CHAPTER I
The crisp, aromatic concoction of advertised spices and naturally produced perfumes poisoned the air that lingered about the Square. An abundance of stalls was erected in parallel with each other, unintentionally creating a wide, though bustling, path straight towards the main attraction. Thrilled children weaved between the older city-folk, enthusiastic to reach the stage while there was still a chance to observe near the front.
“Fried Ferhynian beetle wings! Get these delicacies while they’re fresh!” A vendor called as another competed with the announcement of their blue-tip roses from the heart of Yuhren. The unspoken dispute amongst salesmen was cut short with the telling rumble of a trumpet, echoing from the stage.
Gradually, the people of the Verhis Capital collectively moved to surround the elevated platform known as the executioner’s stage. The indents in the wood that formed the structure were stained wine-red with the ink of previous criminals who had their fate set in stone. As droplets of rain fell from the sky, like angels from the heavens arriving to a makeshift hell, these relics of prior unfortunate sinners sparked back into action and travelled down the sides, pooling at the feet of hypnotised commoners.
The black fenced gates parted, making way for a group of figures; at the forefront, the poor sinner with a guard at each side, followed by the notorious executioner, then the sheriff and a mean priest. The audience roared with cruel anticipation as the criminal was pushed to her knees roughly upon the wave of the executioner’s hand.
She was an ugly thing. Her nose was just as crooked as her teeth, and her dark hair fell unevenly over her eyes. A few of the crowd called out vulgar threats with hungry grins over their faces, along with a rotten tomato tossed to land with a splat by the repulsive maiden. A frown etched itself into the priest’s countenance.
The executioner was a beautiful young man with pale, blonde hair just about to his shoulders. His optics were a wondrous blue, bright yet only with his seemingly insatiable thirst for murder. Fittingly, rumours bounced about the people of Verhis, claiming that his infamous executioner’s sword smoked with warm blood from the sheer speed of his beheadings. Despite his handsome exterior, he was just as ugly inside as the sinner was externally. Reign was a merciless man who grinned at the sight of his executions. Prolonged death was never to his taste, he preferred swift yet messy deaths, where the convict’s vermilion syrup was still hot with dwindling life as it hit his hands and face.
“Father Synn,” Reign glanced back to meet the repulsed priest’s glare with mischief, “I request that a holy man such as yourself doesn’t step foot on my stage.” He sighed and leaned his cheek in his palm, “Truly, I would hate for your holiness to be tainted!”
A scowl brought itself upon Father Synn’s countenance as he observed the taunting grin from the executioner.
“You do not amuse me.” He spat with a venomous tone.
Reign’s grin broadened, “Keep me in your prayers, Father. This is a spectacle I hope you do not forget.”
The tall, slim man turned on his heels and stared at the maiden on her knees at the very centre of his beloved stage. He made his way over to her, every tap of his heels against the wood sending shivers down her spine.
“Why do you tremble? I’m sure you would be pleased to know I do not leave my sinners to wallow in pain- at least unless I’m specifically ordered to.” He hummed his last sentence and tore the hood off her head in preparation as he continued, “You killed your husband. Why did you refuse to tell Adron why?” The executioner continued to speak with a smile, every swift movement of his fingers as they pulled her wiry hair away from the nape of her neck animated with exhilaration. There was nothing he adored more than his craft.
The woman said naught in return and her expression remained vacant.
Abruptly, Reign flicked a bruise against the side of her neck, “Adron would’ve been a little more merciful, you know? He may be a torturer, but he is not without some empathy.” He cackled and wielded his blade.
Behind him, the sheriff called sternly,
“Quit your rambling and kill the woman! The people are growing impatient.”
Reign rolled his alluring eyes and raised his sword, the action provoking the Verhynian people to surge with morbid thrill.
Blood sprayed from her exposed throat like a gruesome fountain, drowning the sodden wood. Her maroon sap travelled along every crevice with the aid of the rain, as though washing away her existence. With a steady grin, Reign leaned over and picked up the head which bore a ghastly expression. He held it up as per tradition to display the death, pleased to see the witnesses satisfied with this execution.
“Unlike executioners in other regions,” The sheriff spoke in a hushed tone to the priest beside himself, “Reign has never suffered an unhappy audience.”
Synn poked his inner cheek with his tongue, thin arms crossed loosely across his chest, “Yes, I have heard of an instance in Etzihalle where they stoned the executioner to death.” His voice was flat.
The sheriff cocked a brow with intrigue. “Father, you seem to have no empathy for such a death. I am not surprised. Executioners and holy men don’t tend to mix well, do they?”
“No. One does the work of God, the other believes he is doing the work of God. However, I understand executioners are necessary.” He slowly nodded his head, though even his final claim was poisoned with bitterness. Synn raised his head from the cobblestone beneath his feet to rest on the blonde man, who approached them with a fixed smile.
Reign stopped in front of the two men with a flourish,
“Officer, Father.” He dipped his head with respect, “I hope you are not disappointed. You must’ve travelled quite a long way from Regensworth.” Reign turned to Synn with his hands behind his back. “…I have seen quite a few holy men entering the city.”
Before the clergyman could respond, the sheriff answered in his place with a cool tone. “Here is your payment. I’m sure Father Synn is impressed,” He stuffed his hand in his pockets before drawing out a leather pouch. The officer let it drop on Reign’s open palm, rather careful himself with avoiding the touch of the executioner, “Ah, right. Head to the dungeons as soon as possible. Adron requests your presence.”
Reign raised and lowered his hand faintly, weighing the contents. A satisfied grin flashed across his countenance as he nonchalantly pocketed the pouch.
“Farewell,” He waved a hand as he left the pair to themselves with a cocky expression.
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