Thunderous clouds swarmed above the palatial courthouse, as if they were made from swollen black ink. Electricity flickered within, causing sonorous reverberations throughout the capital city. The sun had long set behind the bulwark of clouds. A vicious void leered at the courthouse, awaiting the conviction of Horyd Coeden.

Snow gently floated onto Pentref from above, almost ethereal in nature, though it was incongruous to the thunderclouds. A thin veneer of white powder settled onto the cobblestone streets and buildings. The season of death had reared its head to witness the sentencing with expectation.

Inside a hidden room within the Royal Courts of Justice, six men and four women dined at a mahogany dining table. Their cutlery carved at their food, and they drank their wine from goblets. A rich aroma pervaded the room, the scent was intoxicating.

King Brenin placed his hand onto the table to initiate their discussion. His hand rested upon gold leaves, which lined the table, and an embroidered tablecloth made from golden thread.

“I want your decisions,” King Brenin barked. “Addoli Aethnenni, do you judge Horyd Coeden guilty or not guilty of heresy and treason?”

“Guilty.” Addoli Aethnenni responded.

“Lucien Blodyn?”

“Guilty.” Lucien responded.

“Hiraetha Coeden?”

“Guilty.”

“Uriel Helygen?”

“Guilty.”

“Morrigan Honnen?”

“Guilty.”

“Ceidol Ilwynfen?”

“Guilty.”

“Cleddyf Lafant?”

“Guilty.”

“Ilyn Masarn?”

Ilyn Masarn gave a look of defeat and gulped the contents of his wine glass. He had been thoroughly bested by Eiddil and Malus during the trial to the point of humiliation. All the evidence pointed to only one acceptable conclusion, no matter the personal relationships involved.

“Guilty.” Ilyn Masarn whispered out.

“Through a unanimous ruling, the aristocracy judge Horyd Coeden to be guilty. I accept the ruling and it has royal assent,” King Brenin looked towards a fragile elder man who sat with them at the table. “Holy Father, what is your ruling?”

“I am of the same opinion. He is guilty of treason and heresy of the highest of calibres.” The Pontiff responded with an unyielding expression. King Brenin clapped his hands.

“I hereby judge Horyd Coeden to be guilty of treason and heresy. He is to be sentenced to public execution tomorrow morning at dawn,” King Brenin ordered. “At noon, preparations will be held for the appointment of Afon Coeden to replace Cardinal Peace within the College of Cardinals. 3pm is when ceremony shall be held.”

“As you wish, your Royal Highness.” All members of the room stood up and bowed at the King’s commands. Led by Lucien, they exited the room one after the other, careful not to turn their back on King Brenin, until the King was the only one left.

He slumped against the table, exhaustion taking a toll on him. His face was awfully pale, nearing grey, and deep crevices of age furrowed his brow. He shakily picked up a bottle of red wine and drank from it until it was empty.

A lone, small tear was shed from his eye, trailing through the wrinkled valleys of his face, as he mourned his decision to execute one of his last true friends in Cymorth.

———

A man stood atop of a wooden crate before an ornate fountain of magnificent design in the centre of Pentref’s marketplace. With a bell in hand, he called out to the people delivering grand speeches about the latest news.

“A unanimous decision has been ruled by the three Great Institutions. The Monarchy, Aristocracy, and Church rule Horyd Coeden to be guilty of the charges: heresy and treason,” the town crier bellowed into the evening crowd. “King Brenin Helygen has declared that Horyd Coeden is to be executed here tomorrow at dawn. Wooden scaffolds shall be prepared to allow all to witness. Attendance from the citizens of Pentref is compulsory. It shall be observed by the public as a demonstration against rebellion.”

A writhing crowd had gathered around the town crier. It was as if it pulsed with anxiety to the ringing of his bell, emitting an aura of fear. It was incredibly rare that an aristocrat would be executed, even more so than being put on trial.

Aristocrats were traditionally above the law within Cymorth due to their divine mandate to rule. Any decision that they made were an extension of God’s will. However, aristocrats were only tried when their actions affected the interests of one of the other Great Institutions.

In this case, Horyd Coeden had extended his conflict with the Church to an unacceptable level. In the past he was given leniency against propagating misinformation about the Church, which were almost to heretical levels.

His latest attacks on the Church threatened the power dynamic within Pentref, a carefully propped up house of cards. His attempt to remove a section of this house conflicted with the interests of the many elites. Therefore, he swiftly was disposed of.

“Horyd Coeden wasn’t a man!” The crier bellowed. “He was vermin! A flea-ridden rat that swam in sewage and waste! He was a man so mired in corruption and depravity he deserved death long ago! Yet he stayed alive through his supernatural ability to con the King!”

“Thank the heavens!” A woman shouted from within the crowd.

“Thank Lucien Blodyn, the hero who routed untold evil!” An elder bureaucrat joined her in praising Lucien.

“The man who severed the corrupted limb of the aristocracy.” A younger daughter of an aristocrat cheered.

“For preserving our righteous religion, we deem him a saint! He is more than a virtuous man!” The crowd cried in unison with the town crier.

Dong! Dong! Dong!

From the distance, a great bell palpitated intermittently from Pentref’s great striking tower; it was connected to the Royal Courts of Justice. The people in the crowd all turned simultaneously to face the courthouse, reverence in their eyes. It was the sounding of the death knell. They believed that justice was to be served with the death of the King’s iniquitous advisor.

Within the bell’s reverberations, a melancholic melody was played mourning the innocent who was wrongfully accused. Laughter mocked the bell’s cry, deriding it for its petulant moans.

———

“However, Horyd Coeden is a petty and greedy man. With his death at dawn, he shall take Cymorth’s house of cards down with him; and with it, a long-entrenched system is to collapse spectacularly. Cards will fly, scattered to oblivion, and from oblivion it shall rise; an ever more atrocious insanity.” An unknown quill signed its prophecy into fate.

A hand placed the quill into an ink well, picked the letter and sealed it in an envelope. Molten wax branded the envelope shut with the press of a finely engraved stamp. The letter was not to see the light of day again.

———

Sunrise had yet to happen, despite it being just before dawn. A murder of crows scattered from the rooftops, their cries piercing the morning silence. This morning, Pentref was lit by small pockets of orange lantern light that tore through the darkness.

Grim looks were illumined by the lanterns in their hands as they sleepwalked towards the execution grounds.

Isten stood with an inscrutable expression atop of the High Walls of Reiol, looking down upon the scaffolds that were to hold Horyd’s execution. Inside, he felt anxiety bubbling within him, a nervous feeling that he was unable to dislodge.

He supported himself with a hand that rested on the stone wall. It was stable, but also rugged, digging into his palm of his hand uncomfortably. It grounded him in part in reality, away from the thoughts that he was to watch a man die before him, once again.

Morrigan, Lucien, Malus, and Eiddil stood by his side, expressionless and unemotional. Isten could not understand how they could watch so callously from afar.

Movement at the staircase of the scaffold caught Isten’s attention. The hooded executioner took their position on the platform. ‘Surely, they should be feeling something, right?’ Isten thought.

“No! I’m innocent! The Church is evil, not me!” A voice howled from the distance. A chained figure was dragged up the scaffold stairs by four guards. Isten cringed as he saw the man on death’s row.

“You are making a mistake! Destroy the Church if you want to live! The Church is the embodiment of evil!” Horyd shrieked, his voice hoarse. "Lucien! You betrayed me! You incorrigible bastard! You've destroyed Cymorth!" The guards threw him onto the floor, and he was made to kneel.

Horyd’s calls to action stoked the crowd into a fervent frenzy. Men, women and children screamed in anger; their faces transformed into a feral rage.

“Kill him!” A child screeched, their face reddened.

“Kill the heretic!” A pregnant woman yelled from the crowd.

“Behead him!” The crowd were united in their final call.

Isten clenched his hand, the jagged stone dug into his palm and broke his skin. A light trail of blood dripped down the stone wall and onto the dusty floor. He grimaced at the pain but continued to hold onto it.

The executioner brandished a gleaming backsword, its hilt was encrusted with silver floral scrolls. Today’s offender was of high rank, an aristocrat. Thus, a sword was used as a mercy. It was symbolic of being killed in battle, glory in death.

“You are all traitors to the country! You are complicit in the fall of Cymorth, the destruction of our history!” Horyd Coeden bellowed his final cry. One last attempt to persuade the people. One final attempt to clean his name of the injustice. One last cry of dejection for his country that had forsaken itself. Isten heard it all, but could do nothing about it.

A silver flash tore through space, passing through Horyd Coeden’s neck and coming out from the other side. The sword, still gleaming, showed no signs of disfigurement or impurity. It was a clean cut that severed the neck from the spine.

Isten gasped as he saw Horyd’s head roll from his body and land onto the floor heavily. His kneeling corpse collapsed next to the head, blood spluttering from both open cuts. It stained the floor crimson, his body an uncorked, spilled bottle of wine.

The crowd roared with cheer in response. Isten watched down horrified from the high wall, his face white with shock. It was unbelievable to him that anyone could participate in the crowd’s barbarism. Their jubilation in Horyd’s death was animalistic, almost to the point of it being cruel.

Isten looked up at his parents and uncles. They were too busy watching the scaffold where six priests carried a coffin up the wooden stairs to collect Horyd’s corpse. It was to be taken back to the Church so that the Coeden family could collect his inheritance later.

Isten targeted Eiddil with his gaze, to which Eiddil noticed it and turned to face Isten. Isten watched as Eiddil gave him a malformed smile before returning to watch the aftermath of the execution. Isten shook slightly, tightening his grip on the rugged stone walls.