And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
There was no sound of impact. No crunch of bone. In this place, the death wasn't biological; it was ontological. The body didn't bleed; it simply unraveled. Thomas Vane dissolved into a fine, grey mist, which was quickly sucked up into the parchment sky to fuel the eternal twilight.
In the Executioner's World, there was no cheering crowd. There was no glory. There was only the mechanics of cause and effect. The merchant had sold rotten grain; the effect was hunger. The merchant had died; the effect was balance.
The scent of freshly sharpened steel wafted through the air, mingling with the murmur of hushed conversations and the occasional clanging of metal on metal. The Executioner's Guildhall was a place of solemn purpose, where those tasked with ending lives came to hone their craft.
One down. Infinity to go.
Elias placed a heavy hand on the man's shoulder. It was a gesture of comfort, or perhaps just positioning. He guided the man’s neck to the groove in the iron stump.
Solenne stood still. This was unusual. The Condemned did not smile.
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