By the time the sun rose in the distance, it’s pink glow tumbling over the world lazily, the Main Square workers had already finished erecting a make-do wooden stage. Shortly after Richard’s arrest, Moira sent the military in full force, and it only took them a couple of hours to send the protesters packing. There were shots fired, and a lot of arrests, but at least there wasn’t a bloodbath.

It’s nine in the morning now, and a silent crowd has already started to gather at the foot of the stage. Supported by two wide beams there’s a thick metallic bar, and from it hangs a coiled rope with a noose on its end. No one wanted to believe it, but Moira really brought us back to the Dark Ages. If she has her way, soon enough there’ll be a lot of heads adorning the throne room.

I’m standing at one of the Main Square corners, watching everything unfold just like anyone else. I don’t have to wait long, though — at five minutes past nine, the asshole that represented Moira’s government in yesterday’s kangaroo court marches through the crowd, six men carrying handguns flanking him. Slowly, as if he has all the time in the world, he climbs the stairs that lead up to the stage. Adjusting his tie, he positions himself behind the microphone set up there and taps it twice with one finger.

“Good morning, everyone,” he greets the crowd, his word brimming with excitement. Where the hell does Moira even find these people? It’s hard to get excited about someone hanging from a rope — unless you’re a little sociopathic shit.

“We’re here gathered to witness the execution of a wanted criminal,” the government’s attorney continues. “The Queen wants all of you to be sure of her commitment to justice in St. Carlta, and proof of that is the criminal we bring here today. The Queen won’t stand for those looking to bring chaos to our country, so let this be a warning to anyone thinking of rebellion.” Then, he solemnly stares into the distance as a black SUV parks right around the corner. From there, three men in suits jump out, dragging behind them a hooded figure, his hands handcuffed — Richard.

My fingers twitch by instinct, ready to go for the gun I keep tucked inside my jacket, but I remember my orders — I’ve got to stay put. And so I just watch as they lead Richard up to the stage, gritting my teeth as I watch one of the guards poke Richard in the back with the barrel of his gun.

As they finally get Richard under the rope, they finally pull of his hood, and I feel a stab in my heart as I watch the shadow of the noose fall right on Richard’s neck. Not a good omen.

“Richard Remington,” the attorney reads from a document he pulled from inside his briefcase. “You’ve been declared guilty of high treason, conspiracy to commit murder, and conspiracy to topple the rightful government of St. Carlta.”

That’s when I see Gladrell climbing up the stairs. The little shit buttons up his jacket as he walks up, walking with his chin up. He looks as if he has just received the Nobel Peace Prize, strolling onto the stage to deliver his acceptance speech.

“Thank you,” he nods at the attorney, taking his place behind the microphone. “As one of the Queen’s ministers, it’s my duty to carry out the sentence the court has decided on. As such, I hereby sentence Richard Remington to death by hanging.”

Walking around the small podium, he brings the microphone along with him. “Any last words?” He asks Richard; he mouths something I can’t quite make off, but it almost sounds like damn right I do, you cunt. That’s Richard — staring death down with a bloody smile on his face.

I bet Gladrell’s already regretting giving Richard the opportunity to say his last words, but now it’s too late to go back. With the whole country watching, it’d only make him look weak.

Sweating, he pretends to place the microphone under Richard’s mouth, but he just turns it off. No matter — Richard wants to have his say, microphone or not.

“PEOPLE OF ST. CARLTA,” he shouts, a vein on his neck bulging as he looks down at the crowd. “Today the Queen has decided to spill blood — my blood. And she should be very afraid, because every drop of blood she’ll spill today represents ten more men joining the cause. St. Carlta is the home of freedom, and its citizens won’t stand for an usurper like Moira. You can torture me, and you can kill me — but a thousand more will rise up to replace me. ST. CARLTA WILL NEVER BE THE HOME OF TYRANTS!” He finally finishes, his voice echoing through the silent square.

Even though the square’s already packed to the fullest, I can’t hear a single voice. Everyone seems to be digesting Richard’s words, and that’s exactly the way we want it to happen. Richard’s just wrong about one thing — no one will be spilling blood today. Well, at least none of his blood. Not if we have a say on things go.

“Alright, fuck this,” I swear I can see Gladrell mouth as he gesticulates toward his bodyguards. Furiously walking back to his place behind the podium, he simply stares at the scene as his henchmen place the noose around Richard’s neck. They tighten it up, and I feel the palm of my hands growing sweaty.

William should be in place already, so why isn’t anything happening? We’re cutting it close — too close. Richard is just seconds away from having his neck broken, and we’re sitting on our asses.

Gritting my teeth, I reach for the gun inside my jacket, ready to storm onto the stage. I already have my fingers curled against the cold metal when I see the crowd parting, allowing someone to walk straight up to the bottom of the stairs leading up to the stage.

William.