They asked Jace to wear white on the day he was to be executed.

Really, saying “Asked” wasn’t strong enough — the orcish guards unlocked his steel door, making both him and his cellmate jump awake as they trudged across the cold stone bricks, metal armor clattering and their upwards fangs shining in the light. They unlocked the chains keeping Jace bound to the wall, and before he could even ask what was going on, they tossed the pile of clothes at him and said he had an hour to be ready.

“Ready? What, am I finally getting put on parole?”

The Orcish guard in the lead didn’t like the joke as much as Jace did in his head. His wrinkled green skin became even meaner as he glanced over his thick shoulders. “There’s only one date you’ve been looking forward to. We’re giving you the choice of dignity — face it naked or clothed, your choice.”

And then he slammed the metal door shut behind him, leaving Jace to get dressed in a dim light he’d been used to for far too long.

“No, no, no. Your date’s today, isn’t it?” Oraji said from across the cell, still bound to the wall. “I knew they wouldn't announce it to us. I told you! It could be any of us every day. They never warn anyone when it's their day. I told you!”

“Really? You told me? I couldn’t tell. I must not have been listening when you told me yesterday. Or the day before that. Or—” Jace grunted as he pulled the long sleeve white shirt over his head, a little tight around the neck and a struggle to get on. “Or the morning before that.”

“Then I’ll tell you again. All of us in this hall, we’re here because we’re only getting out one way. And the day that way comes, we’ll never know. Every night we sleep could be our—”

“Yeah, yeah, it could be our last, that’s why I need to give you half my portions so you can enjoy your last meal. Oraji, you could really learn to pick up sarcasm while I’m gone.”

“Is this a joke to you, fool?” Oraji spat with every “F” syllable. Jace had been used to hearing the slobbers platter on the ground every time he did for the past ten years.

“The opposite. This is the best day of my life.” Jace sighed, clenching his fists as he eyed the iron door in the low light, waiting for it to pen at any moment. “I don’t have to doubt if I’m seeing my wife again anymore.”

It turned out being locked in a room dark for most of the day did wonders to one’s sense of time. The hour passed faster than he thought, and just when he started to become sick of the anticipation, the iron door flew open, bringing blinding light and more binding chains along with it.

His skin had started to enjoy the first hour out of ten years it could spend without metal clasped tightly around his wrists. It didn’t enjoy more metal tight around his wrists and his neck, too, jangling with every step as guards led him through the prison’s Final Hall, the second to last destination for the Magistrate’s Death Row prisoners. With the worst of the worst at the very bottom, the entire hallway sloped, and Jace’s legs ached with every step behind the painfully slow Orcish guards, missing the days when he had a normal cell, like a dignified, non-Death Row prisoner. It felt like it was years ago — was it?

What he didn’t miss from those days were the loudness of the halls as prisoners whooped and chattered across their cells. Nowadays, he had to be the one striking up conversation in the quiet Final Hall. Thanks to that, his fellow hallmates lined up at the narrow slits of their iron doors, watching him being led outside, shouting their final goodbyes.

“Better you than me!”

“Nice knowing you, motormouth! I hope they do it slowly!”

“Keep your head up, Jace. They might not kill yous — you might be released!”

“Oh, don’t worry, Urath,” Jace shouted back. “This is definitely murder. That’s why I’m definitely keeping my head up for as long as I can.”

More jabs and insults came faster than he could think of sarcastically replying, but Jace didn’t bother. The words were a waste. He didn’t want his final words to go to them. They didn’t deserve his final words; they were prisoners, too.

Only Ishanti deserved to hear them.

Jace had used his cut from the heist to pay for their marriage, and for the honeymoon they could only enjoy for three days before the Magistrate came. He didn’t get to tell her the truth, or confess that he lied about being out of the game — the farthest he got was promising that the Magistrate had the wrong guy, before he answered the door. He didn’t have to tell her the rest, though. She knew, going by the tears on her face, an expression etched into his mind ever since then, haunting his every nightmare.

When his pace up the sloped concrete started to slow, the Orcish guard behind him shoved Jace forward, forcing him to walk.

What a dick.

Once they reached the end of the Final Hall, the lead guard pressed his hand into a panel on the wall, and the massive steam-powered door hissed before sliding open. The low stone hallways past that were surprisingly empty, holding more guards watching as their group passed by, more of them human out here. Orcs were always the stronger ones, saved for suppressing or transporting the most dangerous prisoners. Having five of them walk him slowly to the prison yard felt like overkill; he wasn’t that dangerous.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

All he did was get thrown under the carriage by a crew that chickened out, leaving him to burn.

If the crew was still together, they could’ve at least visited on his last day of living out the sentence they caused him to get. Yet, all he saw in the prison yard were Human and Orcish strangers, likely each wondering how such an average-looking guy like him made it to Death Row.

Betrayal could get you anywhere.

The execution platform was like a crude concrete block raised at one end of the prison yard, like a stage for the world to see, with the executioner standing there, a six-foot-tall Orcish monster of a man. His upper body was exposed, save for his fearsome crimson helmet, but with muscles that chiseled and so many blood-red tattoos, he really didn’t need the armor. Who would be dumb enough to attack him?

The guards chained him to the ground in front of the executioner, forcing him into a kneel, facing the prison yard full of his lesser peers. On the higher balconies above them, more guards were stationed to keep watch, both on the yard of prisoners and to see, because the execution of a death row prisoner was a spectacle. Even some higher class civ’s in suits came to watch, with a few men even carrying devices hissing steam as they cranked the levers along the sides, broadcasting his execution over the radio.

Was Ishanti listening?

“Hear me!” the executioner bellowed, silencing the prison yard. “I am Executioner Gnarl, facing Jayce Elric, accused of treason against the Magistrate. Jayce Elric, do you plead guilty, or innocent?”

“Hmm, you know, after ten years, I don’t know. I’m already on the chopping block, though. Does it really matter at this point?”

“It matters to me. To my role, in the face of my kind. But, regardless of if you plead, you will bleed.”

A second Orcish guard crouched beside Executioner Gnarl, displaying his ceremonial axe. Even in the days of steam and machines, the Orcish killer still carried a rough tool of death incarnate, its handle jagged and the head crusted with the blood of those before.

Yet, it didn’t faze Jace. His eyes rose above the crowd of prisoners, above the platform of guards and high class elites, to the auburn sunset above it all. She was probably listening to today’s events over the radio. As he tried to imagine Ishanti in their kitchen, glued to their radio, he hoped to catch a glimpse of her round face in the clouds, a semblance of her smile as his final sight.

Executioner Gnarl took hold of his axe.

The clouds shifted.

He didn’t catch a mere semblance of her smile; the shape of a person’s head and shoulders darkened the sky, shadowing the sun, watching like he was a piece of bacteria in a petri dish.

And time froze. A white line drew through the air in front of his face before expanding into a glowing rectangular pane displaying simple text.

“In the face of death, you have been chosen,” it read. “Please confirm your stats on the next page.”

Jace’s jaw dropped — he’d known of Bound being chosen at random, but why now, of all times? Why now, when he wouldn't have any time to enjoy it?

His arms were still attached to the chopping block by chains, but a second pair of hands floated above them, ethereal and transparent, floating wherever he thought for them to. He pressed the green button to continue, and the window expanded to a full chart. On the left side, his new stats: high Intelligence, and high Agility, with low Strength and Endurance, but decent Luck and Perception.

And Maximum Charisma.

Beside that, the right side of the menu described his Skill, Speedbinding, and his level thirty Talent, Master Speech.

“When entering conversation, you now have an acute sense of the other party’s Nature: their values, fears, the persuasion techniques likely to manipulate them, and the chances of successfully doing so for your own goals. You can also sense another party’s attempts to use similar persuasion techniques or logical fallacies,” it read, giving him an option to accept or deny.

Jace couldn’t believe his eyes. No one could predict when they were Bound or control what stats they were given. As far as Jace knew, everyone got something random based on who they already were. But, while most’s stats ranged from High to Low, a rare few had a stat beyond High. Maximum Perception, Maximum Agility, Maximum Luck — each had someone representing the apex of individual power.

And now he was one, bringing the number to eight.

Yet, he only became Bound mere seconds away from his death. Having high Charisma, Intelligence, and Agility wasn’t anything new; his silver tongue and his reactions were exactly why he was on the team and got himself here in the first place. He could've gotten a Skill to get him out of the situation, or at least a useful Binding Skill, like Flamebinding or Sparkbinding. Yet here he was with, apparently, smoother talking and Speedbinding, whatever the hell that was.

The timer ticked for him to accept or deny, but when he tried hitting the button to deny, it gleamed before fading away, taking the illusion of choice with it. No one could choose the cards life dealt him.

Just like he couldn't control that he’d die here.

But, when he glanced over at Executioner Gnarl, despair hanging heavy over his head like a cloud, he saw a different type of cloud behind his executioner. It shifted and pulsed with a crimson, violent aggression, yet there was order to its movements, a pattern. In that moment, something told him Executioner Gnarl was more than a violent Orc; he was a man of dignity fueled by faith and superstition.

And, that same something else told him how to manipulate that.

“[Speech 30] You can’t kill me.”

Jace’s jaw dropped — he only had one option. He pressed the button to accept before time ran out, and his ethereal hands faded away, just as the distant figure in the sky did, too. The sunset returned, and time resumed.

“May the Divine bless your death,” Executioner Gnarl said. “And may we avoid it in your stead.”

“Wait,” Jace cut in as Executioner Gnarl raised his axe. “You can’t kill me, Gnarl.”