The iron shackles bit into my wrists as the city guards shoved me into the great hall of justice. Strands of dark hair hung in my face, matted with blood from the beating I’d received during my capture. The taste of copper lingered in my mouth, a constant reminder of the injustice being perpetrated against me.

“On your knees, filth!” A guard kicked the back of my legs, forcing me down before the raised stone dais where the magistrate sat.

The packed hall buzzed with whispers and hostile stares. I recognized many faces—merchants and nobles I’d worked with as a skilled infiltrator and procurer of rare items. Now they looked at me with disgust and fear, already convinced of my apparent guilt.

Hypocrites, I thought bitterly. How many of you bastards hired me for your own illegal schemes?

Magistrate Silas Grimshard’s iron-bound staff struck the stone floor. The elderly man peered down at me with cold grey eyes, his wrinkled face a mask of stern authority. His staff of office gleamed dully in the torchlight, and his black robes were adorned with symbols of justice that now seemed to mock their very purpose. I’d seen him before in more… pleasant circumstances—taking bribes from noble houses, or turning a blind eye to their crimes while punishing commoners for lesser offenses. The sight of him sitting in judgment now made my blood boil.

“The accused will stand.”

I struggled to my feet, my muscles protesting after days in the dungeons. Holding my head high, I met the magistrate’s gaze with barely concealed contempt.

“Caelum Steelwind,” Grimshard intoned, “you stand accused of high treason against the crown, conspiracy to assassinate Lord Darius Ironwood, and the murders of three city watchmen. How do you plead these charges?”

“I’m an innocent man!” I shouted, my voice ringing clear and strong through the chamber. “I was framed! Lord Ironwood’s own son orchestrated this—”

“Silence!” The staff struck stone again. “You will speak only to answer the charges. The evidence against you leaves no room for doubt.”

Evidence they planted. I seethed. Marcus Ironwood’s men had killed those guards and left my weapons at the scene. And his father was too blind or corrupt to see it.

Torchlight flickered across the stone walls of the massive hall. Even the dancing shadows seemed to mock me. My keen eyes scanned the crowd, noting the positions of the guards, the exits, and any potential weapons within reach. Old habits die hard, even in chains.

“The prosecution will present its evidence,” Grimshard announced.

A thin man in expensive robes stepped forward holding a leather scroll case. “My lords and ladies of the court, I present irrefutable proof of the accused’s guilt.” He produced several documents, each bearing my signature—or rather, excellent forgeries. “These letters detail the conspiracy between the accused and known criminal elements to assassinate Lord Ironwood. We also have witness testimony—”

“Those signatures are forged,” I interrupted, which earned another blow from a guard. I grunted and staggered, but remained standing. “I demand the right to present my own damned evidence!” I spat.

“Evidence that has conveniently disappeared from the watch house.” The prosecutor sneered. “How fortunate for you.”

My fists clenched in their shackles. Of course it disappeared, you son of a bitch. Marcus’s men made sure of that when they raided my safehouse.

Movement in the crowd caught my attention. A hooded figure stood apart from the others, arms folded across their chest as they observed the proceedings. Though I couldn’t see the stranger’s face, I could sense a strange presence radiating from beneath that dark hood.

The trial continued, a mockery of justice that grew more absurd with each passing moment. Witness after witness came forward, their testimonies clearly rehearsed and coordinated. I recognized several as Marcus Ironwood’s known associates, yet my attempts to point this out were silenced.

“I served with honor in the city watch for five fucking years!” I protested during a brief pause in the proceedings. “I’ve helped protect this city countless times. Why in the hells would I suddenly turn traitor?”

“Gold can corrupt even the most loyal heart,” Grimshard replied dismissively. “And your... particular skills made you an ideal choice for assassination.”

My skills… I mused. The same skills you’ve all used when it suited you. How many times did the watch turn to me for the jobs too dangerous or delicate for official channels?

The hooded figure had moved closer. Even with their face shrouded, I had a feeling they were watching me. The stranger apparently recognized me, but I sure as hells did not know them. That feeling of uncertainty forced a chill don my spine. I swallowed back the dryness in my throat and hauled my focus back on the trial.

“The prosecution rests,” the thin man announced with a satisfied smirk. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

Magistrate Grimshard nodded gravely. “Indeed it does. Does the accused wish to make any final statement before sentencing?”

I straightened and addressed the hall, ensuring my voice carried to every corner. “You all know me. For years I’ve served this city, done your dirty work, kept your secrets. Now you turn on me because it’s convenient. Because Marcus Ironwood needed a scapegoat.” I fixed my gaze on the magistrate. “Remember this moment. Remember how easily justice can be perverted when power and gold change hands.”

A murmur ran through the crowd. The hooded figure had moved even closer, now standing near the front of the assembly. The back of my throat tightened. I could feel the stranger’s gaze burning deep into my soul.

“Enough!” Grimshard’s staff struck the stone a final time. “Caelum Steelwind, this court finds you guilty of all charges. The sentence is death, to be carried out at dawn tomorrow.” He leaned forward, his voice dripping with contempt. “May the gods have mercy on your black soul.”

The guards moved to drag me away, but I resisted, my chains rattling. “The gods?” I gave a hollow laugh. “The gods abandoned this corrupt city a long time ago. But I swear by whatever powers are listening—I will have justice!”

As if in response to my words, the torches flickered and dimmed. Shadows seemed to writhe along the walls as though an unseen surge of dark energy pulsed through the chamber. Several people in the crowd exchanged nervous glances. The hooded figure remained unmoving, unfazed by the commotion.

“Take him to the holding cells,” Grimshard ordered, a trace of unease in his voice.

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The guards dragged me out of the chamber, through torch-lit corridors, and down spiraling stone steps to the holding cells beneath the courthouse. Each impact of their boots on stone echoed off the damp walls like a rhythmic countdown to my execution.

“Not so clever now, are you?” One guard sneered, giving me a hard shove. “All your skulking and sneaking, and look where it got you.”

I remained silent, my mind racing. That mysterious figure’s presence felt like a reoccurring nightmare. I didn’t understand it, yet it haunted my thoughts. Maybe that person was my executioner, to get an accurate measurement of my neck. My death was going to be meaningless, and there was nothing I could do. The mere thought of this helpless state had awakened something inside me—a darkness I’d always kept carefully contained. Now it threatened to burst free, fed by my rage and desire for revenge.

We reached the lowest level where the holding cells waited in perpetual twilight. The air was thick with the stench of piss, rot, and despair. Other condemned prisoners watched with dead eyes as we marched past their cells.

“Here are your luxurious accommodations.” The second guard laughed, unlocking a cell door. “Enjoy your last night alive, traitor.”

They shoved me inside, and I crumpled to my knees. The chains were removed none too gently, leaving deep red marks on my wrists. The cell door clanged shut with soul-crushing finality.

“I’ll make sure to wave to Marcus Ironwood for you at the execution,” the first guard taunted before they departed, their laughter echoing through the corridor.

Alone in the cell, I examined my surroundings with practiced efficiency. Six feet by six feet of stone and iron. A thin pallet of moldy straw. A single high window, barely wide enough to admit a thin shaft of moonlight. No obvious weaknesses or means of escape.

I sat on the pallet and leaned back against the cold stone wall. The events of the past few days played through my mind like a fever dream. The midnight summons from Marcus Ironwood, supposedly about a job. The ambush that followed. The planted evidence. The mockery of a trial.

Justice. I sneered. What is justice in a world this corrupt?

“Another high and mighty one brought low,” a rasping voice called from a cell across the corridor. “Welcome to the bottom, ‘hero.’“

I ignored the taunt and focused on my breathing instead, trying to still the rage that threatened to consume me.

“Oi, I know this one,” another prisoner chimed in. “Used to work with the watch, didn’t he? Bet those guards you killed were old friends o’ yours.”

“Probably stabbed ’em in the back,” a third voice added. “That’s what his kind does, ain’t it?”

The jeers continued, but I remained silent, my mind drifting back through the years. I remembered my first days with the watch, young and idealistic, believing I could make a difference. Then came the realization that the real power in the city lay in the shadows—in the deals made behind closed doors, in the secrets whispered in dark alleys.

I’d adapted and learned to play the game. My skills at stealth and infiltration made me valuable to those in power. They’d used me, praised me even—until I became inconvenient.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be interesting.” The first prisoner cackled. “They hanging you or taking your head?”

“Hanging’s too good for a traitor,” someone else answered. “Bet they draw and quarter him.”

A guard passing by slammed his club against the bars. “Shut your holes, the lot of you! Some of us want to get some sleep before tomorrow’s entertainment.”

The cells fell quiet, but the darkness felt alive with malice and anticipation. Moonlight crept across the floor as hours passed, marking time’s inexorable march toward dawn. I closed my eyes, and let my thoughts roam.

Those thoughts turned darker. Trust—it had always been a dangerous commodity in this line of work, yet I’d foolishly given it too freely. First to the watch, then to the nobles who hired me, and finally to Marcus Ironwood himself.

Trust is a poison. And this world is drowning in it.

I thought of all the times I’d been betrayed—small betrayals at first, easily dismissed or rationalized. A captain taking credit for my work. A noble conveniently “forgetting” or downright refusing payment after a job. Each instance had chipped away at my faith in others, yet I’d continued to believe in some fundamental sense of honor.

I opened my eyes. What a fool I was. The world doesn’t reward honor. It rewards power and cunning.

I stared intently at the writhing shadows along the prison wall, cast by the waning moonlight. My thoughts drifted to the many nights I’d spent in the shadows. How many times had I’d risked my life for those who would now celebrate my execution?

“You know what your problem is?” The rasping voice from across the corridor spoke again. “You thought you were one of them. But we’re all just tools to the high and mighty. They use us until we break, then throw us away.”

For once, I felt compelled to respond. “And what would you know about that?”

“More than you’d think. Name’s Warren. Former Captain of the Guard in Eastport.” A dry laugh echoed off the stone walls. “Served faithfully for twenty years till I learned too much about the mayor’s... arrangements. Now, here I am, waiting for the axe, just like you.”

I clenched my jaw. His words resonated deep within my soul, awakening something cold and calculating. How many others had been sacrificed when they became inconvenient to the powerful? The world wasn’t just corrupt, it was built on a foundation of lies, maintained by those who understood that true power came not from serving justice, but from controlling it.

I focused my gaze towards the window and continued my musings. “The thought of ever making a difference are merely the desperate hopes of a condemned man,” I muttered. The cold reality of my situation pressed in around me like the unyielding stone walls of my cell. By this time tomorrow, I would be nothing more than another cautionary tale, a whispered warning in dark alleys about the price of crossing the powerful.

“Getting philosophical in there, are you?” Warren’s voice drifted across the corridor again. “That’s normal, night before the end. We all do it. Start thinking about what could have been, what we should have done differently.”

I leaned my head back against the damp wall and closed my eyes. “And what would you have done differently?”

“Me?” A dry chuckle echoed off the stones. “I would have been the monster they accused me of being. If you’re going to die for something, might as well be guilty of it.”

I opened my eyes again. Those words struck deep in my soul. How different would things have been if I had truly embraced the evil they claimed I was? If instead of serving their corrupt system, I had sought to master it?

To become the very thing they feared most: someone who understood that true order could only be achieved through absolute control?

But such thoughts were pointless now. The wheel of fate had turned, and my life would end at dawn. All my potential and newfound understanding of power and control would die with me on the execution ground.

***

Dawn came too soon. The first rays of sunlight pierced through the high window, painting a golden path across the filthy cell floor. With a bitter smile I watched it spread, knowing these were my final hours. All my realizations about power and control meant nothing now. Tomorrow’s wisdom was worthless to a dead man.

The sound of heavy boots on stone echoed through the corridor, accompanied by the jingle of keys. The other prisoners fell silent, knowing what was to come.

“Time to meet your maker, Steelwind,” a guard called out, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

As I was shackled and led from my cell, Warren’s raspy voice followed me: “Death’s not always the end, friend. Sometimes it’s just a beginning.”

The walk to the execution grounds was a blur of faces and sounds. The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh-baked bread from the nearby market, a cruel reminder of life continuing without me. A crowd had gathered, eager to witness the death of a traitor.

Standing on the wooden platform, noose around my neck, I surveyed the assembled masses. Marcus Ironwood stood in the front row, a satisfied smirk on his face. The magistrate was there too, his staff of office gleaming in the morning sun.

I gritted my teeth. So many dreams of justice and revenge, and they all end here. I’ll never see Marcus pay for his crimes. Never expose the corruption that runs through this city’s veins. Never become the force of change I now know I could have been.

The executioner moved to position himself by the lever. A priest stepped forward to offer final rites, but I shook my head. I had no use for gods who allowed such injustice to flourish.

As the drums began their final roll, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the hooded figure at the edge of the crowd. A sliver of sunlight traced across their face and all I could see were burning red eyes that stared right back at me. For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze.

The trap door opened with a sickening crack. Pain exploded at my neck as the rope went taut. The images spun violently. My lungs screamed for air that would never come. Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision, and consciousness slipped away into nothingness.