Two weeks had already passed since Alaric took over the position of Head Executioner. As the number of heads he counted, necks he hanged, and bodies he burned increased, the seal on his back gained more rays. Most were short and thin, but the one ray at the top of the circle was thick and visibly longer than the others.
Since he never talked to anyone, Alaric hadn't even gotten the chance to be warned by the old man in his dreams to keep his mouth shut about the seal. He didn't have any friends. All he did was go to work, kill criminals according to the law—at least as far as he knew—go home, sleep, and have nightmares about the lives he had taken. He never went a week without a nightmare. That's why he quickly concluded that the dream involving the old man with a lantern was just another haunting dream like the rest.
Lucius summoned him to his office early.
"Pack up, boy. We're leaving," ordered the middle-aged official.
Alaric just stared at him. Without saying a word, Lucius understood what he meant by that look.
"We have to publicly execute some criminals in the town of Clay—you know, the southern part of the Land. What a drag. I hate these kinds of orders. It'll take us a day to get there. The execution will be held tomorrow morning. It's a direct order from the King," Lucius explained, answering a question that had never been spoken aloud.
"I hate those peasants. Why do I have to go back to that dirt town?" Lucius added with an annoyed tone.
*****
Nightfall – Town of Clay;
When they arrived in Clay, they were welcomed by the town chief, who offered them food and lodging. To Alaric's standards, the accommodation was actually quite good. The food suited his taste. At home, he cooked for himself, and his meals usually tasted bad—not that he could tell. His wolf never complained, after all.
Lucius, however, had a different opinion.
"What's with this bed? It's so itchy. And why are we sharing a single room? Can't they treat us better? We're from the city, not some peasants who live in this dirt town," he groaned as he kept rolling around.
Alaric was a bit worried. Lucius said all that vocally while the town chief had just gone out. He would clearly hear him—or maybe Lucius wanted him to.
After a long, painful night of listening to endless complaints and then a loud snore that resembled a lion growling (but in a far more annoying way), Alaric didn't get much sleep. He stared at the pitch-black ceiling for most of the night.
*****
In the morning, Lucius handed Alaric a report.
"Read this first. It'll make you feel better before you kill those devils," he said.
Alaric read the report:
Three corpses were found at the Rolfe family estate: the father, mother, and their 15-year-old daughter.The father had been stabbed—80 times—with what appeared to be a sword.The mother and daughter were found naked. Clearly violated.All jewelry and money were taken.A few days later, three suspects were caught with the help of a witness.Two were middle-aged men. The third was a 16-year-old boy.
"The victims were of decent status in this town. They owned land. That's why the King wants us to execute the criminals in a brutal way—to make an example," Lucius explained.
Clay was the largest wheat supplier in the land, known for its farming. When the King heard about the incident, he wanted swift punishment to reassure farmers and businessmen, and to deter criminals from pushing their luck.
The town square was packed. At the front stood the victims' relatives. In the middle stood a platform—not as large as the ones in the capital, but still decently built. Lucius, Alaric, and a priest stood atop it.
Then came the criminals. The crowd erupted—anger, curses, cries. Some threw objects. The guards forced the accused to their knees. They were visibly terrified. The boy was crying, begging for forgiveness.
"Silence," Lucius commanded. Then he looked at Alaric. Alaric understood.
"Bring the bull," Alaric ordered.
Ten men carried the Brazen Bull—a hollow metal statue shaped like a bull, with an opening on the side large enough for a man to crawl inside. They placed it at the center of the platform. A thick ceramic bowl filled with firewood sat beneath it.
As Alaric opened the bull, the stench of burnt flesh filled the air. The boy locked eyes with him, flinching in fear.
"It's all set up. We're ready," Alaric declared.
Lucius nodded to the guards. The three convicts resisted, screaming, crying, begging.
"Please forgive us! I won't do it again! I have a wife and son!" one pleaded, as the guards dragged him closer.
The boy was the most obedient. Trembling, crying like a child, he whispered to the priest, "Ask Him to forgive me. Please."
The priest began praying. The prayers added to the tension. Alaric grabbed the boy first—he didn't resist. Then the second, who struggled. Finally the third. With a hard push, all three were crammed inside. Their screams echoed as the metal door slammed shut.
"BAM. CLANG" Alaric locked it.
One of the men handed Alaric a pail of oil. He poured it onto the firewood, then struck rocks together.
Tssk. Tssk. Spark. Flame.
The fire roared under the bull.
"AHHHHHH!" A scream—but to the crowd, it sounded like a bull's roar, thanks to pipes built into the statue. Creative, indeed.
*****
That very night after the public execution, Alaric arrived home. His wolf, 21, greeted him happily—the only creature that seemed genuinely glad to see him.
He collapsed onto his bed, exhausted from the journey, the struggle of transporting the Brazen Bull, crossing rivers, and even an encounter with child thieves. Nothing serious—they were easily scared off.
"What a day," he muttered with a sigh of relief.
The moment he closed his eyes, he fell asleep.
"AHHHHHH!"
A scream.
"What am I looking at?" he thought. Then he realized—it was the first time he had witnessed torture.As an executioner, they didn't just kill criminals. They also specialized in extracting information through torture. At thirteen years old, this was his first time seeing real torture in action.The victim was an alleged spy from the rival land of Lutetium.Before this, his father had already prepared him—lessons in human anatomy and the most effective ways to inflict unbearable pain on the human body.But no lesson could prepare his stomach for what he saw: a living man screaming at the top of his lungs, coughing up blood as his fingernails were ripped out one by one with a pair of pliers—until none were left.The man eventually died, likely from excessive blood loss.In the end, they got no information.
All the anatomy lessons in the world hadn't prepared him for this.
"BLARGHH…" Young Alaric vomited.
"Clean it up," his father ordered coldly, writing a report without acknowledging his son's distress.
They always had to write reports, no matter the outcome—truthful reports, even if the accused were innocent. Alaric had no choice. He remembered wiping the floor, crying, with the blood of a man who had no nails left.
Sunlight hit his face. He woke up—later than usual. Maybe from exhaustion.
"Another bad dream… no, just a memory," he muttered, staring at the ceiling.
*****
Days passed. Alaric kept doing his job—killing criminals, then torturing them. Days turned into weeks, months, and eventually almost three years of killing, torturing, and serving justice to the people. He started to get used to it.The nightmares didn't come as often as they used to. They only haunted him when he executed someone undeserving of the chopping block—or ended up torturing the wrong man.Nearly three years had passed. Alaric was still alone, with only his wolf and his horse for company. He hadn't married, despite Lucius annoyingly pestering him about his offer for almost every week.He thought it would be just another day of work—until Lucius handed him a letter.
"From Sir Clemens of the Five Great Knights," he said.
It requested that Alaric extract information from a man in his late 40s. He claimed to be a merchant, sometimes a weapons dealer, sometimes a ringmaster, or an herb seller. They'd been tracking him for years.
The man was already inside the torture chamber, tied to a chair, a sack over his head.
"Bang!"
Lucius opened the door, and the sound made the man flinch. He was tied to a chair, his face covered with a sack. For now, he could only see their silhouettes—at least until they closed the door. Then, he saw nothing. Only the sound of footsteps filled the room.
The man trembled.
"Please, I'm telling you, I'm not a spy! I'm just an old man trying to make a living!"
"Which one of them?" A deep, intimidating voice echoed. "Merchant? Weapons dealer? Ringmaster?"
"No... I just run a small traveling circus, that's all. The other things you said—I don't know anything about them." he stammered, shaking and crying.
Profusely sweating, the man kept begging for mercy—until he heard a request.
"Get out."
The man tied to the wooden chair thought the command was meant for him—but he couldn't have been more wrong.
There was no way out of this.
You either confess or die—regardless of whether you're actually a spy or not. The moment they accuse you of something in this place, you're finished. Even if you turn out to be innocent, the state will never admit to a false accusation. That would risk planting doubt in the minds of the public.
From the old man's perspective, a light appeared, revealing the silhouette of a fat man stepping into it.
"Bang!" The thick, wooden door slammed shut.
Now, only two remained: the man with the deep voice—and him.
There was no escape. Only death.
*****
After roughly an hour, Alaric stepped out of the torture chamber. Outside, Lucius was waiting.
"Are you done?" the man asked.
"Here." Alaric handed him a report from the interrogation—a paper filled with his own handwriting.
As Lucius read it, he smirked, as if something amusing was written there.
"Wait. You're not done yet," he said, stopping Alaric from leaving."There's one more."
Lucius nodded toward his men, signaling them to bring in the next prisoner. It was a woman—barefoot and clearly already beaten—held up by two guards, one on each side.
Her face was covered with a sack. As she passed him, Alaric noticed a familiar pendant around her neck: a single pearl. The same necklace he remembered from three years ago.
His heart began to race. Sweat formed on his brow. His hands—hands that had killed hundreds without ever trembling—began to shake.
No doubt about it.
This woman was Luna.