The single syllable fell from Avin’s lips and struck the chamber like a stone hurled into still water. Ripples spread outward in silence, reverberating against marble walls and gold-lined pillars until it seemed the word itself lingered in the air, taunting, undeniable.
The priest doing the questioning froze for only a heartbeat before his lips curved upward. The smile grew wider and wider, grotesque in its victory, a grin that made the wrinkles of his face fold like serpents coiling. His eyes gleamed as though the heavens themselves had just delivered him this perfect outcome.
And across from Avin — Miranda shattered.
Her body trembled violently, knees buckling. Tears poured from her eyes, endless, hot rivers streaming down her cheeks. She clutched the wooden stall that confined her, gripping so tightly her knuckles turned bone-white. It was all she could do to keep herself upright, her small body wracked by sobs that tore through the chamber like knives scraping against stone.
Avin’s gaze faltered. He turned away, his jaw tightening until it ached. His own eyes narrowed, full of a disgust that burned at the inside of his chest — not disgust for Miranda, not for the council, but for himself.
Because of me... she will die.
Then the mob erupted.
From outside the temple came a roar, a single monstrous chant that grew and grew, spilling over itself, slamming against the walls like waves against cliffs:
"Execute her! Execute her! Execute her!"
It was not the chant of civilized people. It was the baying of beasts, a thousand mouths frothing with bloodlust. The sound pressed into the chamber, echoing back and forth, each repetition growing heavier, until it filled Avin’s head. It wormed into his ears, into his veins, into the marrow of his bones. He wanted to cover his ears, to drown it out — but he did not move.
Deep inside, beneath the guilt, beneath the storm of shame, a cold rational thought whispered: This was the optimal decision.
Still, his chest felt hollow as he walked stiffly, like a man being marched to his own execution, back to his place at Ashborn’s side.
Ashborn’s eyes found his the moment he sat down. Their gazes locked. Then Ashborn dipped his chin, the smallest of nods, approval cloaked in iron.
But Avin could not lift his own head. His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight of his choice. Shame dug its claws deeper and deeper. Because of me, an innocent girl is going to be executed. Her life, ended by my decision.
The chants outside reached fever pitch. The walls themselves seemed to tremble under the sheer volume of the mob.
The Elder Priest raised his fist.
At once, silence. Instant, absolute. As if a string had been pulled to cut the sound from the world. The silence was deafening, suffocating.
The inquisitor-priest straightened, his voice sharp, ringing with false justice:
"Since the young master himself has testified to the mother’s offense, I suggest to the council that the daughter be executed in her mother’s place, and judgment fall upon the corrupt Boreas family."
The words slithered through the hall, oily and thick.
All eyes turned as one to the Elder Priest. His presence was like a mountain pressing down on everyone, a pressure that made Avin’s lungs tight. The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching and stretching until it felt like the world itself was holding its breath.
Finally, the Elder spoke.
"The judgment is sustained. She shall be executed effective immediately. And the Boreas family shall face punishment, to be decided privately by this council."
The words fell like a death knell.
Avin’s eyes squeezed shut, his teeth grinding. He had known this was inevitable — but the sound of it, spoken aloud, sealed by the authority of the council, still felt like a dagger in his chest.
Miranda’s cry tore through the air.
A sound so raw, so broken, that even the marble pillars seemed to quiver. It was the cry of betrayal, of despair, of a soul drowning in grief.
The largest of the golden-armored Holy Knights strode forward. His towering figure cast a shadow over her. With one hand, he seized her chains, yanking her forward like an animal. Miranda thrashed, kicked, clawed — but the knight did not falter. He dragged her effortlessly, her pleas and sobs echoing in vain.
She begged. She screamed. She pleaded for mercy. But no one moved. No one listened. Not even Avin turned his head.
The floor split open with a grinding roar. Gears churned, heavy and mechanical, and from the depths rose a structure of wood. A rectangular platform, thick and stained deep crimson with the blood of those who had lain upon it before her. At its edge, a semi-circular groove carved perfectly for a human neck.
The stench filled the air immediately. Thick. Metallic. Putrid. The smell of blood, of death baked into the wood. It was so foul it traveled beyond the temple walls, making even those outside gag as it clung to the air.
The knight forced Miranda forward, sweeping her legs with a brutal kick. She collapsed onto the slab, her neck falling neatly into the groove as though fate itself guided it there.
The chains clattered, rattling.
Her sobbing faltered. Her thrashing ceased.
She no longer fought. She no longer cried. She no longer dared to look toward Avin, the boy she had once believed would save her. Her eyes lowered, her body slack. Hope had bled out of her completely.
All that remained was silence. Her thoughts. Her regrets.
The Elder Priest raised his fist again. The temple fell into deathly silence. Outside, even the mob hushed. Only the occasional broken sniffle from Miranda carried through the still air.
The executioner-knight slammed his greatsword into the ground three times.
The sound reverberated like thunder.
The Elder inhaled deeply, his voice ringing with ceremonial grandeur:
"Ad pedes tuos hanc desertam proferimus. Magnum peccatum fecit. Oro ut sanguis eius sanctificet statum nostrum in mundo tuo."
(We bring this abandoned child before Your feet. She has committed a great sin. I pray that her blood sanctifies our place in Your world.)
When his words faded, the knight stepped forward, his armor groaning with every motion.
He moved to Miranda’s side, raising his massive greatsword high. His stance was exact — right leg bent, left leg slid back, the blade glinting in the light of the chandelier above. He held it there, poised, waiting only for the Elder’s hand to fall.
The Elder lowered his fist.
And the knight struck.
The blade came down, the air screaming around it.
Miranda’s eyes snapped open.
Dark purple. Glowing. Blazing with an unnatural light.
The sword met resistance — then—
An explosion ripped through the chamber. Purple smoke burst outward like a tidal wave, blasting the knight backward. His armored body flew through the air, slamming against the marble floor five meters away with a bone-shattering crash.
Gasps filled the temple. The crowd outside erupted in chaos, shrieks and screams ripping through their ranks. The elders stumbled back, their robes swirling, their ancient faces pale with horror.
The smoke twisted and writhed.
And from within it, a silhouette rose.
The fog thinned, and the figure emerged.
The girl was transformed — her frame taller, elongated, stretched by some unnatural force. Her hair, once tangled and damp with tears, now streamed longer, darker, whipping in an unseen wind. Her body glowed faintly, each movement traced by ripples of violet energy. Her eyes — her eyes burned, brilliant purple flames that cut through every shadow.
The knight she had thrown aside groaned, struggling to move — until she raised one hand.
He lifted into the air.
Armor clanking, limbs thrashing uselessly. He kicked, clawed, screamed, but there was no escape.
The armor began to fold. Slowly at first, then faster, crushing inward as though invisible hands were pressing on every inch of it. Metal bent, squealed, snapped. And beneath it, bones splintered. The sound was unbearable — steel grinding against steel, punctuated by the wet crunch of flesh collapsing.
The knight screamed. A scream that made even the bravest guards recoil. His cry echoed, high and raw, as his body compacted further and further, every joint breaking, every rib caving.
The crowd outside shrieked and fled, scattering in panic. Inside, the guards raised their blades but faltered, fear shining through their helmets.
The scream dwindled into a gurgle. Then silence.
What fell to the ground was no man, but a ball of mangled armor and shattered bone, barely the size of a barrel. It rolled across the marble, clinking, until it stopped at Avin’s feet.
He stared down at it, his breath caught in his throat, horror etched into his features. Slowly, trembling, his gaze rose.
The figure hovered above the block, her glowing form pulsing with fury. The purple light distorted her face, but Avin could see it. Her rage was alive, physical, radiating through every movement.
Her eyes locked on his.
Avin’s lips parted, the words spilling out against his will.
His voice shook, torn between disbelief and dread.
The temple stood frozen.