The executioner's dais was a pristine marble platform, polished to a mirror sheen, positioned in the center of the cities grand plaza. It stood in stark contrast to the grisly spectacle that was about to unfold, surrounded by elegant fountains that appeared strangely indifferent to the blood soon to stain their immaculate beauty. The crowd had gathered thickly, a sea of faces twisted in eager anticipation, their murmurs and whispers weaving a palpable web of tension around the platform.

At the heart of it stood a man clad entirely in midnight-black robes embroidered with silver threads, his hood drawn back to reveal a clean-shaven face, chiseled and severe. In his gloved hands, he held a parchment scroll, which he unrolled slowly, allowing the dramatic pause to amplify the weight of the moment.

"Citizens of the Capital City of Liberatoria!" the herald's voice boomed, echoing powerfully off the surrounding buildings and statues, silencing the crowd instantly. "You gather today to witness the execution of justice upon those who have committed crimes most vile against our Liberatorium, our people, and the sacred principles that guide our civilization!"

The first prisoner, shackled and stripped to the waist, was forced forward by two burly guards. He was a middle-aged man, wiry and trembling, his face bruised and gaunt, yet defiant even as terror shone clear in his eyes.

"Jorim Vaskell," the herald intoned, his voice growing colder as he read aloud the charges, "You stand guilty of heinous crimes against humanity. For your experiments in soul extraction—forced upon unwilling civilians of your own ward, resulting in the death of over forty innocents, including children… You are sentenced to death."

The crowd gasped, a ripple of horror and rage surging through them. Jorim straightened, his fear momentarily overcome by a flash of manic pride, and his voice cracked defiantly as he shouted, "They were necessary sacrifices! My research could have saved thousands, no, millions! You're too ignorant, all of you, to see the truth of my work!"

His rant was abruptly silenced by a strike across his jaw from a guard's armored fist. Blood spilled freely from Jorim's lip as he fell to his knees, dazed and quiet at last.

The executioner stepped forward, a silent figure clad in ceremonial armor of polished obsidian, faceless behind an impassive mask. In his hands, he hefted an enormous battle-axe, its blade shining with enchanted edges designed specifically for severing life swiftly and irrevocably. Without ceremony or further delay, he raised the weapon high and brought it crashing down. The blade sang cleanly through flesh and bone alike, and Jorim's head dropped onto the marble floor with a sickening thud.

The crowd erupted into cheers, their rage replaced instantly with bloodthirsty approval. Justice, swift and absolute, had been served. The herald gave them a moment before clearing his throat loudly, commanding attention once more. "Bring forth the next prisoner!"

Another man was dragged forward, younger this time, barely in his twenties, trembling violently, eyes wild with desperation. His thin body shook under the weight of chains, and he stumbled onto the marble, landing painfully beside the severed head of the previous convict. He recoiled, nearly vomiting in horror.

The herald continued, unrolling the scroll further and speaking in a voice dripping with contempt. "Leos Miran, you are charged with betrayal most foul. You stand accused of deliberately aiding and abetting the forces of the Syndicate by sabotaging a critical shipment of medicine intended for the children's hospital of the Fifth Ward. Your cowardice and greed resulted in the preventable deaths of thirty-seven children, each suffering needlessly due to your treachery."

"No!" Leos screamed, his voice breaking under the weight of despair. "You've got it wrong! I swear by all that's holy, I never touched that shipment! Please—please, someone believe me! It wasn't me! I have a family, a sister, she needs me!"

His pleas fell on deaf ears. The crowd's mood was darkening once more, murmurs of disgust and anger rippling through them as they glared hatefully at the accused.

The herald's eyes narrowed in contempt, unyielding as stone. "Your lies cannot undo your sins, Leos Miran. The blood of the innocent cries for justice, and justice it shall receive!"

Leos struggled vainly against his captors, tears streaming down his face, begging the crowd, pleading for anyone to see reason, to see innocence where only guilt had been proclaimed. But his cries were drowned out by the furious shouts and jeers of the mob, who saw nothing but a coward and a traitor.

The executioner once more stepped forward, his dark armor catching the sunlight, making him look every inch the avatar of merciless justice. He hefted the axe again, its blade still slick with blood, and Leos's screams rose in a frantic crescendo, piercing the air, only to fall silent as the herald raised a commanding hand, readying to deliver the final judgment.

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"The sentence is death," the herald concluded with icy finality, his voice resonant with authority, sealing the young man's fate.

Leos's eyes widened, fixated on the blade rising slowly above him, reflecting his own pale, terrified face. He howled a final plea, raw and heart-wrenching, "Please—I'm innocent! I swear on my life—"

But the executioner did not hesitate. The axe descended, swift and unstoppable, cleaving through the air toward the accused, while the crowd roared its merciless approval, drowning out the final, desperate cries of innocence.

Then… For a moment, there was only white. White so brilliant and sudden that it drowned out all other sensation: the roar of the crowd, the stink of sweat and hot stone, the grim anticipation in the air. Even the sun, which had barely hung so arrogantly above the horizon, seemed humbled by the incandescent explosion as the executioner's axe became light itself.

A sound like thunder cracked the sky, and razor shards of glowing steel scythed outward in every direction. The largest of them, spun like a thrown coin and buried itself deep in the herald's throat. He didn't even have time to cry out as a fountain of blood painted his tabard, and his head rolled cleanly from his shoulders, jaw still half-open, mouth still shaping the words of doom. A single, stunned heartbeat later, his body crumpled to the marble, hands twitching against the white stone.

The front rows of the crowd staggered back, hands shielding their faces as shrapnel cut through their flesh. A noblewoman shrieked, clutching a bloodied cheek. A merchant fell, clutching at his leg where a thin blade of the shattered axe had pierced straight through his trousers and into muscle. Everywhere, people wailed and cursed, eyes wild, stumbling in every direction, trampling each other in their desperation to get away from the ruined platform.

Guards, stunned by the explosion, hesitated for a precious second. Their formation, so perfect, so orderly only moments ago, splintered like glass. Some threw up their shields against the flying metal, others drew their swords, searching frantically for an enemy they could not see. The captain of the guard barked orders: "Secure the prisoners! Secure the plaza! Shields up, form a line!" But it was like trying to stop a storm with an outstretched palm.

The executioner himself staggered in place, blinking through a mask of dust and blood. Shards of the axe jutted from his shoulder, one embedded in the thick leather apron over his heart. Fury burned across his face, eclipsing pain and fear. He swung the ruined axe handle with both hands, sweeping aside the choking haze as if it were a mere curtain, searching for his lost prey. When his eyes found the herald's headless corpse, he spat and muttered a half-prayer, half-curse to the god that might be listening.

The marble platform was no longer pristine. A wide gash had been torn down its center, splitting it nearly in two, and where once there had been three chained prisoners, now there was only one—lying stunned at the far edge, mouth agape, eyes wide in terror. The other one, the man who had protested his innocence, was gone.

It took only seconds for the rumor to ripple through the crowd: He has escaped. The prisoner is loose. There's a traitor in the city!

Panic blossomed even more. Men and women surged toward the exits, knocking children aside in their haste. Some climbed over benches and walls, others ducked beneath the arms of the slower, all of them desperate to flee the scene before whatever had happened could claim them as well. A priest tried to calm the crowd, lifting his staff and intoning prayers for order and mercy, but his voice was drowned by screams and the distant, rising clangor of alarm bells.

The guards formed up as best they could, eyes scanning the dust-choked plaza, hands white-knuckled on their weapons. Two broke from the line and rushed to the single remaining prisoner, hauling him roughly to his feet, while another squad spread out around the edge of the platform, blades ready, searching for any sign of the escaped man. The captain himself knelt beside the fallen herald, pressing a cloth to the spurting wound, but it was clear to all that the man was far beyond saving.

In the midst of the chaos, a single voice rose—a merchant, clutching his wounded arm, demanded, "Where is the prisoner? Why aren't the guards doing anything? Are we not safe in the heart of the Liberatorium? Who let this happen?" His cries were echoed by others, a ragged chorus of anger and fear, punctuated by the sobs of those who were hurt from the explosion.

"Check every exit!" the captain roared. "Seal the plaza! No one leaves without my order!" Runners were dispatched to alert the city's higher authorities: the local Liberators, the magistrates, the palace itself. Within minutes, the entire district would be in lockdown.

Meanwhile…

In a cramped, lamp-lit chamber above the shocked plaza, the afterimage of a blinding light still shimmered on the cracked stone floor. Where there had been emptiness, now sprawled two unlikely fugitives: one gasping, grimy convict, the other a woman who looked like she'd stepped out of a bedtime story and was determined to rewrite it with her own ink.

She straightened her long coat, smoothed a stray lock of violet hair, and glanced at the stunned, freshly rescued convict.

"Well, that was dramatic. I hope you enjoyed your little flight~" Her voice curled with a quiet amusement, tone both reassuring and mischievous.

She knelt down to his level, tucking one hand beneath his chin to tip his gaze up. "Relax, handsome. You survived that like a big boy~"

The womans lips quirked, her expression impossible to read—equal parts teasing and sincere, light bouncing from her violet eyes. She leaned in just close enough for the convict to smell the faint scent of wildflowers on her hair.

"Name's Lyra~" she purred, like it was a secret she'd chosen to share with him alone. "Just a simple woman from the Eastern Liberatorium, or so I let the boring ones believe~"

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