Chapter 31: The Walk

Hours had passed since Nathaniel and Santina were first seized, and now they were being marched toward their fate. The crowd was a living beast, its roars and chants swelling into a fevered pitch. "Execute the Blue-Haired Boy!" a man shouted, his voice cutting through the cacophony as others joined in, their words a relentless drumbeat of malice.

Guards hemmed them in. Two Royal Guards at the front, their armor glinting with cold authority, and two at the back, spears poised like vipers ready to strike. Nathaniel and Santina's wrists were bound with coarse rope, tethered to the roofless carriage that rolled behind them. The ropes chafed, a constant reminder of their captivity, but Nathani-el kept his eyes forward. He wouldn't give Othello the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

Othello rode in the carriage, his cackling laughter a grating counterpoint to the crowd's fervor. His rich friends lounged beside him, their smirks mirroring his own as they basked in the spectacle. "Fifteen minutes, West Coast! Fifteen more!" Othello bellowed, his voice ringing with confidence. He raised his hands high, drinking in the people's adoration as if it were fine wine. The crowd erupted, their cheers a tidal wave that seemed to lift him higher.

Beside him sat Hamlet, the mayor of the entire west coast, a man in his forties with a furrowed brow and a gaze that flickered between curiosity and unease. "It seems you have a great reputation here in the West, eh, Othello?" he said, his tone probing. "Why don't your people like us other mayors? Have you even treated them well?"

Othello's laugh was a thunderclap, mingling with the crowd's roars. "Indeed, Hamlet. Your people love me!" He shot a quick, dismissive glance at the older mayor. "And for my people? You'd have to gain their respect. I treated them well." His words dripped with arrogance, a claim Nathaniel knew was hollow. Respect earned through fear wasn't respect at all.

It was obedience.

Ahead, Nathaniel marched in silence, his blue hair a vivid banner against the muted, bland, gray-ish tones of the square. The sight of Othello's smug face would only stoke his anger, and he needed clarity now, not rage. 

Santina, tethered beside him, wasn't so restrained. She stole a glance back at Othello, her eyes narrowing as she muttered under her breath. "Where's Arwyn now, huh?" Her voice was a hissed whisper, laced with curses and regret. "I trusted you, Nathaniel, and look where it's gotten us."

He didn't flinch. His voice was steady, calm as the moon hanging in a night sky. "He'll be here, girl. He'll be here."

Santina's head snapped toward him, searching his face for a crack in that serene facade. But Nathaniel's expression was a mask, his gaze locked on the execution stage looming closer with every step. She wanted to believe him, and well, she needed to. But the ropes, the guards, and the ticking clock gnawed at her faith.

The carriage jolted over an uneven stone, tugging at their bindings. Nathaniel steadied himself, his mind racing. Arwyn had promised to come through, and they'd survived worse odds together. But as the stage's shadow fell over them, doubt crept in.

Fifteen minutes. That's all they had left before the noose claimed them.

Behind them, Othello's voice rose again. "Look at this, Hamlet! The people adore me. They know I'm the one who keeps order." He gestured toward Nathaniel and Santina with a sneer. "These two? Rebels. Threats to the peace I've built."

Hamlet's eyes flicked to the prisoners, a question lingering in his stare. "And what threat do they pose?"

"They defy me," Othello said simply, his smile sharp as a blade. "That's enough."

Santina's temper flared. "Peace?" she spat, loud enough to draw a guard's glare. "You call this peace? You're a damn liar, Othello!"

The nearest Royal Guard turned, his spear twitching toward her. "Silence, prisoner," he growled.

Othello chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "See? Trouble follows them. It's why they're here."

Hamlet said nothing, his gaze shifting between Othello's bravado and the captives' defiance. The carriage rolled to a stop at the stage's base, and the guards untied Nathaniel and Santina from the vehicle, shoving them forward. The wooden steps creaked underfoot as they ascended, the nooses swaying slightly in the breeze.

The crowd's chant grew louder, a pulsing rhythm: "Execute the Blue-Haired Boy! Execute the Blue-Haired Boy!" Nathaniel stood tall, refusing to bow under their hatred. Santina's hands shook, her breath ragged, but she held her ground beside him.

Othello dismounted, striding up to the platform with the swagger of a king. He turned to the crowd, arms outstretched. "People of the west coast!" he roared. "Today, we cleanse our land of these traitors. Let their end be a warning to all!"

The square exploded in cheers, but Nathaniel's focus was elsewhere, scanning the sea of faces for Arwyn. Santina leaned close, her whisper desperate. "If he doesn't show…"

"He will," Nathaniel said, his voice a lifeline. But as the guards adjusted the nooses, the clock ticked down, and the question lingered: Where was Arwyn?

At the middle of the stage was a stone table, stained with dry blood. There stood two more soldiers—executioners, each holding an axe as sharp as a blade. The guards guided them there, slow and steady, and they had no choice but to follow. The crowd continued chanting, remorseless.

"Have faith. He's there somewhere."

His stoicism irritated Santina, a spark of frustration flaring in her chest. Faith? In what? The cold stone beneath their feet? The axes glinting in the sunlight? She wanted to run, to claw her way out of this nightmare, but the guards' hands were iron on her arms, and the crowd's fervor boxed them in.

Where was there to go? Guards surrounded them, the crowd pressed closer, and above it all, Othello's smug gaze bored into them from his elevated seat. Beside him, Hamlet's face twitched. Nervousness, maybe, or a crack in his resolve, but it offered no comfort.

Then her sister. She was waiting for her to come with her up there.

The guards stopped them before the table, the stained stone looming like a judge's gavel. One of the executioners stepped forward, his axe catching the light in a cruel flash. He pointed at Nathaniel, a silent command to kneel.

Santina's pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out the chants until they were just a dull roar. Her knees buckled as a guard shoved her down, the stone biting into her skin through her clothes. Beside her, Nathaniel remained upright, his blue hair stark against the gray backdrop, a quiet defiance in his stillness.

"Kneel," the executioner growled, his voice rough as gravel. When Nathaniel didn't budge, the guard behind him seized his shoulders, forcing him down with a grunt. Santina's breath came in shallow gasps, her bound hands trembling. She stole a glance at the crowd, searching for a savior. Arwyn, anyone, but all she saw were twisted faces, eyes alight with hunger for their blood.

Othello leaned forward, his lips curling into a sneer. "Any last words, boy? Or are you still waiting for your miracle?"

Nathaniel met his gaze, unflinching. "It's coming." he said simply, his calm a blade of its own. And he smirked.

The executioner raised his axe, the shadow of its edge stretching across Nathaniel's neck. The crowd's chants surged to a fevered peak, a wall of sound that pressed against Santina's skull. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, her lips moving in a silent plea—to God, to fate, to anything that might listen. The air thickened, every second stretching into eternity.

She could hear the executioner's steady breathing, the creak of his grip on the axe, the distant clink of armor as the guards shifted.

"See you all in the next life," the executioner muttered, axe ready to slam down.

The axe cut through the air.

Nathaniel smirked, and Santina waited for death to take her home. Then she heard the small voice of Lita echoing through her skull.

"Come back…"

BANG!

The impact shook the stage, and the audience went silent.

The executioner's head jerked back, a crimson spray bursting from his head. His body folded like a broken puppet, the axe slipping from his lifeless hands to clang against the stone.

Santina's eyes snapped open, her heart lurching as the second executioner whirled, axe raised, only for another bang to ring out. He crumpled mid-step, blood pooling beneath him, his weapon skittering across the stage.

Guards shouted, their spears slashing the air as they searched for the unseen shooter. Othello surged to his feet, his smugness replaced by a snarl.

"Find him! Kill him!" he bellowed, his voice nearly lost in the chaos. The crowd churned, some fleeing, others shoving forward, a tide of confusion and fear.

Nathaniel's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "Told you," he murmured to Santina, his voice almost swallowed by the uproar.