-by the legislation dictated by the Royal Decree of His Majesty, Icheonsoll, the K-King of Gandolia and rightful ruler of the realm,” Timothy yells with a quiver to his voice, “the two knights who stand before you today have been plotting plans…” he pauses to clear his throat, “have been plotting treacherous plans against our Great King!”

Kyros can almost not believe his ears. He knew Tim from the first day of the boy's graduation. They were assigned to the same room in the barracks, and were both astonished to learn the other shared similar enthusiasm for poetry and art. How many times have they supped together in the mess hall, or debated through the night over various works and ideas?

As the young knight continues his voice seems to grow bolder. He gestures at Kyros and Cathra proudly as if displaying them like cattle.

“They shall be punished,” he announces, “with fifty lashes each!”

More gasps come from the crowd, but whether it’s from disbelief, horror, or excitement, Kyros cannot tell. He closes his eyes. He does not want to believe that the boy in front of him, proclaiming his alleged crimes, is the same Timothy who shares a bunk room with him.

“But instead of the death that traitors to the King deserve, they have been mercifully given another chance to redeem themselves in the mountains,” Timothy goes on, sounding and looking more and more like Sir Jernal with each grand gesture of his arms. “These two criminals will be exiled to the northern Battlement of Maria so they may serve the King for the remainder of their lives!”

Timothy refolds the scroll and slides it neatly back in its container. He finishes with, “As the King decrees.”

Somewhere from within the crowd, a man shouts, “But that’s Captain Stelias!”

“She’s our Captain!” shouts another. “This is a mistake!”

“And that young man!” A woman exclaims from somewhere else. “I know him! He’s just an artist!”

Hearing their suspicions approved, the crowd begins yelling and throwing their questions at Sir Jernal and his knights.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asks one.

“What have they done to deserve this?” asks another. And like an amorphous being, the citizens of the South Gate surge towards the raised platform, demanding explanations and answers. Sir Jernal gives a signal and the knights at the base of the platform raise their swords and shields like a wall of steel, threatening to cut down anyone daring enough to get closer.

“Sound the horn,” the captain commands, and another shrilling blast blares through the square, stilling the rowdiness before it has a chance to turn into proper chaos.

“My great and wonderful people of the Kesrock!” Sir Jernal holds his arms out to the public like a priest beholding his flock. Kyros guesses that from his vantage point above the crowd, the man probably feels like a king, deluded and power-hungry as he is.

“This woman,” Sir Jernal says, pointing at Cathra with his stump, “this vile scum is no longer deserving to be your captain. She is worse than beast-folk, I say! Viler than trolls, for sure!”

Sir Jernal points his stump at himself next. “But do not worry, my citizens! For I vow to pick up the torch from where it is dropped! May the goddesses of life and death be my witnesses as I serve you with a just and honorable heart!”

Kyros hears Cathra moan as she comes to.

When he finishes his grand speech, Sir Jernal makes a flourish with his arms and waits expectantly for an ovation. But no one acknowledges him or his rambles. Many from the outer edges of the crowd have started to disperse, while others are beginning to curse loudly at the show of bigotry. Kyros suddenly finds himself touched, but before he can savor the feeling Sir Jernal has turned back to him.

“May your punishment be a deterrence to any other evils hiding in the shadows, for sure,” says the captain simply, and then strides off the platform without a second glance.

Timothy follows the South Gate Captain, his head down so Kyros cannot see the boy's eyes.

I wonder what they look like. Are they clear with purpose or tight with guilt?

Cathra mumbles something but her gag makes it impossible for Kyros to understand her. With how tightly he is tied, Kyros can only turn his head so far and cannot see the expression on her face, which makes it all the worse when he hears the clanking of steel on wood.

Footsteps, he realizes, as the world shudders. From his peripheral vision, he spots a hulking black shape emerging head first onto the platform.

His stomach drops with each shaking step.

With a final heave, the massive creature lumbers up the last step and makes his way over, the wooden platform groaning under him. Too soon, Kyros is able to look the flogger in the face.

Bulky and hairy, the man is more akin to a monster. The animal hide vest seems barely able to contain the muscles in his chest, and the man’s tree trunk legs stretch his leather breaches to bursting. He wears no shoes, so a trail of soot follows the giant as he stomps to a stop in front of Kyros and Cathra.

A black mask covers everything but the flogger’s eyes, which are like stones, Kyros notes. Hard and empty.

With a practiced hand, the giant unhooks the thick leather coil from his belt and lets it unfurl to the ground. The coil slaps against the wood and writhes like the oily body of a snake. When the man takes a practice swing, the whip’s point whistles and explodes with a thunderclap.

“Which’n of yous wants to be first?” The man snarls in a dense voice, to which Kyros replies,

“Me,” at the same time Cathra grunts,

“Mmh.”

The man guffaws. “There ain’t none honor in what’s bout to happen, lovebirds.” He winds the whip round and round his meaty hand. “It gonna hurt the same who’er go first.”

Kyros speaks up. “I will take all one-hundred lashes, sir.”

The man shakes his head slowly from side to side. “Na. It dun work like that.”

Kyros tries again. “I will take thirty more so that she will take thirty less.”

“Mmmh!” Cathra exclaims through her gag.

The flogger lets his whip uncoil. “I says, it dun work like that.” He gives the whip another crack to mark his point. “I give more to your girl if yous like. But none get any less than they get.”

Kyros stares into the flogger’s face imploringly. Please, he tries to convey through silence and desperation, let me at least lessen her pain, if I can’t shield her from it.

But the flogger just stares back at Kyros through his black, leather mask.

Kyros tries a different tactic. “Come on, my good sir. You can’t seriously be thinking of whipping a woman, can you?”

When the flogger laughs this time, the sound is like rocks crunching.

“Oh yes I am.”

He grins delightfully at Kyros. His teeth are brown and rotted. “But I will honor yous for your courage, my good sir, and whip you first.”

The flogger swings the whip high over his head in a wide, graceful arc. “So you won’t be waking to hear your girl scream.”

With a sudden tension that rolls through his entire massive body, the flogger brings the whip hurtling across Kyros’s chest.

The last thing Kyros hears before his world bursts into blood and pain is the sound of Cathra screaming out his name.