Etana and Rhori got to Town Hall Square before dawn on the cusp of the fifth hour past midnight.

Like last week, Etana wanted to stand as close to the scaffold as possible. Except this time, it wasn’t so that her voice would be heard when she made her move. It was to give Areg a better chance to spot her, and perhaps draw a bit of solace from her eyes before he died.

Rhori had insisted on accompanying her to the execution. “It’ll be quick if he’s lucky,” he’d said to her earlier when she cried.

The two of them had spent the entire night talking on the bench outside their parents’ cottage. Etana had been trying to prepare herself for the next morning. Rhori had been doing his best to comfort her.

“If the executioner is well-trained and his axe sharp,” Rhori had said to her, “the head will be severed with one swift stroke. Lord Sebi won’t suffer.”

Except, Etana wasn’t too hopeful.

Nor did she believe it was a matter of luck. With Ultek calling the shots in Iltaqa, she was convinced he’d arrange for a newbie—or worse, a sicko—to do the job. Oh, and he’d make sure to give him a blunt axe. He’d do anything to make Areg suffer more. He’d want to make it as close as he could to an impalement.

“Do you think the headsman will hold Areg’s severed head up by the hair?” she’d asked.

Rhori hadn’t responded immediately.

She voiced another fear. “Do you think they’ll have his head displayed on a spike over the town gate?”

He said nothing.

She knew Rhori didn’t have answers to those questions.

The last public beheading in Eia had been conducted many decades ago, before their parents were born. All the governors before Boggond had opted for either firing squads or lethal injections, both carried out in the privacy of prison walls. Because even on a planet whose surviving population idealized the pre-Cataclysm antiquity and refused to move forward, public executions had come to be seen as too barbaric.

But not anymore. Not with Boggond and Ultek in charge.

Etana had found an old book in the temple library that described several actual beheadings. The pictures in it had made her sick to her stomach.

“I’ll be praying that those trolls don’t profane his body,” Rhori finally said, “but there’s no way of knowing.”

Etana choked back her tears, irrationally upset that her brother hadn’t lied to hearten her. Because, as things stood, she had nothing to take heart in.

Nothing at all.

Slowly, people began to trickle in the square, and Rhori pulled the hood of his shirt low over his forehead. With that hood and without his emblazoned carpenter guild tunic, he no longer looked like himself. Or, to be exact, he looked like himself five years ago when he wrestled for a living.

Etana had swapped her servant’s apron and bonnet for a big, roomy cape whose cowl hid most of her face. Dame Gokk had given it to her last night as she was leaving the Gokk House to spend the night at her parents’ place.

She’d touched Etana’s arm gently and said she was sorry about how things had turned out.

As more and more spectators filled the square, Rhori drew closer to Etana. Police vehicles arrived next, spitting out scores of heavily armed cops, who positioned themselves around the scaffold and among the crowd.

A young priestess in magnificent gold-trimmed white robes swept past them, her bearing regal and her face somber. Probably someone from Orogate, Etana thought. She knew all the vestals and healers in Iltaqa and the surrounding area, if not by name then by face.

Rhori’s mouth slacked as he watched the vestal beauty ascend the scaffold steps. “An angel from Aheya’s Garden…”

His dreamy, absorbed gaze told Etana he didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud.

The high judge climbed the steps a short time later.

Horns sounded.

A dozen guards poured from one of the vehicles and marched to the center of the scaffold.

When Etana spotted Areg in their midst, Rhori wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “Be strong for him.”

They’d given him clean clothes—shirt, pants, and shoes. No handcuffs bound his wrists, no shackles around his ankles. His face still showed evidence of last week’s beating, but it was wearing off, no doubt thanks to the healers’ care.

He was clean shaven and his thick hair had been combed.

“It’s a good sign that he’s groomed, isn’t it?” Etana whispered to Rhori. “It shows they don’t intend to turn his last moments into an ordeal.”

Rhori nodded, even though the crease between his brows didn’t go away.

With shaking fingers, Etana fumbled for the ouroboros nestled between her breasts.

Divine Aheya, full of light and kindness, have mercy on him!

“Areg Sebi,” Judge Mahabmet said, his voice dull and his eyes on the paper from which he was reading. “You were convicted for high treason. Your penalty is death by beheading.”

Areg stared at him, unblinking.

Mahabmet paused and swallowed before adding hoarsely, “Let justice be done.”

One of the guards nudged Areg toward the block where a masked executioner leaned on his massive axe.

Another guard set a wide tub next to the block.

Etana shuddered, realizing that its purpose was to collect Areg’s blood and… his head.

Please, don’t let him suffer for a crime he never committed!

The vestal intoned a ritual song.

It was one of those ancient hymns Etana had heard at her grandparents’ funerals. The priestess’s voice was clear and heartrending, as she praised Aheya’s wisdom and implored the Divine Lady to show mercy to the soul heading her way.

It was a quarter to eight.

Areg took a deep breath then scanned the people behind him on the scaffold. He gave the vestal a small nod and a smile as if he knew her. Skipping the judge, Chief Ultek and the local notables, his gaze halted on a dashing but stern-faced military man about his age. The man wore a dress uniform with epaulettes and more medals on his chest than Etana had ever seen.

Must be the commander in chief.

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

Areg lips moved to silently form one word. Etana couldn’t be sure, but it might’ve been “Nyssa.”

Wasn’t that his dead sister’s name?

Not a muscle moved on the commander’s face except for his eyes which he shut and opened again in a deliberately slow blink.

Relaxing his shoulders, Areg turned away from the commander and dropped to his knees.

Etana’s body began to quiver so violently that Rhori pulled her closer against him, tightening his grip around her shoulders.

“Head on the block,” the executioner commanded before adding in a saccharine voice. “Please.”

She didn’t like his tone.

Angling his head, Areg bent down and pressed his cheek to the block.

Etana leaned on Rhori, clasping her pendant.

His axe still down, the executioner pulled his mask off, letting the spectators see his disfigured face and shaved skull covered with prison tattoos.

Why would he do that?

It didn’t forebode well. According to the book Etana had read in the library, the headsman always asked for the victim’s and Aheya’s forgiveness for what he was about to do.

She had no doubt Areg would grant it to him.

But when the man opened his mouth, the words that came out had nothing to do with a plea for exoneration.

“This axe is the tool of Aheya’s fury,” he yelled to the crowd, a mad gleam in his eyes. “Chief Ultek chose me, Fundor Lsen, an ex-con, to wield it this morning.”

Oh, sweet Mother of All.

The man had been picked by Ultek. He didn’t care for forgiveness. He didn’t even care for anonymity like any executioner in his right mind would.

“What’s more,” the man said. “He asked me to wield it in a very special way.”

What did he mean by that? As black despair began to seep into Etana’s heart, Areg’s gaze found hers and plunged into it.

There was no fear in his eyes, just melancholy and… encouragement? Like he was trying to convey that it was all right.

Etana’s lips moved. “No.”

She wasn’t sure what exactly happened, but it felt like a lock had snapped inside her very soul, and she woke up from a trance. The air grew dense. Her trembling ceased completely. An otherworldly ringing filled her ears without preventing her from hearing any of the sounds around her.

Actually, she heard more than ever before. The beat of Areg’s heart. The rustle of a tiny lizard’s tail against stone. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw it scamper up the wall of the building on the other side of the square. Turning back to the scaffold, she discerned the traces of last night’s tears on the vestal’s beautiful face. She could hear the oak trees in front of the town hall murmur softly in the morning breeze.

Whispers of hundreds of men and women filled her ears. They pouted and puffed in frustration at their helplessness to stop Boggond’s worst crime yet.

“I shall not fail Chief Ultek,” the executioner bawled, pursuing his pompous tirade. “This axe will avenge our homeland that Areg Sebi tried to sell to the enemy.”

The invisible whirlwind Etana had felt two weeks ago returned, gathering overhead, bigger and mightier than before. But this time, she didn’t recoil, didn’t try to resist it. She pushed her shoulders and her head back as if to signal that she was ready.

Rhori glanced at her in half-question half-surprise. “Are you all right?”

The whirlwind descended on Etana, wrapping around her.

“These hands will avenge our dead and our living, and our good governor,” Fundor Lsen shouted, grabbing his axe.

“Go fuck your good governor instead!” someone shouted.

The crowd roared with approval, shock, censure, and even a few laughs.

“I’ll find who said that—mark my words, you scum—and he’ll regret it,” Ultek yelled to the spectators before addressing his mad protégé. “Get started already!”

The whirlwind broke over Etana’s body.

She forced herself to relax as it pushed the air out of her lungs and filled them with its mysterious substance. If she died now, she’d have no regrets.

But soon Etana found herself breathing again, despite the substance.

Through it. With it.

The executioner swung his axe. It was two minutes and five seconds past eight.

Etana’s body arched backward and up, taut as a bow string, almost lifting off the ground. Her eyes rolled back in her head. The world grew dark as she teetered on the edge of consciousness. Then gradually, light returned, and with it her vision. She straightened and looked around.

The world had frozen over.

Not the way it would ice up in the dead of winter, even though the temperature had definitely dropped, but in a manner that was… unnatural.

Nothing moved or stirred. No being made a sound, no chest rose to draw a breath. The executioner stood petrified with his axe in midair. Areg’s heart wasn’t beating.

But he wasn’t dead.

His eyes hadn’t turned glassy, nor his muscles rigid, nor his skin white. There was an alive quality to him—to every part of him—and yet… he wasn’t there.

In fact, no one was, except—

“What in hell is going on?” Rhori’s deep voice resonated in the utter quietness of Town Hall Square.

Etana turned to him. “I don’t know.”

He winced. “My head is pounding.”

Letting go of her shoulder, he reached to rub his forehead—and stiffened somewhere halfway.

“Rhori! Wake up! Rhori!” Etana grabbed his upper arms and tried to shake his much larger body back to life.

But no shaking was necessary. The instant she touched him, Rhori groaned. His hand completed its trajectory to his forehead, which he rubbed hard.

What just happened?

Was it her touch? Had she just mesmerized the entire Town Hall Square into a stupor, and then freed Rhori from it with a simple touch?

It was impossible. She couldn’t have. Something else must’ve been at play.

Rhori narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you freeze the world again, little sister?”

“What? No! I—” Etana cocked her head. “Again?”

“Just a slip of the tongue,” Rhori said.

She glanced at the axe. “We may not have much time. I don’t know how long I—or whoever is doing whatever this is—can hold it.”

Comprehension lit Rhori’s eyes. “Areg.”

“Just don’t let go of me, OK?” Etana said.

“Not a chance.”

They made their way to the steps, and when they mounted the scaffold, she ran to Areg and took his face between her hands.

“Wake up! Wake up! Please, wake up!”

His eyelids fluttered.

Carefully, she nudged him sideways until he sat on his heels out of the axe’s way.

Prying his eyes open, he stared at her, dumbfounded. “What—?”

“No time to explain.” She grabbed his hand. “We need to get out of here.”

He looked up at the frozen axe and headsman, at Rhori, holding onto Etana, and then squinted at her. “You did this?”

“I don’t… Maybe?” She tugged at his hand. “Come with us.”

Groggily, Areg stood. “Where to?”

“I don’t know,” Etana said honestly. “As far as possible from here.”

“Just don’t let go of her hand,” Rhori said.

On their way down the scaffold, Areg grabbed a blaster gun from one of Boggond’s men and stuffed it into his waistband.

“This way!” Rhori pointed in the direction of the crooked Cinder Alley, the darkest and most squalid of the streets leading away from Town Hall Square.

For the next few minutes, the three of them pushed their way through the petrified crowd, with Rhori clearing a path in front of Etana, and Areg close behind. With every step they took, she weakened, her energy trickling away as if a leak had opened in her chest.

If she could get them far enough into the alley before the enchantment—or whatever it was—broke, they just might stand a chance.

Etana tried to gauge the remaining distance. Five more minutes at their pace. Seven, at most. It was doable with the energy she still had. They could make it.

She gave Areg a feeble smile that was meant to be reassuring. “We’re almost there.”

With those words still on her lips, she staggered and keeled over.