There was no feeling in the petrified hand. It wasn’t even numb.

No matter how hard he concentrated, Roland couldn’t get it to move, not even twitch. His hand was nothing more than a slab of stone stuck to the end of his wrist. It was even heavy like stone. He figured that magic could probably undo it, but that was hard to come by this far in the north.

To make it worse, the stone appendage had also kept him awake through most of the night. There just wasn’t a position for it. Roland would keep rolling on top of it, the petrified fingers uncomfortably poking him in the side or chest. So, instead of sleeping, he spent most of the night wondering about Holsley.

Had the bard gone through with it? Had he managed to beat Fox and get a hold of the ring? More importantly, though, did Holsley know about the new date of Roland’s execution? It would have to be a quick turnaround for the city to get the Tressans there in time, and he sort of hoped that Holsley wouldn’t be there. Not really. He didn’t want Holsley to see him hang.

The door to his cell rattled open.

Three tubheads lurched inside and immediately got to work at bounding him in chains. Their faces were lit by a candle, as they usually were, but the only one Roland recognised was Kythos. The tiefling’s face still sported that remarkable bruise from the slap Love had given him, but there were other marks now and scratches running over his face.

‘You ready?’ he asked. ‘No, wait, don’t answer. It doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re going to execute you all the same.’

‘You look like crap.’

Kythos gave him a hard fist to the gut, forcing Roland to double over and choke out spit.

‘Look who’s talking,’ the tiefling muttered.

Executions were always held at midday. It had been that way since he was a child. The practice had something to do with Jantari, the Goddess of Spirits. If Roland remembered right, someone executed in the midday sun allowed Jantari’s followers to see the sinner for what they truly were.

In reality, he thought it was simply because everyone was just available at midday. The city would be awake, it was just before the shops opened, and also an hour before anyone could buy a stiff drink.

The walk through the dungeons was both uneventful and lowkey aggravating. Suddenly, all those doors Roland had been failing to escape through for the past week simply opened up for him now. Perhaps if he’d been smarter, more reserved in his escape attempts, he might’ve had a better chance now.

A few less guards, a few more opportunities, and he could probably make a break for it as soon as they hit the fresh air. No chance of that now. The tubheads were too well prepared for that possibility. They had him chained from his wrists to his ankles and forced him to walk slowly on a leash that was kept short by two of them.

Together, they ascended steps, moved through the levels with their variety of lighting, and eventually found themselves in a place Roland didn’t recognise. He’d stolen from taverns, clay rooms, houses, mansions, and manors from all over the city, but the whereabouts of this strange place boggled him.

The shift from the dungeon had been sudden, almost dizzying. The walls went from dusty grey stone to cracked ornate marble. They were riddled with weeds and reaching lichen, which told Roland this place was old and unloved. In the room just beyond the open door ahead, light streamed in through a shattered stained-glass window, which shone the early morning rays upon what must have once been a church hall.

Roland navigated the series of broken and scattered pews that ended at a shattered wooden altar beneath the window. He couldn’t see what the glass depicted, but “LIAR” was painted over its cracked panes in big red letters. The tubheads led him towards a set of stone steps at the far end behind it.

From there, he was forced to march up the circular steps, and at the top of them was a worn iron door. Kythos approached it with a handful of keys and undid each of the three locks that kept it bolted.

Once undone, Roland was thrown inside.

He hit the floor hard, and without a way to hold out his hands, he painfully skidded to a halt against the stone surface. The door came crashing to a close behind him, and he was suddenly sealed inside.

With a groan, he pushed himself up and looked immediately for a way to escape. He was met with a bare circular room that went up to a funnel-shaped point above him. There was a window, but it was barred, and the only piece of furniture in the dim light was a single wooden chair.

‘If you’re looking for an escape, there isn’t one.’ Kythos crossed the room and took a seat on the chair. ‘This here is the executioner’s tower. Below us, the doors open up right into the square where you’ll be hanged.’ Kythos nodded to the window, and Roland hesitantly stepped towards it.

The feel of fresh air and a thousand pleasant, familiar smells was quickly undercut by the sight far beneath the windowsill. It was of the gallows patiently waiting for him. He could also see a crowd forming beyond them, a little less patient.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Roland didn’t turn. ‘Why not just leave me in my cell until it’s time?’

‘Tradition.’ Roland could feel the indifference in Kythos’s tone. ‘This used to be a church and dead men were brought here to pray before being executed. Suppose it’s so they could repent or whatever. These old walls don’t see much prayer these days, though. It’s just a bloody waste of space instead.’

Roland turned at a knock on the door. Kythos moved to answer it, and when the door opened, he saw a timid tiefling step across the threshold. Curiously, he also saw she was carrying a wooden box that held a set of paintbrushes. With a short bow, she stepped inside, and the doors thudded shut again behind her and locked.

Kythos brought the chair towards Roland and commanded him to sit. At first, the young rogue thought he’d decline the request but knew it’d only buy him pain. If he was injured, well, more injured, there would be less of an opportunity to escape, so he did what he was told. When he did so, this pink-skinned tiefling got to work.

She brought his stone hand forward and, while mixing paints, began to paint it with flesh-tone colours. Roland immediately knew what she was here for. She was disguising his appendage so that no one could tell that he had a stone hand or, more importantly, that he had been mistreated while in the dungeons.

She hummed as she worked, and Roland couldn’t feel a thing of what she was doing. Pretty soon, her presence faded into the background.

‘Whose church is this?’ he asked Kythos.

‘Myph’s,’ the tiefling replied and nodded towards a mosaic behind the rogue.

Roland hadn’t noticed it at first because of the dark room. The arrangement of tiles was broken and cracked. Some were missing, and most were discoloured, but you could tell what had once been there if you squinted hard enough. Roland saw a radiantly glowing woman wrapping the room in her divine arms.

‘Myph,’ Roland repeated under his breath.

‘Goddess of Heroes,’ said Kythos. ‘What a joke.’

An uneasy silence fell upon the room.

‘It’s not too late, you know.’ Kythos knelt down to his level. Roland had been expecting this. Love hadn’t given up on claiming her answers and was probably hoping his impending death would serve as incentive to unleash his secrets. She was wrong, however. Roland had no intention of revealing anything — even now.

Kythos continued, unabated, ‘I’ve been assured that in return for you telling me everything you know, your life will be spared. You’ll even be paid handsomely for the information.’

Lies, Roland thought.

‘That’s the real reason I’m up here then.’ Roland eyed Kythos up and down. ‘You’re going to torture me.’

‘Nope.’ Kythos scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘In truth, I’m not up for it. I’ve had a long night.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this church.’ If Roland was going to be stuck here for the next hour, he might as well try to keep his mind off the noose. ‘Do you know much about Myph?’

‘Why, you interested in finding religion?’

‘Just interested.’

Roland could feel the tiefling painter’s ears prick up as she got to work on the tips of his stone fingers. She was just as intrigued as him.

‘My father used to come to this church, back before the war. In its day, Myph was the original Goddess of Tressa. This was the first church to be built, which is why it’s right next to the keep, and everyone worshipped her. Even I did back when I was a boy.’

‘What happened?’

‘Yeah, I suppose you weren’t even born yet.’ Kythos took up a leaning position near the window and crossed his arms. He wasn’t even looking at Roland now. Instead, he was looking over at the mosaic as if his memories were unravelling against the wall. ‘Before the war, Tressa was a place of legends. Did you know that some of the Further Kingdom’s greatest heroes came from this city? Most believed that Myph had something to do with it. Heck, the city was even founded by heroes, right. My mother being one of them.

‘Then, the War of Dondros happened. All these heroes and legends were sent south to fight demons, devils, and all sorts of nasty things. To fight evil, basically.’ He let out a small chuckle. ‘They all died out. Each and every one of them. Sentiments changed. Suddenly, worshipping Myph wasn’t as popular anymore, not with our best and brightest dying on the front lines. When I came home from that war, this church had been stripped and was left abandoned.’

Roland had only ever heard of the war in passing, but he’d met many people who had fought in it. Every problem the city was now burdened with was blamed on what happened in Dondros a decade and a half ago. From the destitute houses to the corrupt guards to even the way people acted towards one another. In no exaggerated terms, he was told that the city had been a beacon of light before that war came.

Now it was a shithole.

‘People are finicky creatures,’ Kythos said. ‘They like to blame their misfortunes on something, and they chose Myph to let their anger out on. That’s what happened here, Roland. Nothing more.’

Roland didn’t reply. Instead, he took another look towards the window. The sky was clear. Seagulls whipped about in the air with their squawks chasing after them, intermingling with the sounds of a lively city in motion. He tried to imagine Tressa as a good place to live but just couldn’t see it.

For as long as he’d been living here, it had been nothing but cruel to him. Everyone was out for themselves, and to do that, they resorted to doing some pretty despicable things. Except Holsley, he reminded himself, but even now, as he sat there, he wondered what was in it for the young bard.

Had he really come back just to save him, or was Holsley after something else?

‘You’re not going to tell us, are you?’ Kythos didn’t move an inch. Roland only gave him a leer as an answer. The tiefling tubhead shook his head in disbelief. ‘I figured as much. Even when it could save your life. I suppose you figure we’re lying about letting you go free. If that were the case, even then, it’d be worth saying something on the slight chance you might make it through today. Can I at least ask why you don’t want to tell us anything?’

Roland thought about the question for a moment.

‘You don’t deserve to know,’ he said finally. ‘Besides, who says I’m not going to live through today? You?’

‘You can’t be serious?’

As a thief, Roland had been taught to wait for opportunity and then act upon it. You didn’t think twice. If you hesitated when the opportunity knocked, you’d miss it, and then you’d have to wait again. It was a lesson that the thieves’ guild had drilled persistently into his head. All he had to do was wait, and something would turn up. It always did.

Roland looked back up at the fractured mosaic of Myph. The giant woman looked back at him with her faded, kind eyes. He was looking into those eyes now, and he felt, no, he knew, that they were staring back at him.