Execute Her
The sky over the imperial capital was the color of bruised iron. A cold, biting wind swept through the central square, carrying with it the metallic tang of winter and the deafening roars of a bloodthirsty crowd.
Seraphina Valecrest knelt on the cold stone of the execution platform. Her knees were raw, bleeding through the tattered remnants of her once-luxurious velvet dress. The heavy iron chains binding her wrists felt like ice against her skin, but the cold outside was nothing compared to the freezing numbness spreading through her chest.
“Traitor!”
“Poisoner of the Empress! Death to the villainess!”
A rotted piece of fruit struck her shoulder, staining the white fabric of her collar. Seraphina didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink.
Her violet eyes, once vibrant and full of life, were hollow. She stared blankly at the crowd of commoners—the very people she had once tried to help through her family’s charities. Now, they looked at her as if she were a monster.
How had it come to this?
She had spent her entire life loving one man. As the daughter of Duke Valecrest, she had been groomed from birth to be the perfect noble lady. She had memorized etiquette, studied statecraft, and poured her soul into becoming a woman worthy of standing beside Crown Prince Adrian Ashbourne. She had loved him with a desperate, blinding devotion.
And that devotion had been her ruin.
When the Empress was poisoned, all the evidence pointed directly to Seraphina. A vial of the rare toxin had been found in her jewelry box. Letters detailing a plot to overthrow the royal family, written in her exact handwriting, were discovered in her desk.
She had screamed her innocence until her throat bled. She had begged her father to believe her. But Duke Valecrest had merely looked at her with disgust, turning his back to protect the family’s reputation. He had disowned her on the spot.
But the deepest blade had been driven by Adrian.
Seraphina slowly raised her head, her gaze shifting toward the high balcony overlooking the square.
There he sat. Crown Prince Adrian.
He looked as magnificent and terrifying as ever in his black military uniform, the golden embroidery gleaming under the dreary sky. His golden eyes were sharp, staring down at her with a chilling, unreadable expression.
Look at me, Adrian, her mind whispered, a pathetic, dying plea. Please, just look at me and see the truth.
But there was no mercy in his gaze. There was only a suffocating, heavy silence. He had believed the lies. He had believed she was a murderer.
Beside the Prince stood Lady Cassandra Whitmore. Cassandra wore a veil of deep mourning, her delicate shoulders trembling as if she were consumed by grief for the late Empress. She looked so pure, so fragile. But as Cassandra caught Seraphina looking up, she subtly lowered her fan.
For a fraction of a second, the grief vanished from Cassandra’s face. A small, cruel smirk touched her lips, and her blue eyes danced with absolute triumph.
In that moment, a wave of horrific clarity washed over Seraphina.
It was her.
Cassandra had done it all. The poisoned tea, the forged letters, the planted evidence. It was all a meticulously crafted trap, and Seraphina had walked right into it because she had trusted Cassandra like a sister.
Seraphina wanted to scream. She wanted to stand up, tear the chains from her wrists, and rip that smirk off Cassandra’s perfect face. But she had no voice left. Her spirit was entirely broken.
“Seraphina Valecrest,” the grand inquisitor’s voice boomed over the crowd, reading from a long scroll. “For the crimes of high treason, the attempted assassination of the imperial bloodline, and the murder of Her Imperial Majesty, you are sentenced to death by decapitation.”
The crowd cheered. The noise was a physical wall of sound, shaking the very air.
The executioner stepped forward, his massive frame casting a long shadow over her. He gripped the hilt of a broad, heavy broadsword. The steel caught the dim light, polished to a terrifying shine.
“Place your head on the block,” the executioner commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.
Seraphina’s body trembled violently. The raw, primal fear of death finally took hold. Tears slipped from her eyes, tracing clean paths through the dirt on her pale face. She forced her weak limbs to move, leaning forward until her neck rested against the cold, grooved wood of the chopping block.
The smell of old blood and damp wood filled her nose.
She closed her eyes. Images of her life flashed behind her eyelids—her childhood in the Duke’s gardens, the first time Adrian had smiled at her, the sweet, false promises of Cassandra. It had all been a lie. Her entire life had been a tragic, pathetic joke.
If I have a next life, Seraphina thought, her heart pounding like a trapped bird against her ribs, I will never love blindly again. I will never trust. I will never let them ruin me.
“Execute!” the inquisitor shouted.
Seraphina heard the heavy rustle of the executioner’s leather armor. She heard the whistling rush of the heavy blade slicing through the wind.
Up on the balcony, Adrian’s hand tightened against the stone railing until his knuckles turned white, his golden eyes widening slightly, but he did not speak.
He did not stop it.
Goodbye, Adrian, Seraphina thought. I hope my ghost haunts you forever.
The sharp, blinding sting of metal hit her neck.
Then, there was nothing but darkness and a terrifying, absolute silence.
