Page 29 of Night of Death and Flowers

Intelligible chattering buzzes around me, the energy of the crowd too high and vibrant for such a sickening event. Whether or not he is guilty, killing him is utterly unnecessary. It’s a miracle that anyone remains alive with traditions so deeply rooted in sacrifice and punishment.

As always, a discerner climbs the scaffolds after the last charge is read. Dressed in an emerald tunic with belled sleeves and black pants, the Discerner steps in front of the accused. A few seconds tick by, and he clasps his hands together before stepping back.

It’s all for show, though. From what I’ve heard, the actual discerning is done at the trials, but it makes me wonder if they’re fair at all.

The discerner announces the accused is guilty, prompting a roar of cheers.

Tears swell in my eyes while I watch the man’s bloodshot eyes, raspy breaths leaving through his open mouth. I imagine Drake standing in his place, staring at me with those big, green eyes that will silently tell me to stop worrying because he is okay, even when he is not. If he is found guilty, the show will be much worse than this. The darker the crime, the more severe the execution method. The gallows will do for robbery and arson, but it is the chopping block for murder and sacrilege.

A shiver shudders my bones, slinking down my back and spreading goosebumps along my arms.

The executioner shoves the prisoner toward the noose, but his legs buckle as he takes a step forward. The devoted man and executioner pull him up from under the arms and carry him, but it is the discerner who forces his head through the noose and holds him in place.

“You may speak your last words,” the devoted declares.

Silent tears sliding down the man’s face are his only reply. Bloodshot eyes land on two sobbing boys wearing caps and dirty brown clothes, and as I look around, I notice their mother is not in attendance.

The devoted clears his throat. “May Cyna conclude the fate of your soul, and Azkiel guide you to the afterlife.”

The unmistakable sound of wood creaking followed by the whip of a rope sounds from the gallows, followed by a small scream.

I whip my head around as one boy fights his way through the swelling crowd. People gasp at the realization they must be his kin. Why we allow children to witness these executions is beyond me.

I slap my fingers over my mouth as the boy is dragged away by two men. The Gurger scales on their uniforms shimmer under the sun, and I realize they must be Enforcers. Our so-called muscle to keep order in our towns and villages.

Shaking my head, I make my way through the crowd. “Vile,” I snap, pushing my shoulder against two smiling women as they discuss the deceased man’s crimes.

I walk quickly, reaching the dwindling market. On the other side of the square, three people are lined up to enter the tent with Nyxara’s symbol over the door, impatient to see the threader from the Fatius Coven—a practiced foreteller of fates.

Next to it, a bread maker’s stall stands, where a tall woman with flour-dusted red waves greets me with a smile. Nodding at her, I hand her two knogs from my purse and grab a loaf of fresh bread, hoping this small gesture might bring a bit of comfort to Drake.

I must get him out. I can’t bear to imagine watching his execution next. The dark thought looms over me as I walk further, surveying my surroundings.

Smells of incense fade as I move unnoticed, sliding between cobblestone streets, to the edge of town until the paths clear, and nothing but silence accompanies me to the Incarcuri.

Long, brown ferns adorn the thinning grass around the uneven path, reaching out to the dark tree line of the forest. I gaze at the building, its tall, thick gray walls encompassed by the trees of Morcidea Forest.

Weathered stones, in various colors of gray, many bleached by the sun, make up the symmetrical building.

Small, rectangular windows, some narrower than others, line either side of the central entrance, protruding from the rest of the building. Moss covers much of the exterior, and ash floats from the sky, only adding to the eeriness. As I enter through tall gates that creak open as I approach, I am greeted by two enforcers in Cyna’s coven. Their dark irises penetrate my soul, as they place one hand on their poison-laced swords.

I clear my throat. “I’m here to visit Drake Redding.”

The first man, with dark hair and a light stubble, pulls out a piece of parchment. “Your name.”

“Calista Bellevue.”

The wrinkles deepen around his eyes as he glances down, then back at me. Even here, my family name is infamous. But I am not what is expected from the daughter of an elder—pious, obedient, or powerful, well, as far as they are aware.

The second enforcer steps forward, his armored uniform absorbing all light as he wears the scales of a gurger, a sea monster that dominates the Pistoren Sea. “Turn around.”

As I turn my back to them, the man’s hands frisk my torso, stomach and hips, and I squirm, despising every touch. Fortunately, he doesn’t linger in any spot. Finally, I face them, and the enforcer looks me up and down. “Does your father know you are here?”

“Yes,” I lie. “Not that it matters. I am free to visit with whom I like.”

I peer over the parchment, spotting Drake’s name.

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes latching onto the slab of bread. I run my finger over the glazed coating, then tilt my head.

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