Chapter 2 – The Walk of the Dead

The chains were too tight.

Delwyn had marched prisoners to their deaths before—traitors, rebels, thieves too bold for their own good. She had watched them take their final steps through these very streets, heads bowed, faces bloodied, the iron shackles biting into their skin.

She had never once thought she would be on the other side of it.

But here she was.

Her bare feet scraped against the frozen cobblestone as she walked, the cold gnawing at her toes. The iron around her wrists had rubbed her skin raw, metal biting into bruised flesh. She kept her back straight, shoulders squared, forcing her body not to betray the ache settling deep into her bones. She wouldn't let them see her falter.

****

The city was awake.

They had gathered in the thousands, packed shoulder to shoulder behind the wooden barricades lining the execution path. Merchants, labourers, nobles watching from their high balconies. Some were silent, faces unreadable. Others whispered, their breath curling in the cold air. And then there were those who jeered.

"TRAITOR!"

"DEATH TO THE KINGSLAYER!"

A woman spat toward her. A rotten piece of fruit struck her shoulder, wet and sour.

She didn't flinch.

The Black Hounds flanked her on either side, their dark armour gleaming in the torchlight, heavy boots pounding the cobblestones in steady rhythm. It was a march of death.

At the front of them, Doran Cass led the way.

She kept her eyes on his back. He carried her sword, strapped between his shoulders. The same sword that had once been sworn to protect the man who now ordered her death.

King Galborn Galborn.

Delwyn swallowed against the dryness in her throat. She wouldn't beg. She wouldn't ask for mercy.

She had made her choice.

They turned the final corner, and the gallows came into view.

A scaffold had been built at the heart of the square, framed against the towering Black Keep, the seat of Galborn Galborn's rule. The torches lining the steps cast long, wavering shadows across the city walls.

There was no noose. Only the executioner's block.

Good.

A clean death, then. Or at least, as clean as the headsman made it.

****

The wooden platform groaned beneath her feet as she made her way to the block. She had seen men die on these steps before. Now, she would join them.

The headsman stood waiting, a hulking brute with arms thick as tree trunks, his face hidden behind a steel mask. His axe was already raised.

The Black Hounds forced her forward. She did not resist.

She lowered herself to her knees. The wood was damp beneath her palms, the feeling of old blood thick against her skin, the scent in the cold air.

The executioner stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the stage.

A heavy, calloused hand pressed against the back of her neck, forcing her down. The axe rested against her skin.

Cold. Sharp.

The crowd screamed for the blade.

Delwyn exhaled, slow and steady.

She hoped he wasn't drunk on mead.

This is it.

Then, a sound.

Soft. Sharp. Like air splitting open.

The headsman grunted. A strange, wet noise. His hand slipped from the back of her neck. His weight shifted—then fell away entirely.

Delwyn's eyes snapped open.

The headsman lay slumped beside her, his axe clattering onto the wood. A dagger was buried deep into his throat, its hilt wrapped in black leather. His thick blood pooled around at her knees.

A voice yelled out. "He's passed out again?! Bloody drunk"

The crowd didn't notice. Not yet.

But someone had.

Doran cursed, stepping forward, hand flying to her sword at his back.

And then the shadow moved.

A hooded figure emerged from the mist, fast and silent. He moved like water—fluid, effortless. One moment, he was beneath the gallows, unseen. The next, he was standing over her, his gloved hand gripping the dagger he had just thrown.

Delwyn barely had time to react before he was pulling her to her feet.

"Come on," he muttered, voice smooth and calm, like this wasn't the most dangerous moment of either of their lives.

She wrenched her arm from his grasp. "Who the hell —"

"Not the time," the stranger cut her off. "Move."

Doran had drawn his blade. Guards were already scrambling, the crowd shifting with uncertainty. The moment was slipping.

Delwyn hesitated.

The stranger sighed sharply. Then, without warning, he cut through the chains on her wrists with a single, precise stroke of his knife.

And just like that, Delwyn had a choice again.

She flexed her fingers. Her body ached, but her stance felt different now—ready.

Her eyes flickered to the sword in Doran's grip. Her sword.

"I'll handle them," the stranger murmured. "You get off this platform."

Delwyn didn't move.

Her gaze locked onto Doran's.

She wanted her sword.

She wanted to fight.

She wanted blood.

Delwyn's breath came slow and steady. Her fingers flexed, aching but free.

Doran stood before her, his grip tightening around her sword—the weapon she had carried into battle, the steel she had sworn in service to a king she once believed in.

And now, that sword was pointed at her.

His stance was strong, practiced—but hesitant.

Good.

She could use that.

The hooded stranger at her side muttered a curse. "We don't have time for this."

Delwyn ignored him.

The Black Hounds had started pushing through the crowd, their blackened steel gleaming under the torchlight. The square was turning to chaos.

But all she saw was Doran.

"You're a fool," he murmured, eyes dark and unreadable. Not angry. Not gloating. Just… tired. "You should have stayed down."

Delwyn grinned through blood stained teeth. "You always were bad at giving orders Doran."

And then she lunged.

Doran reacted fast—but not fast enough.

Delwyn dropped low, sweeping her leg toward his knee. A feint.

Doran stepped back, shifting his weight—just as she grabbed the fallen executioner's axe from the ground and swung.

CRACK.

The flat of the axe slammed against his side. Cracking bone. Doran stumbled, breath catching, armour absorbing most of the blow. But pain still flickered across his face. It was a blunt shunt.

Good. Let it hurt.

She pressed forward, hacking at him again, forcing him backward with each strike. Doran blocked high, then low, their blades ringing in the frozen night air.

She could hear the Black Hounds climbing the steps behind her.

Faster. She had to end this.

She pivoted, slamming her foot into Doran's gut. He staggered—but instead of falling, he twisted with the movement, rolling to the side and coming up fast.

And this time, he wasn't hesitating.

Delwyn barely dodged in time. The tip of her own blade cut across her arm, burning sharp and fast.

She hissed. Sloppy.

Doran came at her again. His swings were controlled, precise—meant to wear her down. He had always fought with patience, like a man who knew time was on his side.

But time wasn't on his side tonight.

Because Delwyn wasn't playing fair.

She kicked a loose stone into his path. Doran faltered—only for half a breath, but it was enough.

Delwyn surged forward, swinging the axe one last time.

The wooden handle cracked against his wrist. Doran cried out, his grip on the sword loosening—

And Delwyn ripped it from his grasp.

The moment she felt the weight of her sword in her hands, everything else faded.

The cold. The blood. The thousands of eyes watching.

She had it back.

She had it back, and the fight was over.

Doran stared at her, chest heaving. Clutching his side. His blade-less hand curled into a fist.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, behind her—

The hooded stranger moved like a shadow, spinning toward the nearest Black Hounds. A knife flashed in the torchlight. One guard dropped, clutching his throat.

Delwyn turned, sword raised. More were coming.

Doran's jaw clenched.

He could still fight. He should still fight.

But instead, he stepped back.

Just once.

A silent choice.

A silent warning.

Then, he turned and disappeared into the chaos.

Delwyn exhaled hard. She didn't have time to think about why he let her go.

Because more guards were flooding the scaffold.

She turned to the hooded man—her rescuer, her stranger.

"Names Vaelor," he muttered.

"Delwyn."

"I know. Nice to finally meet you. Now run."

Before she could even respond, he pulled her away and they did.