Chapter 2;- The Execution

The sun rose like a blade over the horizon, cold and merciless. The sky, a dull shade of gray, cast a somber light over the city of Blackhaven. The streets, once alive with merchants and commoners, were now lined with a silent, expectant crowd.

Today, a traitor would die.

Rhaegar Crowne was dragged from the depths of the dungeon, his body broken, his wrists shackled in iron. The chains rattled as he stumbled forward, his once-proud frame reduced to a shadow of itself. His skin was marred with cuts and bruises, fresh wounds layered over old ones. Dried blood stained his tattered tunic, and his bare feet left faint red imprints on the cobblestone as he was hauled toward the execution square.

He was not a king anymore. He was a condemned man.

The city's nobles stood on balconies, dressed in fine silks, sipping from jeweled goblets as they watched the spectacle unfold. The common folk pressed together, whispering among themselves. Some spat at him as he passed, others merely watched with cold, indifferent eyes.

A wooden platform loomed ahead, standing in the heart of the square. At its center, a towering execution post awaited him, its iron chains glinting under the morning light. Surrounding it were the instruments of his suffering—whips, branding irons, and, at the farthest end, the executioner's axe.

They did not want him to die quickly.

They wanted to break him first.

The First Blow

The royal herald stepped forward, unrolling a scroll. His voice rang out across the square.

"Rhaegar Crowne, former prince of Blackhaven, has been found guilty of treason against the Empire. He has betrayed the throne, conspired against the crown, and led an uprising against his own people. For these crimes, he is sentenced to death."

A roar of approval erupted from the crowd.

Rhaegar said nothing.

Two guards forced him onto his knees, chaining his arms above his head. His wrists burned as the cold iron dug into his skin. He felt the bite of the wind against his wounds, the dull ache of exhaustion settling deep into his bones.

And then the first strike came.

The whip cracked through the air, carving a line of fire across his back. The force of it jerked his body forward, his breath hitching in his throat.

Another strike.

And another.

The pain was relentless, sharp and burning, but Rhaegar did not make a sound. He gritted his teeth, his fingers curling into fists, his body refusing to give them the satisfaction of his suffering.

"Scream, traitor!" one of the guards sneered.

He did not.

Blood dripped down his spine, staining the platform beneath him.

The Branding

The whip was eventually set aside, replaced with something far worse.

A brazier burned beside the execution post, the iron brand resting within its flames, glowing red-hot. A sigil was carved into its surface—the mark of a traitor.

A symbol that would be seared into his flesh for the world to see.

Two men held him in place as the executioner pulled the brand from the fire, its heat distorting the air around it. The crowd leaned forward, eager, hungry.

The executioner pressed the burning iron against his chest.

Pain unlike any other tore through Rhaegar's body. It was not the sharp, fleeting agony of a blade—it was slow, torturous, a fire that burrowed into his flesh and set his very bones alight.

His muscles seized, his vision blurred at the edges. The stench of burning skin filled the air.

Still, he did not scream.

But as the brand was pulled away, leaving behind a smoking, charred mark, his breathing came ragged, uneven. His heart pounded in his ears, his body trembling from the sheer force of will it took to stay upright.

The crowd cheered.

"He's barely human!" someone whispered.

No. He was more than human.

And that terrified them.

The Final Moments

The executioner wiped sweat from his brow, moving toward the heavy axe that lay at the edge of the platform. The time for torment was over. Now, only death remained.

Rhaegar's chains were unfastened, his body dropping limply onto the wooden surface. Two guards yanked him upward, dragging him toward the block where his life would end.

He was forced to his knees, his head pressed against the cold, splintered wood.

The world seemed distant now, blurred and indistinct. The roar of the crowd faded into nothing but a dull hum.

This was how it would end.

Not as a king. Not as a warrior.

But as a traitor.

The executioner raised the axe.

Rhaegar closed his eyes.

And then—

The world went black.

The weight of the chains was gone, yet Rhaegar's body still felt shackled—by exhaustion, by pain, by the cruel hands of fate. His breath came in slow, measured gulps as he knelt before the executioner's block. Blood dripped from his torn flesh, the mark of a traitor seared into his chest, but he did not collapse.

He would not give them that satisfaction.

The crowd was restless now, their hunger for pain unsatisfied. They had wanted to see him scream, to hear him beg. But he had denied them that.

"He still looks defiant," one of the nobles muttered from his balcony.

"Break him," another hissed.

The executioner's axe hovered over his head, its edge gleaming in the sunlight. But the blow did not come. Not yet.

Instead, a familiar voice called out.

"Wait."

Silence fell over the square as a man stepped forward from the dais where the high lords sat.

Lord Sebastian Vayne

Rhaegar lifted his gaze, his vision blurred but his mind sharp with hatred.

Sebastian was draped in the royal colors of House Vayne—deep crimson and gold, a mockery of the honor he pretended to uphold. His silver hair was neatly combed, his expression calm, composed. But his eyes...

His eyes held the gleam of a man enjoying every moment of this.

"This is not enough," Sebastian declared, turning to the gathered lords. "A simple death does not serve as proper punishment. This man was once a prince. He believed himself untouchable. If we grant him death so quickly, we are showing mercy."

Some murmured in agreement, others merely watched with curiosity.

Sebastian stepped closer, his boots clicking against the wooden platform. He crouched beside Rhaegar, gripping his chin in a bruising hold.

"You always were stubborn, weren't you?" His voice was soft, but laced with poison.

Rhaegar didn't answer. He simply stared, his golden eyes burning with silent fury.

Sebastian smirked.

"You should have died in the dungeons," he whispered. "But I wanted to see this myself. I wanted to watch you break."

He released Rhaegar's chin with a sharp jerk. Then he turned to the crowd and raised his voice.

"Let this traitor suffer one final humiliation before he dies. Strip him of everything—his pride, his dignity. Let him crawl before us like the wretched worm he is!"

A roar of approval erupted from the audience.

Rhaegar felt his stomach twist, not from fear, but from pure loathing.

These people. His people. The same ones who once cheered his name.

Now, they spat at him. Cursed him.

Betrayal ran deep.

The guards moved swiftly, grabbing at the tattered remains of his tunic, tearing it from his body. His wounds, his bruises, his bloodied skin—all were exposed to the jeering crowd.

"Look at him!" someone shouted. "The once-great prince, reduced to nothing!"

Rhaegar clenched his fists.

The urge to fight back burned in his veins, but his body was weak, his strength nearly spent. His pride, however, was something they could never take.

Even as they dragged him forward, forcing him to kneel at Sebastian's feet, he kept his head high.

"Beg," Sebastian said.

Rhaegar chuckled, the sound low and hoarse.

"Go to hell."

Sebastian's smirk faded. He grabbed a handful of Rhaegar's hair, jerking his head back.

"You're already in it, traitor."

Then, with a sharp nod, he gave the final order.

The executioner raised the axe once more.

Rhaegar closed his eyes, his final thoughts not of regret, not of fear—

But of vengeance.

And then, the world went dark.

The executioner swung his axe—

And the world shifted.

A deafening crack split the air, sharp and unnatural, like the very fabric of reality had just fractured. The blow meant to sever Rhaegar's head halted mid-swing, the axe inches from his throat. The executioner's muscles locked, his breath hitched, and then—his entire body jerked violently, as if an unseen force had just seized his spine and yanked it backward.

The crowd, moments ago roaring for blood, fell into uneasy silence. A murmur rippled through them, a question unspoken but heavy in the air.

What just happened?

Rhaegar, barely clinging to consciousness, felt it.

A shift. A disturbance. Something in the very air around him had changed—an unnatural pressure settling over the square, thick and suffocating. It pressed against his skin, seeped into his bones, whispering something just beyond his understanding.

He lifted his head with effort, golden eyes glazed from blood loss, but his instincts screamed at him—something is here.

Sebastian took a step forward, eyes narrowing as he turned toward the executioner.

"What are you waiting for?" His voice, still sharp with authority, held a flicker of unease. "Finish it."

The executioner didn't respond.

He couldn't.

His lips parted, trembling, but no words came. His fingers, still wrapped around the axe handle, twitched violently. His entire body shook, his veins bulging beneath his skin as if something inside him was rebelling—twisting, constricting, suffocating.

Then, with a sickening crack, his head snapped back at an unnatural angle.

A single, wet gurgle escaped his throat before he collapsed, the axe clattering to the stone beside him.

Dead.

A horrified silence settled over the square. Even Sebastian hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist. Something was wrong.

Rhaegar's body screamed with pain, his mind sluggish and dazed, but he could feel something coiling around him—cold, ancient, and hungry. It wasn't a force he recognized, nor was it one he feared.

If anything... it felt familiar.

His lips parted as a breathy chuckle escaped him—weak, but undeniably there. He lifted his gaze, bloodied, beaten, yet smiling.

Sebastian saw it. His brows furrowed, a flicker of something uneasy flashing in his eyes.

"What the hell are you laughing at?"

Rhaegar exhaled, his vision swimming, but the words left his lips before he even thought about them.

"You should've killed me faster."

The words left Rhaegar's lips like a ghost of laughter, breathless but laced with something dangerous.

Sebastian's frown deepened. The way Rhaegar said it—it wasn't the delirium of a dying man. It wasn't an empty threat. It was something worse.

A warning.

The unease in the air thickened. The once-roaring crowd stood eerily silent, shifting uneasily. They had come for a spectacle, to watch a traitor be broken before them, to revel in his suffering. But this… this was not part of the script.

Sebastian took a step forward, looming over Rhaegar's kneeling form. His cold, calculating gaze searched the battered prince's face, looking for signs of weakness—of finality. But instead, he found something else.

A glint. A shadow of something still burning behind those golden eyes.

"You're dying, Crowne." Sebastian's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And yet, you smile. Why?"

Rhaegar inhaled, slow and deliberate. The pain in his ribs screamed, his skin slick with blood, but it was as if his body no longer mattered.

"Because you don't understand what you've done." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but the weight behind it sent a chill down Sebastian's spine.

The words hung between them, heavy, loaded with a meaning Sebastian couldn't quite grasp. And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

The silence stretched.

Then—

A gust of wind tore through the square.

It came from nowhere, sudden and violent, sending banners whipping in the air, rattling the iron chains that held Rhaegar in place. The temperature dropped sharply, cold enough that some in the crowd shivered, hugging their cloaks tighter.

Sebastian's patience snapped.

"Enough of this." He turned to the guards. "Get a new executioner. Now."

The soldiers hesitated.

"What are you waiting for? I said—"

A choked sound cut through the air.

One of the guards collapsed, gasping for breath, his hands clawing at his throat as if something unseen had wrapped around it. His face twisted in agony, veins darkening beneath his skin, his eyes bulging—

And then, in a single violent spasm, his body went still.

The other guards recoiled. Murmurs of fear spread through the crowd.

"What the hell—" Sebastian took a sharp step back, eyes flickering between the lifeless body and Rhaegar.

But Rhaegar hadn't moved.

He was still on his knees, barely holding himself upright. Yet there was something else in his presence now. Something unseen, yet suffocatingly present.

Sebastian's grip tightened on his sword. He was no fool—this wasn't normal. This wasn't natural.

And yet, Rhaegar just sat there, watching. Bleeding. Smiling.

And then, barely audible—

A whisper slithered through the air.

Not Rhaegar's.

Not anyone's.

"Not yet."

Sebastian's blood ran cold.

"Who are you?!" Sebastian screamed, his voice cutting through the eerie silence.

The crowd flinched. The guards stiffened. Fear slithered through them like a sickness.

But Rhaegar?

He laughed.

A hoarse, broken sound, but it held no pain. No desperation. Just something raw—something unsettlingly amused. He lifted his bloodied face, golden eyes gleaming despite the bruises and dried blood staining his skin.

"You already know," Rhaegar murmured. His voice was soft, almost mocking, yet laced with something chilling.

Sebastian's grip on his sword tightened.

No. This wasn't possible. Rhaegar Crowne was dying—he was supposed to be broken, humiliated, left to rot beneath the weight of his own failure. Yet, somehow, in this moment, he didn't look like a condemned man.

He looked like something else.

Something waiting.

"Enough!" Sebastian snarled, turning sharply to the guards. "Kill him! Now!"

The executioner was already dead. But the soldiers—hesitant, wary—still had their swords. They drew them, steel glinting under the cold light, stepping forward to finish what the axe could not.

Rhaegar lifted his head, meeting their gazes.

And they hesitated.

It wasn't just the executioner. It wasn't just the strange wind, the unnatural cold curling around the square like a ghostly hand. It was the way he looked at them—

Like he saw through them.

Like he knew something they didn't.

One of the younger guards swallowed thickly, his grip unsteady. Why did it feel like a mistake to move closer?

"What are you waiting for?!" Sebastian roared. "Do it!"

The first soldier lunged—

And his blade stopped inches from Rhaegar's throat.

Not because Rhaegar dodged. Not because of armor or chains.

But because his arm would not move.

A strangled gasp tore from the guard's lips as his wrist froze mid-strike, his muscles locking, veins bulging against his skin. His expression twisted in horror, as if his own body was no longer his to control.

Then—his head snapped violently to the side.

A sickening crack echoed through the square.

His lifeless body dropped to the ground.

Silence.

No one moved.

Sebastian's pulse thundered in his ears. This is impossible. This is wrong.

Another gust of wind rushed through the square, colder this time—hungrier.

Sebastian's eyes snapped back to Rhaegar. He was still kneeling, still chained. He hadn't lifted a finger.

But his smile had widened.

And then—

A whisper.

"You should have killed me faster."

It wasn't just Rhaegar's voice anymore. It was layered, distorted, as if something else—something older, something unseen—was speaking alongside him.

Sebastian's stomach dropped.

This execution was not going as planned.

"You!" Sebastian said accusingly, pointing at Rhaegar. There was a hint of fear in his voice. "What are you?"

Rhaegar tilted his head, the movement slow, deliberate. Blood dripped from his torn lips, but his golden eyes gleamed, sharp as a dagger pressed against an exposed throat.

"That's the right question," he murmured. "And yet… the wrong one."

The wind howled. The torches lining the execution square flickered violently, casting twisted shadows against the stone walls.

Sebastian took a step back before he could stop himself. No. This is wrong. This is impossible.

He had watched Rhaegar break—watched him be beaten, humiliated, dragged through the streets like a mangy dog. He had seen the blood, the agony in his eyes. He should be nothing more than a broken man kneeling in chains.

But now?

Now, he looked like something else.

Something that should not be alive.

The soldiers, still gripping their swords, shifted nervously. They had sworn loyalty to the crown, had come here prepared to kill a traitor. But this… this was no ordinary execution.

It was a mistake.

"Cut off his head!" Sebastian barked, pushing down the fear clawing at his chest. "Now! Do it before—"

A shudder ran through the ground.

It wasn't an earthquake. It wasn't something they could see.

But they felt it.

A low, unnatural thrum vibrated through the stone beneath their feet, a pulse of something that did not belong to this world.

The youngest soldier—the same one who had hesitated—dropped his sword. It clattered against the ground, the sound deafening in the tense silence.

Rhaegar laughed.

Soft at first. Then deeper. Richer.

Until it wasn't his laugh alone anymore.

It was layered. Warped. A chorus of voices, each one ancient, each one whispering through the air like a thousand unseen hands reaching through the veil of death itself.

The crowd screamed.

People pushed and shoved, trying to get away, their cheers turning into cries of horror. The guards hesitated, fear etched into their faces.

Sebastian's heart pounded against his ribs.

"No… No, this is not…"

His words faltered.

Because Rhaegar Crowne—the man he had sentenced to die—was still smiling.

And despite the chains, despite the blood, despite the execution that should have ended him—

He had never looked more alive.

The torches flickered, their flames shrinking as if something unseen was consuming the very air around them. A metallic scent tainted the wind—not just the smell of blood, but something older, something wrong.

Sebastian's breath came in short, sharp gasps. His fingers twitched against his sword hilt, knuckles whitening. This was not supposed to happen.

"Kill him!" he roared, his voice cracking with something dangerously close to panic.

One of the guards obeyed. With a shout, he swung his sword—

But the moment the blade neared Rhaegar's throat, the air itself twisted.

The steel stopped mid-strike, suspended in the air as if held by unseen hands. The soldier's arms trembled, veins bulging against his skin. His eyes widened in horror.

"I… I can't move—!"

A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the square.

His arm twisted—backward.

Bone tore through skin. He screamed.

The sword fell from his fingers.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly. Not in relief. Not in exhaustion.

In satisfaction.

The whispers grew louder. Not just inside Sebastian's head anymore. They slithered through the very air, curling around the ears of the soldiers, the nobles, the horrified crowd.

"He is not supposed to be alive."

"He should be dead."

"We made a mistake."

Sebastian snapped. He refused to be afraid. He refused to be weak. This is still an execution.

"End him, or I'll have you all executed instead!" he roared at the guards.

The remaining soldiers, though trembling, advanced.

Rhaegar's eyes flickered toward them. Golden. Unwavering.

"Do you fear me?" he asked, voice low, almost… gentle.

The nearest soldier stopped in his tracks.

Something cold slithered down his spine, a primal, instinctive terror settling in his bones.

He saw something in Rhaegar's eyes—something that should not be there.

Rhaegar smiled.

"You should."

The ground beneath them shuddered again—this time, a deep crimson crack splintered the stone. The torches snuffed out completely, plunging the square into an eerie darkness.

Then—a single gust of wind.

Cold. Sharp. Hungry.

The first soldier collapsed, his body seizing violently. His eyes rolled back in his skull, mouth frothing. His comrades recoiled, watching in horrified silence as something black and unnatural seeped from his lips like smoke.

Sebastian's pulse thundered in his ears.

What have we done?

Rhaegar tilted his head back, inhaling slowly, as if drinking in the fear saturating the air.

Then he lowered his gaze to Sebastian.

And for the first time—

Sebastian realized they had never been the ones in control.

And for the first time—

Sebastian realized they had never been the ones in control.

His fingers clenched around his sword hilt, but it felt like holding a twig against a storm. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to put as much distance between himself and Rhaegar as possible.

But he couldn't. Not here. Not now. Not in front of the entire kingdom.

"He is still chained," Sebastian reminded himself. "He is still bound, still bleeding. We have the numbers. He is just one man."

A man who should be broken.

A man who should be dead.

But instead, Rhaegar stood there, his back straight despite the bruises and open wounds, the weight of his chains seemingly forgotten. His golden eyes burned in the dim light, fixed on Sebastian like a wolf studying prey that had already lost the fight—it just didn't know it yet.

"Kill him!"

Sebastian opened his mouth to give the order again, but before he could—

Rhaegar moved.

Not much. Just a slight shift of his foot, a subtle tightening of his fingers. But it sent a ripple of unease through the soldiers, their grips faltering on their weapons.

Then, he spoke.

"Tell me, Sebastian…" Rhaegar's voice was too calm, too steady for a man moments from execution. "Do you believe in fate?"

Sebastian gritted his teeth. "What nonsense—"

"Because if you do," Rhaegar continued as if he hadn't heard him, "then you should have known this day was inevitable."

The sky above them rumbled.

Dark clouds, thick as smoke, began to swirl overhead, blotting out what little sunlight remained. A shiver ran through the crowd, whispers spreading like wildfire.

"Magic."

"He's cursed."

"He should be dead. Why isn't he dead?"

Sebastian refused to give in to fear. "Enough!" He turned to the executioner, whose grip on the axe was shaking. "Strike him down! Now!"

The man hesitated.

Just for a second.

But that second was all Rhaegar needed.

Because in the next breath—

The chains shattered.

Not broke. Not snapped.

They exploded.

Shards of metal blasted outward, slicing through flesh and armor alike. Soldiers screamed, staggering backward as blood sprayed across the stone.

And in the chaos—

Rhaegar was free.

His breath came ragged but deep, his arms stretching for the first time in days. He rolled his shoulders, the ghost of a smirk playing at his split lips as the last remnants of his shackles clattered to the ground.

Sebastian took an instinctive step back.

"Impossible."

But the impossible had just happened.

Rhaegar flexed his fingers, his eyes flicking to the nearest guard still gripping a trembling sword.

"You should run," he advised. "Before I make this truly painful."

The soldier dropped his weapon and bolted.

Sebastian snarled. "Cowards! He is one man—fight him!"

But even as he yelled, he knew—

This was no longer an execution.

It was a massacre waiting to happen.

It was a massacre waiting to happen.

Sebastian could feel it in the way the air itself had changed—thick with something primal, something unnatural. The execution square, once filled with the roar of an eager crowd, had fallen into a suffocating silence. Even those who had come to watch him die in amusement now stood frozen, eyes wide, faces pale.

A few of the more cowardly nobles had already begun slipping away, their expensive robes trailing behind them like rats abandoning a sinking ship.

But the soldiers had no such luxury.

Rhaegar turned his gaze on them, his head tilting slightly, like a predator considering which of its prey to sink its teeth into first.

The nearest guard lunged—whether out of duty or blind panic, Sebastian couldn't tell. But Rhaegar barely moved.

A flick of his wrist.

A sudden rush of air.

And then—

The soldier's own blade was buried in his throat.

The man collapsed, choking on his own blood, fingers clawing uselessly at the hilt that now jutted from his flesh.

Rhaegar exhaled, as if bored. "One down."

The rest of the guards hesitated.

Sebastian's grip tightened on his sword, his mind racing.

"Think. Think."

He had planned for a criminal's execution, not a battle against a monster.

The execution had unraveled into something far worse.

The city square, once filled with eager spectators waiting to see a traitor's blood stain the stones, now held only fear. The air was thick with it, a suffocating tension that made even the most battle-hardened men hesitate.

And at the center of it all stood Rhaegar Crowne.

A man who should have been broken. A man who should have been dead.

But instead—he was free.

Sebastian's fingers curled into a white-knuckled grip around his sword, his mind racing. This was not how today was supposed to go. The execution was meant to be a warning to any who dared betray the crown—not an unshackled demon standing amidst fallen soldiers.

"Kill him!" Sebastian roared, forcing down his own unease. "Now!"

But no one moved.

Not even the executioner, whose axe had already fallen from his hands, his face a mask of terror.

Rhaegar exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off lingering stiffness. Then, with a single glance, his golden eyes locked onto the nearest guard—one of the younger recruits.

The poor fool flinched.

That was all Rhaegar needed.

With explosive speed, he closed the distance, faster than a man in his state should have been able to move. Before the guard could so much as raise his sword, Rhaegar's fingers wrapped around his wrist.

A sharp snap.

The soldier's scream barely left his throat before Rhaegar drove a knee into his ribs, sending him sprawling across the stone.

Another came at him, sword slashing down. Too slow.

Rhaegar sidestepped, caught the blade mid-swing with his bare hand, and with a sickening twist, wrenched it free. Blood dripped between his fingers, but his grip remained firm as he turned the weapon against its owner, driving the blade through the man's gut and twisting it just enough to make it hurt.

Steel clattered against stone as more weapons were abandoned.

"They fear him," Sebastian realized with a sick jolt.

"They see what I see—a man who has already lost everything… yet stands as if he has everything to gain."

And that made him terrifying.

"Damn it all."

Sebastian took a step forward, forcing the trembling remnants of his soldiers to hold their ground.

"You fools!" he barked. "Are you going to let one dying man best you all?"

The words had little effect. Even as he spoke, they were already backing away, inching toward the edges of the square, as if some unspoken instinct warned them that staying meant death.

And they were right.

Because Rhaegar wasn't done.

His golden eyes flicked toward the nobles still lingering in the crowd, watching from their safe vantage points with wide, horrified eyes.

"You all wanted to see me suffer." His voice was low, calm—too calm.

The kind of calm that came before a storm.

"Did you enjoy it?" He took a step forward, and the nearest noble recoiled as if burned. "Did it entertain you?"

Silence.

"Not so eager now, are you?" Rhaegar scoffed, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the stone.

Then, slowly—deliberately—he raised his stolen sword and pointed it toward the royal platform, where the king himself sat, watching.

Sebastian's breath caught in his throat.

"No."

The entire square seemed to still. Even the air itself felt heavier, as if the very world was holding its breath.

For a long moment, King Aldric simply stared down at the man who had once been his most trusted general—his execution now a failed spectacle.

Then, with the slightest tilt of his chin, the king gave the order.

A distant horn blared.

Archers.

Sebastian turned just in time to see the shadows shifting atop the city walls, a row of bowstrings pulled taut.

"This is it."

Rhaegar's muscles coiled. His grip on the sword tightened. He could hear the creak of the bows, the whisper of the wind against the arrowheads.

There was nowhere to run.

No chance to dodge.

The king had spoken.

The arrows were loosed.

And Rhaeger fell.