CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Upon the wooden planks of the stage, enveloped by the smell of blood and the caked remnants of those executed in recent days, the echo of their steps was muted. The bay of the crowd for blood quietened in anticipation, and even Tatsuya couldn't stop the minute shake of his limbs. So, instead of keeping his features carefully impassive like he was wont to do, he leaned into his emotions—only the wrong ones, a convincing facade for all but the most perceptive.

His smile became too wide and warm, his eyes too round and bright, and his manner alternated between distractingly fluttery and unnervingly still, contrasting sharply with his torn shirt and ragged trousers and the general air of palpable exhaustion about him. It made them uncomfortable, he was sure, and yielded questions.

“Why was he not terrified?” He knew they asked. “Was it a facade? Or did he really not care? Surely, such a thing was not possible. Only fools romanticised death, and that lasted until they were on the guillotine stage.”

They had seen it countless times—watched as, in that final moment before the blade descended, it mattered not who they were, royalty or vagrant, on the guillotine stage, the most courageous became children once more: scared, innocent, and praying for rescue. Yet, his behaviour was contrary to expectations—contrary even to Farah, whose gait was ponderous behind him and whose eyes flitted about, hopeful. To them, Tatsuya walked as if he came to die of his own accord, carrying himself steady until he was roughly stopped, and even that was treated leisurely, appearing as though he was invited to the stage of some great theatre production.

Once Tatsuya was forced onto his knees and his head into the neck block, the executioner (the large water elemental from earlier) withdrew to the side of the guillotine, large hands raising the blade of the guillotine—and tying it to the post nearby—so it could be dropped immediately and without much fuss.

As a cloud briefly covered the sun, then drifted away again, a hush fell over the crowd, and Ferris made his presence known with a boisterous laugh. Resplendent in his regal attire, the lord turned to address the people, his voice resonating with an amused yet chilling authority.

“The Wind Blades have been thorns that have pierced our side for far too long, a relentless adversary, challenging the King’s rule, inciting rebellion, and sowing seeds of dissent among us.” The lord’s voice carried a hint of grudging admiration, a flicker of acknowledgment for the group who had publicly stood against the royal family. “They had thought themselves lucky, and many had presumed that their defiance had gone unnoticed. Today, in the absence of the royal family, I am here to deny those claims. Whatever luck they possessed has run out, and the cold embrace of reality has set in. It might be just two now, but more will follow—that we, the present Lords and nobles, promise.”

Ferris turned to face Tatsuya, and the whispers of death danced through the air like a bittersweet melody. He had to give it to the lord; he had an excellent voice for soliloquies—though the awe Tatsuya felt was tempered by the fact that said soliloquy was for his execution.

“Today, your story shall find its final chapter, a testament of a fruitless endeavour, and we stand witness to the consequences of challenging a lord’s might.” He paused. “But let it not be said that I'm not merciful. A final request, and if it's within my power, I shall see it granted.”

With that, the crowd held its breath as they awaited his response, but there was none. His mind contemplated the possibilities racing through it, and his mouth was shut as a result. One such possibility made itself known at that moment in the form of a wave of hunger rolling in, building in intensity until it hit him, seemingly vying for his attention by temporarily robbing him of his ability to process thoughts.

Ten seconds passed, and then twenty and thirty, and finally (mercifully), the pain started to pull back like the tide going out in favour of the all-consuming emptiness—burning itself in his stomach—he had grown used to. Another possibility took its place, a longing that stood above all the rest, and he found his eyes settling on the man sitting among the few lords in attendance.

 Kuro.

He remembered Farah’s words, the Wind Blades’ plan he was excluded from knowing, and his smile shrank, becoming genuine.

The Wind Blades’ plan was to meet with an informant—one of the people responsible for kidnapping the victims who had a change of heart—and their fear was that if Tatsuya attacked the bastard, the other lords, their attack dogs, and the capital militia would be on high alert. That would undoubtedly spook the informant, and they may lose their only lead in determining where the ritual would take place.

It was possible that they might attempt to follow through with their plan, and his actions could potentially jeopardise it—which he found conflicting since it would greatly aid in achieving his goal—but it was also possible they might not, and his actions would have no effect on anybody but him.

However, in a world of probabilities, the only thing he could do was pick the one he was most certain of, and there was no doubt that this was an opportunity he might never have again. His execution was upon him. The others had forsaken him, had forsaken Farah. They weren't coming to rescue any of them, and so Tatsuya had no other choice but to try and kill Kuro.

He couldn't—wouldn’t—squander the opportunity.

Tatsuya glanced away from Kuro’s visage to look up at Ferris, the lord peering down at him with a look of annoyance, and he realised his introspection had gone on for longer than usual. Ignoring the impatience wafting from the crowd, he loudly cleared his throat, somehow gathering enough saliva to wet his tongue. “Do you mean it?”

Ferris’ eyes narrowed. “I reiterate: if it's within my power, I shall see it granted.”

Satisfied with what he heard, Tatsuya weakly nodded, returned his gaze to the bastard, and clearly—with as much resolve as he could muster—said, “I wish to kill Kuro.”

The crowd gasped at his reply, and even Ferris, for a moment, seemed bemused, then annoyed, before he leaned down and stared into Tatsuya’s eyes, scowling, and whispered, flat and stern, “Do you have another request?”

But Tatsuya wasn't listening to the lord. As he found himself in the presence of Kuro, the bastard staring back with a scowl, memories, both bitter and painful, flooded his mind—and those same memories fuelled the fiery resentment that had burnt deep within him for far too long.

Kuro stood as a physical embodiment of the anguish Tatsuya had endured, a symbol of his fractured family and broken promises, and as the latter’s subconscious mind wrenched control of his senses, letting images form where there should be none. Tatsuya saw his childhood innocence shattered— shattered by a harsh verdict and a harsher action. He saw the tears shed in silence, the desperate pleas from an abandoned child falling on deaf ears. And he saw the shattered dreams, the potential that withered away in one fell swoop by the merciless hands of a bastard masquerading as a lord.

He was taken back to that day when he—on his knees, paralyzed to the spot—tried and failed to arrange what remained of his father into some semblance of a human body, and, at that moment, the fiery resentment erupted into a blazing inferno. The flames of bitterness danced in his eyes, and as he found himself snarling, his trembling hands rose from his sides to point at Kuro.

“I'll never forgive you. I'll kill you!”

A nod of approval was exchanged, and Ferris smacked him across the face, but—despite momentarily sputtering as his throat hit the edge of the hole his head was forced through— Tatsuya ignored the unspoken order.

“I swear, I will.”

The world fell away into a distant haze, the noise of the crowd fading into mere murmurs, until all that remained were him, the bastard, and the torrent of emotions he could no longer contain.

Kuro abruptly stood, and the sound of his full weight against the ground reverberated through the haze like the crash of a well- struck gong.

At first, nothing happened. Nobody moved, and all was silent. Overhead and propelled by unseen currents, the clouds continued their languid journey across the boundless backdrop of blue. Then, the atmosphere crackled with anticipation—firstly quietly, then louder and louder—as storm clouds gathered on the horizon. Their arrival was heralded by a gusty wind that swept through the land, stirring leaves and rustling through trees like a whisper of what was to come.

The sky, once calm and blue, was now transformed into a canvas of ominous grey, and from their depths, the low growl of thunder reverberated through the air.

Kuro raised a hand, and as lightning crackled and danced, each streak seemed to etch a fleeting mark across the heavens, momentarily illuminating the world below in a stark contrast of light and shadow and bathing senses with that of ozone. The hand came down, and with a thunderclap, a single flash of the brightest, most mesmerising, and rawest force of nature struck the guillotine, exploding the neck block and setting its remains aflame.

Tatsuya’s sight blackened as he felt something solid slam against his skull, remaining just long enough to zero in on a piece of wood, identical to the kind used for the guillotine, falling at his front. By the time his sight returned, he had lost his footing and collapsed to the stage, coughing and wheezing as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. The unexpected attack, even if it was not direct, had knocked the breath out of him and, in combination with his weakened state, rendered him unable to do anything other than shelling up and protecting his vital bits.

For a moment, he stayed motionless, quiet, unable to do much with the lingering echo in his head but watch the scattered pieces of wood smoulder. But, as seconds passed, muffled sounds began to regain clarity, and he slowly eased himself free of his hold, beccoming aware of the storm clouds dispersing as swiftly as they came. The thunder retreated to a distant grumble, and the lightning faded into the recesses of the sky.

The clouds gradually broke apart, revealing patches of clear, blue sky and the golden rays of the sun, as if the storm had fulfilled its purpose and the point was made.

Then, Kuro spoke, his voice booming in time to his footsteps as he approached the stage. “You are not the first to try, and you won't be the last.”

Blood, thick, sticky, and viscous, trailed down his face and neck, jolting from the many lacerations with each rapid pulse of his heart. Yet, Tatsuya hardly registered them, so focused on Kuro’s thunderous visage bearing down on him, hazel eyes blackened with unrecognisable hostility.

“You will kill me? Prove it.”

“How?” The sudden sting of pain bled into the plea that tore from Tatauya’s throat, leaving a sprinkle of crimson in its wake.

The bastard closed the distance between them until their faces were a mere hairsbreadth away, his eyes reflecting the anger that overwhelmed Tatsuya moments earlier. As they locked eyes, Kuro gripped Tatsuya's face roughly, squeezing with an iron grip—the latter felt fingers digging into his cheeks, the pressure causing his skin to indent—and his mind raced, thoughts of defiance and self-preservation clashing with the instinct to submit and avoid further harm.

The bastard’s hold was vice-like, resisting every impotent attempt to break free, and all Tatsuya could do was glare.

“Kill your lover, and I just might grant you your bloody request.”