7-Last Stand

As the sun was setting, Khalif was about to die.

The executioner looped the noose around his neck. Khalif had asked not to be hooded, so he could see part of the rope enter his vision from above and then disappear below. Lowering his head slightly, he could no longer see it, knowing it had slipped past his jawline, cradling his head like a scythe. Though the noose wasn't yet tight, he could already feel a force pressing against his windpipe, like a battering ram about to shatter a frail column.

There were few spectators below, mostly because Khalif wasn't a notorious criminal. Two or three acquaintances—small-time thieves and their underlings—were there, occasionally glancing his way but clearly preoccupied with other matters. Khalif noticed a pickpocket in the crowd but couldn't warn the victim as wind-blown sand stung his eyes. By the time he opened them, the pickpocket had vanished, leaving the oblivious victim still chewing on something and watching him.

Khalif had requested no hood. He hoped to see Sharll.

When he received his pay from the accountant, he hadn't fully grasped what was happening. "This much?" he muttered, rummaging through the coin purse. Of course, "this much" was only slightly more than his agreed wage.

The accountant remained silent, and Khalif turned to leave, only to pause, remembering something. "How much did Sharll get?" He asked because if he had received extra, perhaps she had too—maybe Shakes was feeling unexpectedly generous.

"Her? She should've gotten quite a bit more. But she gave part of it to you, so…"

"When was that?"

"Three days ago. She's probably nearing Gadgetzan by now."

Twenty minutes later, Khalif was crouched by the rock where he used to measure his height, punching at the marks he'd carved with his knife. "I told you I'm not a child anymore," he muttered, forgetting he'd never actually said this to her.

That night, he didn't sleep. The next day, he snuck away from work, paid a water wagon driver to smuggle him back to Gadgetzan. Once there, the lack of any news from her and his inability to inquire with Shakes drove him into a state of anxious frustration. He missed her but resented her silent departure, which felt as though she dismissed his promise to return the key. He felt like a child proposing unrealistic ideas while adults smiled, nodded, then forgot. Khalif felt he was that child.

Certain that Sharll hadn't left Gadgetzan, he began shaping everything to suit his hope. Perhaps, perhaps—she had just been called away for something urgent and had left him extra money to ensure he retrieved the key and waited for her return.

With this thought, he went to the auction house and threw what he recalled as the storage fee before the goblin auctioneer.

"What are you doing, customer?" the auctioneer asked, as though he no longer recognized him.

"I'm here for the golden key. Here's your storage fee; hand it over."

"Oh… I remember now." The auctioneer adjusted his glasses and began counting the coins.

"Well? The amount's right," Khalif said.

"Customer, we have our rules. This isn't enough."

"That's impossible. You said…"

"I said that was the amount… at that time. It's been five months, and we've kept it in a top-shelf display case that gets cleaned daily, not a speck of dust on it. You'll need to pay for that service, too, before I hand it over."

Khalif emptied what was left of his money onto the counter, glaring at the auctioneer.

The goblin glanced at Khalif, then at the coins, pursing his lips in exasperation. "So you made this much in five months…? You'd need thirty years to pay off five months of fees; by then, you'll owe thirty years' worth."

Khalif's right hand pressed down on the counter, the edge of two silver coins digging painfully into his palm. Rising within him was not only anger but a sense of helplessness; these green-skinned dwarfs always found a way to stand above others. When Khalif's father died, they'd said they'd keep his compensation safe until he was older. A year later, they claimed the money had been spent on funeral costs. Back then, Khalif thought, So that's how it is. I guess I'll go. After reporting to Shakes, he was told a small reward was a waste of his talent and offered him a job. And he'd thought, So that's how it is. I'll do it. But this time, he wasn't about to swallow their words unconditionally.

The auctioneer kept muttering to himself, avoiding Khalif's gaze, "Frankly, even if someone were to bid on the key now, it wouldn't cover the cost. So, we'll just consider this your debt. I cut you slack on the storage fee once; I'll do it again. Just don't come asking about the key…"

Impossible. Sharll was waiting for me to return it to her. That's why she left me all that money—because she trusted me. All this money…

Khalif lunged. At first, he only meant to frighten the goblin, but he struck him, then drew his knife. After drawing it, he only wanted to force the goblin to surrender the key, but he plunged the blade into his throat. Before he struck, his heart had been full of dread and panic at disappointing Sharll; yet as he looked down at the body, his hatred for the greedy race drove away those fragile emotions as flames evaporate damp ground. He didn't know whether he hated before killing or killed out of hatred.

The knife hadn't even left the goblin's throat when guards seized him. He elbowed one guard, breaking his nose.

The executioner read his charges—a list far beyond just "murder of a respected auctioneer." Nearly every crime that could be linked to the Shimmering Flats wells was attributed to Khalif, including ones he'd never committed. This bought him some extra time to wait for Sharll—a fraction of time that meant almost nothing.

At the speech's conclusion, the executioner mentioned Khalif's father, saying he'd been involved in several well assaults and that his son had "unfortunately followed the same path," even though "Chief Engineer Shakes mercifully gave him a chance to reform." Khalif, who had lost hope of seeing Sharll and was ready to empty his mind and close his eyes to embrace death, heard this and once again saw his father, standing among the crowd as a mirage of dust particles bound together, sunlight passing through his body. His father spoke, a message only Khalif could hear: "If it weren't for that woman, you wouldn't be dying. I told you red-haired women bring misfortune, but you wouldn't listen. Look at your end."

Khalif opened his eyes wide, suddenly aware he wasn't ready to die. He was only fourteen; he needed to live to face his father one last time. He wanted to break free from the noose, charge into the crowd, and shatter that apparition. Despair overtook him, knowing he couldn't; he'd die with his father's phantom mocking him while Sharll, who'd once stood beside him, was nowhere to be found. None of the spectators knew him, and no one would remember him. He would die as just another petty thief—a child.

He heard the executioner folding the paper, signaling the end of the charges. The time had come. He squeezed his eyes shut as though to crush his eyeballs. He drew in a deep breath, resisting death, held it, and tried to shift his weight upward, delaying the moment his feet would lose contact with the ground.

Holding his breath, he waited. He held on, letting the pain in his brain and chest erase any sense of time. When he could no longer bear it, he exhaled and drew another breath, only to hold it again.

Then, he felt the executioner's hand loosen the noose. He opened his eyes.

"Lucky for you," the executioner said. "Shackles himself ordered a pardon. I don't know what happened, but you'd better make the most of it." He then began dispersing the crowd while dismantling the gallows.

In a daze, Khalif descended from the platform. The crowd dispersed without another glance, as if he had instantly reverted from condemned man to an ordinary nobody. He looked toward the spot where his father's image had been but found nothing.

He didn't bother searching for Sharll. Somehow, he knew for certain she was no longer in Gadgetzan and that he would never see her again. That night, he left Gadgetzan, intending never to return.