"The empire doesn't fear my blade. It fears my thoughts."
Ashen stood at the center of the execution square. Chains carved lines into his wrists, neck, ankles. His once-pristine white cloak, now soaked in sweat, blood, and ash, clung to his skin like a burial shroud. Around him, nobles cheered. Priests chanted. Soldiers stood still.
And in the front row—King Haran, the coward with a crown.
"This is mercy," the king had said. "A strategist who knows too much dies too slowly."
The pyre was lit.
Smoke kissed the sky. Ashen did not scream. He stared, burning alive with eyes wide open—memorizing every face, every voice, every smirk.
His last thought before the flames consumed him:
"Next time, I'll start with your children."
—And the world went dark.
But minds like his do not vanish. They fester.