It is a gray day. The black clouds pass some lightning while the wind refreshes from the heat.

Nereus is standing, wrapped in black mourning clothes with a red lace ruff, reading the parchment open in his hands. Death sentences come out of his mouth, and his words disturb me.

I observe the crowd at our feet, the citizens of Eggrio, and the new farmers imported from other regions. I gave the sharecroppers permission to take them and take the day off from the fields. So, they can see how justice works.

They are on the wooden stage, the condemned. They are men and women who participated in the rebellion, the burning of the mills, the attack on the newspaper, the museum, the university, and the local police headquarters.

They are dirty and gross, gifts from days of living in filthy cells, bruised from interrogations conducted with senseless methods. They confessed to everything, and now Nereus is accusing them of everything. The Witch Judge is an important figure; they can magically decide if or not the truth is told. But the Witch Judge is dead, and no Witch bears the costs of magic. So, she has returned to the old methods. Those of the ancient era. Violence, fear, and torture…

Poor.

They survived only to suffer longer without any reward. Not being able to save them makes me sad. Maybe I am doing it all wrong. Perhaps I should be the one to encourage them. Instead, here I am, the long arm of an evil parliament. Evil…

“…and finally, Milo, son of Sergio and Marzia. You confessed guilty of treason, sedition, rebellion, plea bargaining with prohibited entities, addiction to smuggling, gambling, alcoholism, and engaging in various other crimes against the State and Parliament. Under the power infused in me, I sentence you to death. I have done. Your Holiness.”

Nereo rolls up the parchment, placing it in a pocket of the wide sleeves of the dress. He does it quickly, winking at me with a half bow.

I raised my arm to dismiss him. I take a few steps towards the stocks, which the condemned are chained. I look at the audience. They looked full of something I cannot decipher. Craving? Fear?

It drizzles, and I see the faces of two condemned men trying to turn around to collect water.

There are not many words I have to say, yet... saying them is difficult. The gesture will be even more so.

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I address the public.

“Let execute my justice.”

With unsteady steps, the executioner climbs the creaking steps of the stage. Archdevil Executor wears Maximilian armor with red and blue plates. He has no helmet due to the horns but only a horizontal grid mask with a crest and white plume. There are no emblems on it. When worn, the Archdevil ceases to be what she is and becomes subject to the sole will of the law.

I study him carefully as he unsheathes the heavy blood-colored sword, without a tip, used during beheadings.

The first head falls with a sharp bang. The wound does not bleed but smokes, cauterized upon contact with the sword.

The crowd fights over the first head while the Executor moves on to the second condemned man.

It is fate that I would have met Viola-Maria if I had not intervened. Yet, why did I do it? I lost an Archdevil and forced a poor servant into a far land, all to please that merciless creature.

If I saved her, why not save them? They are far-right to complain and rebel.

A voice in my head tells me why. Because I have to get to the end of the year, survive at all costs, and ensure that almost everyone survives. I will beat Dalorbami, I will beat Clea, whatever method she used to kill Priscilla, and if I am not allowed to go home after that, then I will take action.

I have a plan for you too, President. You sit on your ivory tower and the high seat, but there is a way to stop you: I have to make you financially bankrupt.

Sigh. Easy to say. But what to do?

The penultimate head stands out. It is my moment. Archdevil Executor approaches Milo, the last one left. He raises the sword above his head, holding it with both hands, ready to deliver the closing blow.

“Stop.”

The crowd and the Archdevil freeze, but not by my magic.

“I decided to be merciful. May this man, Milo, reach his companions and bring the voice of justice. Free him.”

There is a moment of stasis. Nereo frowns at me, while Archdevil's expression is inscrutable due to the mask.

The guards free the man. He is barefoot, wearing only trousers and a tattered shirt. The unkempt beard and the hair stuck together with dirt. They cut his tendons, and he cannot get up.

I bend down and offer him my hand.

“Let me help you.”

He looks at me. Frightened, perhaps suspicious, he holds his breath. He is right to be suspicious. But he cannot do anything about it. He cannot do anything about it.

He shakes when I run my hand through his hair. But he stops immediately. His wounds heal, his stench disappears, and his clothes return new.

Getting up, he looks at himself and me with silent amazement. My magic is miraculous. It can do many things, as I understand. But it is also sneaky since no one sees it until too late.

“Bring him boots, water, bread, and compensation of one hundred lire. From today, you are free…”

…to bring the disease to Clea.