All trials are to be suspended and all suspected criminals to be presumed innocent. In the coming days, the Mad Moon shall be our only judge, and our only executioner.

-Royal edict #10, “On the accused and the suspension of judicial authority”

One of Gaspard’s clients at the bank he’d once worked at had been a retired explorer. He often boasted of old expeditions as he withdrew his funds and stroked a bristly beard. On one such occasion he had boasted of dining with cannibals on the southern isles, and claimed with a disturbing level of certainty that human flesh tasted of pork.

Gaspard could not put the thought of that out of his head as he took a bite of what the widow claimed was bacon. Apparently the red-haired woman who had saved Gaspard’s life had also found stockpiles of such foodstuffs around the city. Considering her apparent ability to save Gaspard’s life, Gaspard chose to trust her ability to find bacon.

It was a fine meal, Gaspard’s suspicions aside. Finely shaped potato pancakes served with what was possibly bacon, and a loaf of freshly baked bread with plenty of butter to spread. There was even milk, albeit lukewarm. Gaspard had his suspicions that most of the widow’s generosity was inspired by these ingredients being close to spoiling anyway, but he kept such thoughts to himself.

It took only a few bites for Gaspard to appreciate the gesture more. The taste of warm, fresh food had fallen into the abyss of memory in just a few days. He had subsisted on stale bread, dry jerky, and fruit with the rotten bits carved off since the Mad Moon’s rise. A warm meal was a luxury he had not dared imagine, and he enjoyed it to the fullest. The widow seemed to take some pride in his satisfaction.

At the meals conclusion, Gaspard politely wiped his hands on a napkin. He realized midway through it was a pointless nicety, but he carried on the gesture regardless. It was nice to live in the old world for a moment. The widow nodded at his politeness.

“You seem like you were a well-mannered man, once,” the widow said. The mere word “once” dragged them back into the cruel present. Gaspard’s brow settled into its old, near-permanent scowl.

“I was a banker. A reputable one. With the clients I served, I learned manners quickly.”

“A coin counter,” the widow said. She sounded like she didn’t believe it. “And now you roam the streets with a bloody sword?”

Gaspard pushed his plate to the side. Clearly the time for niceties was over.

“I will spare you the details, because I would not burden you as I am burdened,” Gaspard said. “But before the Moon’s rise, a great and terrible lie was told. A lie my host revealed to me before the Moon rose. The mob tore him apart for what he told them, long before the Mad Moon drove them to bloodlust.”

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Gaspard leaned back in his chair, and nursed his wounded shoulder.

“There are others complicit in the lie,” Gaspard said. “I must ensure they see their due punishment. If they are dead, I must ensure it, and if they live as twisted beasts, I must end them.”

“And if they live as men?”

Gaspard paused and stared at the grease pooling on his plate.

“We shall see.”

The widow folded her hands and held them close to her chest. Her narrow brows furrowed.

“Does such a lie still matter, after everything?”

“A murderer is still a murderer if he is never caught, and he still deserves the fate that would be otherwise delivered to him,” Gaspard said. “Justice must be done, always, or justice does not matter.”

The widow slowly recoiled. She stared at Gaspard, and Gaspard stared back. The woman blinked first.

“Always?”

Gaspard nodded. At the slight gesture, the woman’s composure broke. Red veins of sorrow found their way to her eyes, and she wept.

“Then kill me,” she pleaded. “Please, kill me.”

Gaspard put his hand on his sword, but he did not draw it. The widow wrung her hands as she tried, and failed, to look Gaspard in the eyes. Her next words came as a low moan, as miserable and pained as the howls Gaspard had heard from the suicide.

“I killed my children,” the widow wailed. “My girls. I couldn’t bear the thought of what the Moon would do to them. To see them savaged and torn apart, or- or driven mad- I couldn’t-”

The confession caught in her throat and she choked on it. Gaspard watched her sob into her hands. His grip tightened on his sword, more out of habit than anything else. He waited patiently as the worst of the guilt and misery worked its way out of her system. When she finally looked up at him again, he asked his question.

“How did you do it?”

“Poison,” the widow sobbed. “I told them -they thought it was medicine. To keep them healthy for the festival -the party. I never told them what was happening. I didn’t want them to be afraid.”

She rubbed red eyes clear of the last few tears that remained. Her hollow face was still broken with abject misery.

“They were so excited for the festival. I promised them I’d take them as they went to sleep.”

The last of her tears had dried up, the sobs stopped racking her body, and the widow stared blindly at nothing.

“They were still smiling.”

The widow continued staring into the void. Gaspard let her reflect for a moment. In time, he stood, The widow’s eyes suddenly snapped to him, but her expression of misery did not change. Even as Gaspard drew his sword and pointed it at her heaving chest, she did not blink. Gaspard met her eyes. At last, she blinked.

With a flourish, Gaspard withdrew his sword and sheathed it.

“I thank you again for your hospitality, madam, but I have overstayed my welcome.”

“Why?” The widow pleaded. “Why not? For all your talk of justice?”

Gaspard adjusted the sling that held his wounded arm and shook his head.

“For every crime there is a punishment,” Gaspard said. “But not every punishment is death.”

As he turned to the door to leave, Gaspard spared one more look over his shoulder.

“Give my regards to the red-haired woman, should you see her again,” he said.