Aren learned early that love was a dangerous thing.
Not because it hurt—but because it demanded answers when there were none.
The first time the bells rang, he was standing in the lower square, counting bread loaves for the old baker who could no longer see well enough to count for himself. The sound cut through the air like a blade—low, heavy, final.
Judgment bells.
People stopped moving.
Aren didn't.
He dropped the basket and ran.
The eastern platform was already crowded by the time he arrived. Soldiers stood in a neat line, faces blank, hands resting on sword hilts that had tasted blood far too often to care anymore. At the center stood the stone pillar—and the girl bound to it.
Lysa.
Her hair was loose, tangled by fear and wind. Her eyes searched the crowd wildly until they found him.
"Aren," she breathed, relief flooding her face so completely it hurt to see.
That relief ruined him.
"She crossed the border," a magistrate announced calmly. "Returned without sanction. The law is clear."
Aren pushed forward. "She was looking for medicine," he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears—too steady. "My sister is sick."
The crowd murmured. Some looked away. Others watched with interest.
The magistrate tilted his head. "Many are sick."
"She didn't steal. She didn't hurt anyone."
"But she broke the law."
Aren looked at Lysa again. She was crying now, silently, like she didn't want to inconvenience anyone with her fear.
He loved her.
The realization didn't arrive gently. It struck him with terrifying clarity.
The magistrate gestured to the soldiers. "Proceed."
Something inside Aren shifted.
Not snapped.
Not broke.
Aligned.
"If I take responsibility," Aren said, stepping onto the platform, "will you let her go?"
Silence.
The magistrate studied him. "Responsibility… how?"
"I'll serve," Aren said. "Bind me to judgment. Use me however you wish."
A lie.
He didn't care what they did to him.
He only cared that Lysa lived.
The air changed.
A pressure settled into Aren's chest, warm and heavy, like a hand resting over his heart. The world seemed to lean closer, listening.
The magistrate's eyes widened just slightly.
"Interesting," he murmured.
The soldiers froze.
Lysa gasped as the ropes fell away from her wrists.
"She is released," the magistrate announced. "You, however—"
Aren didn't hear the rest.
Because the warmth in his chest spread, sinking deeper, rooting itself somewhere it didn't belong.
Power.
Not explosive.
Not loud.
Quiet. Certain.
Lysa threw herself into his arms, shaking. "You're stupid," she sobbed. "You're so stupid."
Aren held her tightly.
He felt no fear.
No doubt.
No guilt.
Only relief.
Later—much later—he would realize that was the moment something essential left him.
But at the time, all he thought was:
I would do it again.
And the world, pleased with his answer, agreed.