"Sylas of no house," the herald's voice rang out across the stone square, cold and sharp as steel,
"known across kingdoms by a hundred aliases and a thousand sins…"
A heavy silence descended upon the gathered crowd, each person holding their breath in anticipation.
The sky above was a relentless, cruelly blue, as though the heavens themselves demanded a perfect view of the unfolding justice.
"You stand condemned by crown and council alike," the herald continued,
"for driving forty-three noble houses and three dukedoms to ruin with silvered lies, and for the brazen abduction of the three royal daughters beneath moon and torchlight—your fate is sealed."
Chains clinked as Sylas shifted slightly. He stood bound in the center of the execution platform, wrists shackled behind his back, ankles looped with iron.
His dark hair hung loose around his face, tousled by the breeze. A faint, amused smile curved his lips.
"By the will of the realm, by the blood you spilled, and by the silence of those you silenced," the herald intoned,
"may your final breath be a warning to all who mistake cunning for justice."
A long pause followed.
The herald turned to Sylas with disgust.
"Any last words, oathbreaker?"
Silas blinked slowly. Then he lifted his head, tilted it ever so slightly, and asked—almost lazily
"Can I see a coin? Just once more."
Gasps rippled through the crowd like wind through dead leaves.
"A coin?" someone sputtered. "He still wants to see gold?"
The murmurs exploded into outrage.
"He sold my brother a map to an 'immortal artifact'!" a red-faced man shouted. "It f**king led straight into a cannibal village!"
Another voice cut through the clamor.
"He promised to teach us 'Ten Secrets to Outsmart Royal Taxation'—then ran away with the fees!"
A Bishop, face beet-red, stood and pointed an accusatory finger.
"He ran a brothel disguised as a church! Called it the Order of Sacred Moans! I—I went to confess!"
Laughter broke out—followed by more fury.
Through it all, Sylas stood silently, his expression unreadable.
I just wanted to see a gold coin one last time, Is that really so much to ask? Is it such a crime to steal from the rich?
He remembered being five. A jar of honeyed plums glinting in a shop window. He reached for them, and the shopkeeper slapped his hand away—no coin, no sweets.
His father had laughed and handed him one. Just one coin. It gleamed in the sun like treasure. He'd stared at it, wide-eyed, before trading it for sugar and delight.
That was the first time he understood: gold made the world say yes.
Then another voice shouted from deep in the crowd—shattering his thoughts like glass.
"He charged us to attend a lecture on 'How to Avoid Scams!' But when we showed up, the only thing on the board was: 'Fools.'"
A chorus of agreement followed.
"Scammer!"
"Thief!"
"Liar!"
"Alright," Sylas thought. "I stole from the poor too… though, in my defense, they didn't have much to lose anyway."
"SILENCE."
The word struck like thunder.
The crowd fell still.
All eyes turned to the royal platform, high above the square.
The King had risen.
Once one of the Ten Heroes of the Crimson Calamity, he now stood regal and imposing, his white cloak billowing.
Beside him sat the three princesses—alive and very un-abducted—each glaring daggers at Sylas.
Except for one, who was oddly busy blushing.
"Your charm has faded, Sylas," the King said coldly.
"Your tongue will wag no more."
He gestured to the executioner.
The burly man stepped forward, axe in hand, face hidden behind a dark hood. The blade gleamed in the sun.
Sylas took a slow breath. The world felt strangely distant now. The square. The people. Even the sound of chains and jeers.
He tilted his head back, gazed up at the endless sky.
And then, softly—so softly that only the wind seemed to hear—he whispered:
"If there's a next life… I want to be rich."
The blade came down.
A flash of silver.
Then—
Darkness.
---
A body lying still in a small room suddenly jolted upright.
The man gasped, chest rising and falling in ragged heaves, as if he'd just clawed his way out of drowning. Sweat clung to his skin, his eyes wide and wild.
"Am I… dead?" he muttered, one hand flying to his pounding head.
But the sensations around him betrayed that thought. The weight of a thin, itchy blanket over his legs. The creak of old wooden floorboards beneath the bed. Sunlight filtering through a small, cracked window, illuminating motes of dust in the air.
He sat up fully, blinking rapidly.
His gaze darted around. A single bed with a mattress. A modest wooden table. The walls were empty, except for an old, rusty candle holder.
Everything screamed "poor."
He said softly. "Did I really get a second chance?"
A flicker of hope passed through his eyes—quickly followed by a scowl.
"But why here? I said I wanted to be rich, damn it."
Dragging a hand down his face, he stood—wobbled slightly—then caught himself.
"What's done is done. At least I'm alive again... But… who am I now?"
As if summoned by the question, a sharp pain exploded in his skull.
He let out a strangled groan and collapsed back onto the bed, clutching his temples. Images flashed behind his eyelids—memories not his own.
When the pain ebbed, he lay panting, sweat dampening his hair.
"…Sylas Mortis," he whispered hoarsely.
The name settled on his tongue with strange familiarity.
"My name's still Silas. But now I've got a last name…"
He forced himself up again and staggered to the window.
Sylas caught his reflection in the fractured glass—striking red eyes, sharp cheekbones, a face that could be mistaken for royalty. Or danger.
A slow grin curved his lips.
"This face? Oh, it's going to make me more money than I can count."
A sudden knock pulled him from his thoughts.
He turned toward the door, his hand twitching instinctively—toward a weapon he no longer carried.
Another knock echoed through the room.
He slowly approached the door in silence, resting his palm against the wood. The door creaked opened.
A knight stood outside—polished light armor, sword at his hip, and a silver emblem sewn into the shoulder of his cloak: a hawk beneath a crescent moon.
The man bowed deeply upon catching sight of Sylas. "Young master," he said, his voice filled with respect.
He held a worn leather pouch in one hand, and in the other, a sealed envelope with an unbroken wax insignia, marking its importance.
Sylas's gaze shifted between them briefly before he stepped aside with a casual wave. "Come in," he said, his tone cold yet inviting.
Sir Renald entered silently, his boots making soft creaks against the aged floorboards. Sylas followed, closing the door behind him with a quiet click, sealing them in the room.
The knight extended the pouch and envelope with both hands, his gaze steady.
"Queen Alicia Mortis, your mother, ordered me to deliver these."
Sylas took the pouch, the weight of it unmistakable—coin. He loosened the drawstring, and the glint of gold met his eyes. Exactly one hundred pieces.
He carefully unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the words as he began to read:
My dear Sylas,
I don't believe for a second that you planned what happened to Evan. There's something darker behind all this—I can feel it. I've already started speaking with your father. It won't be easy, but I'll convince him to take back the exile. Just hang on a little longer, alright?
I've sent 100 gold coins with Sir Renald. He's riding under the hawk-and-moon banner, so look out for him. Use the money to keep yourself safe. Please.
No matter what they say out there, you're still my son. And I won't let them break you.
With all my love,
—Mother
~~~~~~
He read the letter again, this time more slowly.
When he finally looked up, his expression remained unreadable—neither grateful nor bitter, but simply… composed.
Sir Renald stood motionless, his posture rigid and unyielding, hands clasped behind his back as he waited in complete silence.
Sylas's voice was smooth, laced with a hint of charm. "Your loyalty does not go unnoticed."
The knight gave a slight nod, his expression unwavering. "The Queen places her trust in me."
"Of course she does," Sylas murmured, a faint warmth in his voice. "She's always had a knack for reading people."
He approached the table and placed the pouch down with deliberate care, as though handling something delicate and irreplaceable.
Without looking up, Sylas's voice was cold and sharp.
"Tell me, Sir Renald. Do you think a hundred coins is enough to keep someone alive in a place like this?"
A brief pause lingered, the knight remaining silent, his expression unreadable.
A faint smile tugged at Sylas's lips. "Neither do I," he replied softly.
He turned slowly, locking eyes with the knight. "I doubt the queen ever expected her son to beg—or starve. Not truly. Maybe she hoped someone would… step in to fill the gaps."
A heavy silence hung in the air. The knight's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, his expression betraying nothing.
Sylas tilted his head. "You know where her private vault is, don't you? You've served her for years... a few coins... here and there. Unnoticed."
Renald's expression hardened, his brows furrowing as he spoke flatly, "You're asking me to steal."
"Yes... and no," Sylas replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his voice measured and deliberate.
"What I'm asking for is your loyalty," Sylas said, his voice low and calculating. "You see, the moment I disappear, a different story will unfold. One where a queen forsakes her son—and a knight... well, a knight stands by in silence, perhaps even complicit in the tragedy."
Sylas's gaze wandered to the cracked window, where dust motes danced lazily in the beams of sunlight.
"Perception is a fragile thing," he murmured, his voice low. "You understand that, don't you?"
Renald fixed him with a long, silent stare. After what felt like an eternity, he gave a reluctant, shallow nod.
"…I will return in a week."
Sylas nodded slightly. "Thank you. And let's avoid troubling the queen with the details."
The knight paused, his jaw tight and shoulders stiff with restraint. Without a word, he turned and exited, the door closing behind him with a soft, yet final thud.
Silas stood there for a moment.
Sylas stood frozen for a moment, his gaze distant.
"I know he won't fall for it, of course. He'll scurry off to inform the queen, as any loyal knight would. It's the only sensible course of action. But then again..." He smirked, his eyes darkening. "That doesn't change a thing, does it?"
He walked back to the table, retrieving a single coin from the pouch. Holding it up to the light streaming through the window, he watched as it caught the glow—just like that first coin—and for a moment, the world seemed to say yes once more.