POV: Christiana Blackwood – The Dictator
His voice—still that low, collected tone—cut through the static tension like a whisper in thunder.
"Before you pull the trigger... get me the King."
The audacity.
This thing, this ragged soul, wrapped in dirt and tattered cloth, looked me dead in the eye and asked to be judged—not by a court, not by me, the Dictator—but by Chris Blackwood himself.
Gasps echoed through the room. B.A.M soldiers looked at each other, unsure whether to scoff or raise their rifles.
"You dare speak his name?" I hissed.
"I do more than speak it," he said, still not flinching. "I demand it. Bring me the King... and if he declares me guilty, I will not resist the punishment. I'll accept death, even now. But until then..."
He took one bold step forward—rifles cocked in unison—and raised both his hands in surrender.
"...you're not allowed to call this justice."
He turned his gaze to the guards now, steady and unnerving. "If your king finds me guilty, let his bullet find my heart."
No one spoke. No one moved.
I clenched my fists, chest rising and falling faster now.
Why was he so calm? Why didn't he sweat? Why did his words feel like prophecy?
One of the B.A.M captains leaned in.
"Ma'am... should we call for His Majesty?"
I stared at the beggar.
Something felt off. That voice. That presence.
Even wrapped in rags, the room bent around him. Like he belonged above us, not beneath us.
"Send for the King," I ordered coldly.
"But if this is a game... if this is a trick... I'll shoot him myself."
The soldiers backed away from the beggar, reluctantly, respectfully even.
He sat back down—still in disguise—head bowed, but the tiniest smirk tugged at his lips.
He was patient.
Because he knew the King was coming.
To Be Continued...