"Sylas of no house," the herald's voice sliced through the air, its coldness as sharp as the steel of the executioner's axe. "Known across kingdoms by a hundred aliases and a thousand sins…"
The crowd drew breath in unison, their collective anticipation heavy in the air, thick like the promise of a thunderstorm that never quite comes.
Above, the sky remained mercilessly blue—bright, unblinking, and cloudless. As though the heavens themselves had come to witness the day justice would be dressed in ritual and hung by the neck.
"You stand condemned by crown and council alike," the herald continued, oblivious to the irony he was about to witness. "For driving forty-three noble houses and three dukedoms to ruin with silvered lies, and for the brazen abduction of three royal daughters—your fate is sealed."
Forty-three? A faint, bemused smile played on his lips. Last tally was thirty-eight... but then, history is written by those who scream the loudest.
Let them have their numbers. What's a few extra corpses on the ledger of a dead man?
Chains rattled as Sylas shifted, the wooden platform beneath him groaning in protest.
His dark hair caught the wind, tousled like a poet's before a tragic death. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth, equal parts boredom and irony.
Ah, Those three princesses… Delicate creatures.
All pearls and perfume, hearts fluttering at the first sign of rebellion.
One kissed him and called it fate. Another held a blade to his throat and called it love.
The third… gods, what was her name again? The one with the thing for...
Stockholm something?
No... that was the city we burned.
His eyes drifted across the crowd—nobles in their silks, peasants in their rags, and in all of them the same glint: hunger. Not for justice, but for spectacle. The same way wolves stare at a limping deer.
He let out a slow exhale, savoring the final breath of a man who had long known how to appreciate the end of a good book. A book that, perhaps, had never been his to write. A page torn from another's story. One with too many false promises.
The herald's voice split the silence with the force of a hammer strike, "By the will of the realm, by the blood you spilled, and by the silence of those you silenced, may your final breath be a warning to all who mistake cunning for justice."
Justice. A word without weight, spoken by the blind.
The herald's eyes turned to him, burning with the righteousness of a zealot. "Any last words, oathbreaker?"
Sylas blinked slowly, his gaze shifting lazily across the crowd, each face a mask of anticipation, of anger, of judgment.
They think they've trapped me in a corner, that this is the end. But what is an end but the next beginning? A slow smile tugged at the edges of his lips.
"A coin. May I see one?"
A long pause. The tension was almost tangible now, thickening the air around him.
No one moved. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to stop, as if holding its breath, unwilling to disturb this moment of unbearable tension.
A collective gasp swept through the crowd, sharp and bitter as the chill in the air.
"A coin?" someone choked out. "He still wants to see gold?"
The whispers grew louder, turning into a storm of fury.
Such fragile things, these people. As if their anger could bring me down. As if they could even understand the weight of that one coin...
"He sold my brother a map to an 'immortal grade artifact'!" a red-faced man roared. "It led him straight into a f**king cannibal village!"
They scream as if their loss is anything more than the consequence of their own greed.
A bishop, face flushed crimson with rage, shot to his feet and pointed a trembling finger.
"He—he ran a brothel disguised as a church! Called it the Order of Sacred M-Moans! I—I... I went there to confess!"
Sylas's fingers twitched, but he suppressed a smirk. He had warned them. The signs were right there, weren't they? 'Sacred Moans'—how was that not a red flag?
The room burst into laughter, quickly followed by outrage.
Through it all, Sylas remained motionless, his face a mask of indifference, even as his thoughts roared beneath the surface.
All I wanted was a coin. Just one. Was that too much to ask?
Stealing from the rich...
Possibly, but... no. It was necessary. Justifiable.
The rich had so much, and I had nothing. Isn't that how it works? It's all a matter of supply and demand. A necessary redistribution of wealth.
He remembered being five, eyes fixed on a jar of honeyed plums glinting in a shop window.
He reached for them, only to have the shopkeeper slap his hand away—no coin, no sweets.
His father had chuckled, then handed him a single coin. Just one. It gleamed in the sunlight like treasure. He 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.
A voice suddenly cut through the crowd, snapping Sylas out of his thoughts.
"He charged us to attend a lecture on How to Avoid Scams! But when we arrived, the only thing on the board was: Fools."
The audience roared again, but Sylas only let out a soft sigh, weary but unmoved.
It was educational, wasn't it? A little bit of self-awareness could go a long way for them. But no, they'd rather remain ignorant and hate me for exposing them.
Sylas sighed.
Alright, I may have robbed the poor too, he admitted, not without a hint of resignation. But in my defense, they didn't have much to lose.
There was a fleeting sense of justification, like the weight of his sins lightened when seen from a different angle.
It's not like they were any better off before I came along.
A chorus of shouts followed.
"Scammer!"
"Thief!"
"Liar!"
What's a few more lies, when the world is built upon them?
In the midst of the storm of jeers and accusations, one voice cut through, steady and clear like a heartbeat in chaos.
"He saved my daughter," the old woman rasped, clutching her cane with defiance. Her gaze dared anyone to speak against her, unyielding as a storm. She remembered begging for help, but no one listened. Then a stranger appeared—the only one who answered.
No one comes for the poor. Not unless there's profit. Or guilt.
Her daughter stood behind her, waving desperately through the crowd, tears running down her face, her voice shaking with panic as she called out his name.
A thin man stepped forward from the back of the crowd, his voice quiet but clear.
"He taught my son to read," his eyes downcast. "He always said... knowledge was the one coin no one could steal."
A heavy silence fell over the crowd as the unexpected truth sank in. Quiet whispers spread, filled with confusion and doubt.
"He may have lied," someone muttered, "but not always to harm."
The words stirred up a loud argument. "Lies!" someone yelled from the back, and others began shouting too. But some people weren't so sure.
"Maybe he didn't mean to do it out of hate," someone said quietly, and the crowd began to hesitate.
The tension grew, with angry and confused voices arguing, until one command cut through them all.
"SILENCE."
The crowd went quiet. Everyone waited to hear what would happen next.
Then, as if on cue, they all looked up.
On the royal platform above, the King stood. His figure towered over the crowd, like a storm ready to unleash its power.
Power. The one language this kingdom never forgets. And here stands its loudest speaker.
Once one of the Ten Heroes of the Crimson Calamity, the King now stood proud and imposing, his white cloak flowing behind him with authority.
Beside him, the three princesses sat—alive, very much un-abducted. The air around them buzzed with tension as they glared daggers at Sylas, their eyes sharp and accusatory.
His youngest, instead of glaring, blushed and quickly looked away—confused, even as Sylas faced execution.
"Your charm has faded, Sylas," the King said coldly, his voice a frosty blade. "Your tongue will wag no more."
The King waved his hand, giving the order. The executioner stepped forward, face hidden under a dark hood, holding an axe that glowed with a cold red light—promising death.
The crowd held its breath, as time slowed in those final, dreadful moments.
Sylas took a slow breath, his mind drifting as if the world around him had become distant. The busy square, the people watching, even the loud sound of his chains—all of it felt unreal.
He looked at the girl, tears streaming down her face. She met his eyes and cried out, "Brother! Don't go—please!"
He gave her a faint but genuine smile—the first he had shown since his parents' death.
So even now, someone cries for me. What a strange thing… to feel warmth at the end.
Then, he looked up at the sky, as if searching for something neither of them could ever find.
The heavens have never answered, so why would they start now?
He whispered barely above the wind, so softly that only the air seemed to hear his words.
"If there's an afterlife...," he muttered
The blade came down.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"I want to be rich."
A flash of silver—
Then, darkness.