Now

If they find me guilty, I’m going to die.

But they can’t, right? I refuse to believe it. Without me they would all still be getting torn apart and eaten. As would their children, and their children’s children. I saved them. All of them.

But, a part of me points out, you’re in a cell. You’re in a cell, and they haven’t given you any food in two days. That’s not how you treat someone you intend to let live, is it? That’s not how you treat a hero.

It’s a fair point. My stomach feels like a shrivelled raisin, sucked up against my spine, and every time I stand up my head fills with grey static. I’ve long stopped trying; instead I sit at the single window, a narrow slit in the stone around the length of my forearm, and stare out at the bare little courtyard below. From the sturdy wooden gallows, the rope they’re going to hang me with sways gently in the breeze. Bit of a morbid view. But it’s either that or read the cramped graffiti on the walls for the hundredth time. I can pretty much reel it all off now from memory. The most popular ones - I’ve counted - are: FUCK THE PEACERS (8 counts), TOPS DIE (7 counts), or, my favourite: AT LEAST IT’S NOT THE KATERAKTS (3 counts).

Yeah, at least it’s not the katerakts. You’re welcome.

And now they’re going to kill me for it. Maybe. There’s no clock in here, but they told me the decision would come in at midday. The sun’s inching up towards its zenith, the shadow of the gallows is a short black point. The stone cell is turning warm and stinking. I press my face further into the window, trying to steal a breath of fresh air, and then I see them.

Two figures are making their way along the edge of the courtyard, towards the tower. One wears a stiff blue uniform and has his hand on a pistol holster. A Peacer. The other I only need a glance at to know. I’d know his shape anywhere, even across a courtyard, five floors below, even through the glare of the sun. The click of my throat as I swallow is loud in the cell. I don’t dare blink as he and the Peacer make their way closer, trying to take in as much detail as I can, as much information that might prepare me.

Klaus’s hair and face gleam white in the sun above his black scholar's robes. He’s cut his hair short since I saw him last, and he’s shaved. It makes him look gaunter but younger. Trying to make a good impression on the council?

It’s hard not to feel bitter. He’s not spent the last four days in a cell. He’s had access to a bath, and a barbers, and food, even though, really, this is all his fault. He made the ring in the first place. He set it all in motion.

Klaus stops briefly next to the gallows, although he doesn’t look at them. He says something to the Peacer, who nods. Then his head tilts, turning, and his eyes find mine.

I didn’t expect it; I stop breathing, staring down. He can’t see me, can he? There’s no way. Not with the bright light outside and the shadow of the cell - and even then, not with the width of this tiny window. But it feels like he’s looking right at me. Like his eyes are boring right into mine.

Slowly, I raise my left hand next to my face. A wave of pain follows as the chemetal cuff around my wrist inches closer to my temple. Without blinking, I uncurl my middle finger and flip him off.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Another second passes - no reaction - and Klaus looks away. The Peacer follows him as he walks to the door, slipping from sight. There is a very faint clang from far down below.

I slump against the cold stone wall, drag my palm over my face. My heart’s hammering. But of course it’s hammering. He’s about to tell me if I’m going to make it to see the sunset.

A few minutes pass, though it feels like an hour, in which I try, frantically, to calm myself down. Then, footsteps. Echoing up the stairs, growing louder. I straighten my spine and tuck my hair behind my ears. I’m grimy with four days of sweat, and the collar of my shirt is still stained with blood, but they only gave me one bucket of water. I did what I could using my sleeve as a cloth, but I wasn’t stupid enough to waste more than that on washing. It turned out to have been the right call - the only refilled the bucket on the third day, when my lips were so cracked they had begun to bleed.

Clang! goes the door, the one to the corridor. Then the floorboards creak. Footsteps again, clear enough now that I can make out the heavy tread of the Peacer’s boots and a second, lighter pair. They pause outside the door to my cell. One beat passes. Then another. Melodramatic prick - is he trying to ramp up the suspense?

‘Open it.’ Klaus’s voice is faint through the door but I still flinch. The metal bolt scrapes loudly as it’s drawn back.

And then there he is, filling the doorway. The oil lamp outside carves his face into harsh planes: a sharp jaw, two black hollows for eyes, the elegant curve of his brow. He looks pale and tired, but his expression is carefully controlled. His eyes run over me, top to bottom, and then linger on my face. The blood on my collar gets a second glance too, as do the chemetal cuffs around my wrists and neck. Then he looks at the cell: the bucket of water, the other bucket that I usually try not to think about, the mat for sleeping, the graffiti, the window. He still hasn’t said anything, which pisses me off.

‘Well?’ I say. My voice is pitiably hoarse. ‘Are they going to hang me?’ I’m sitting with my knees bent, back against the wall, trying to look relaxed, like I couldn’t care less. In reality, I am battling the sudden urge to launch myself at him and sock him in the jaw. I was unprepared for how angry I would feel - at how all the betrayal and bitterness would come rushing back. I pleaded with him not to do it. I screamed, and I begged him and he still slapped the cuffs on me and dragged me back within the walls. My head hasn’t stopped hurting since we set foot in the city. A constant, grinding pain. Does he know?

Klaus’s jaw twitches. Irritation, maybe, or just awkwardness. I thought I knew how to read him; turns out I never did. He takes a single, smooth breath. ‘No,’ he says. ‘They’ll use chemetal, like they did for the Thirteen.’

I stare at him. For a moment it doesn’t all fit together - that carefully pronounced accent, his voice, the same voice that whispered in my ear, his body curled warm around mine, the one that told me to keep going, told me I was going to be okay, that he was going to make sure of it.

Telling me they’re going to kill me in the most painful way imaginable.

‘They…’ It takes me two goes to get it out. ‘They’re going to poison me?’

The barest hesitation. ‘Yes.’

My little raisin stomach does a valiant attempt at clenching as a wave of nausea surges over me. ‘And Finn?’

Klaus glances behind him, just once, at the open door. Then he shakes his head.

So they still don’t know about him. At least there’s that, but the relief is a flash of moonlight on the surface of a vast, dark sea of dread. Inconsequential. I stare at the floor, struggling to pull myself together. I am only now realising that I really didn’t believe they were going to do it. I really thought they would - pardon me, or banish me, or—

They’re going to kill me?

Klaus makes a strange, quiet inhale through his teeth, and then whirls around.

‘Wait,’ I say. I try to get up but my legs don’t cooperate. ‘Wait, that doesn’t make any sense. They can’t do that. What about my trial? Aren’t I supposed to be at my own trial? I’ve heard nothing - they haven’t even asked me any questions!’

He’s frozen in the doorway, back stiff, shoulders tense. ‘There are no trials,’ he rasps, and stalks off into the shadows. The Peacer follows, the clop of their boots almost, but not quite, drowning out Klaus’s next words, which float down the corridor behind him.

‘Not for a mage.’