~Savanna's POV~
They surround me like a pack closing in.
Sticks and canes rain down. Wood cracks against flesh. Each strike throws pain through bone and breath. I taste iron. My cheek balloons. My ribs take blows that make my vision swim.
They shout my crimes between strikes. "Monster." "Beast." "Sacrilege." The words fall heavy as the wood.
I curl my fingers around the rope and let my body take it. Blood mixes with dust. Tears slip hot and silent down my face.
"Go ahead and kill me," I say, voice shredded. "Do it. I deserve it. It is the only way to end this."
No one answers. Only wood and the steady rhythm of punishment.
My breath comes short. My chest tightens. I have known this would come since the morning light. I already feel the end closing like a door.
A huge cane rises. A man aims for my head.
Lila moves like a blade.
She slams into the nearest warrior and jerks the cane away. Her voice cuts the courtyard. "Stop!"
Her men step in. Metal rings. Bodies press back. She forces space with words that do not soften.
"This is a sacred day," she says, low and hard. "You will not kill now. The law forbids it." Her eyes flick to mine for a second. They are granite. She turns to the crowd. "She broke the law. Let the law do its work. Not blood for blood in the square."
A ripple of shouts tries to push her aside. Elder Anders, whose daughter I also kill, steps forward, voice like flint.
"I see your hand in this," he snaps, pointing at Lila's flank where her closest warriors stand. "You defend her because she is your sister. Do you think we did not see your plans? Do you think Savannah should be spared?"
His finger feels like a knife cut through the air. I take the small pause he gives me and breathe. Cold wind brushes my face. It feels like a mercy for a breath.
Someone from Wolfcrown, whose friend I kill, roars agreement. The crowd takes the sound and swells. Faces harden. "Tonight she dies!" They cry. "This monster dies!"
The rope bites into my wrists. My knuckles go white. I grit my teeth and try not to retch.
Then Hector moves.
He comes through the press like a man with a law in his chest. He does not shout. He does not raise a hand in anger. He plants himself between us and the sea of rage and says only, "Enough."
The sound works. People slow as if a net has dropped. Their faces turn toward him, hungry and raw.
He looks at Anders. He looks at Lila. He looks at me. The grief on his face is plain. It goes through him like a wound.
"We remember our rites," he says. His voice is steady. "We honor our rules." He walks the space between the first row of warriors and the statue. "This is a sacred time. We will not make this a massacre."
An elder coughs. Anders's jaw pinches. Wolfcrown men shift their weight like beasts ready to spring.
Hector lifts his chin. "We will follow the Rite," he says. "The mate-bond revelation ritual must be performed before any final sentence." He names it like a law, not a plea.
A shout breaks out—anger, horror, fear. "Three days of waiting!" someone screams. "Three days to watch her live!"
Hector's hand falls. "Three days," he repeats. "Then judgment. Until then, she is bound and held in custody."
They tie me more tightly. Rope cuts into my wrists. Warriors shove me forward. The courtyard spins with faces: grief, hate, a few that look like pity and then look away.
At the edge of the crowd, three little figures push forward. Small shoulders, messy hair. Children, pale with fear.
"We saw someone," the smallest says, voice high and shaking. "A man in a dark cloak. He moved near the sand. He touched the bodies."
Adults hush them. An elder snaps, "Quiet, children. You tell tales."
They keep talking anyway. "He had a jar," the other one says. "He put the sand into it."
No one else saw it. I strain to remember. My hands remember only the feel of flesh gone thin and giving way. The sand that fell from my fingers is the same sand as the ground. I did not see anyone packing it. The pups did not see. The elders did not see. Still the children babble and point at the corner near the statue.
An elder crosses himself. A man mutters about tricks. No one brings the claim forward as proof. It floats like an odd feather and drops useless.
They lift me onto the back of two warriors. The ground grows dim with shadow as we move away from the circle. We go beneath Elder Hall.
The stair is narrow and cold. Stone eats sound. Torches line the walls and throw long shapes. The air smells of iron and old smoke. Doors open onto empty rooms—ritual tables, shelves of ash, coils of chain. The passage narrows until the light is small.
They push me into a cell the size of a grave. Heat presses in. The bars clang. The lock snaps with a sound like a verdict.
Two warriors stand guard outside my door. One rests his hand on the spear at his hip. The other shifts his weight and breathes like a slow animal.
They shove a wooden bucket across the floor and leave it at my feet. The door closes with a final knock that shakes the bones.
I sit on the stone and press my palms to my knees. Blood dries on my fingers. The bruise across my cheek burns. Each movement is a knife.
The torches gutter outside. The narrow bar of light under the door slides along the floor. The bucket smells of iron and old sweat.
Night keeps me awake.
Pain names the hours. I count each breath like a bead.
I count the people I killed. Not by number at first, but by faces. Names rise and fall. Faces I do not want to see push through. Nicholas comes first, always. The slice of his grin as he stole my practice sword. The way he tucked his chin when he pretended not to be afraid. I see him then the way he falls into dust. My hands remember how the skin gave like wet cloth. The memory empties my teeth.
Why does it always take the side of harm? I press my forehead to the hard stone and listen to the slow footfalls of the guards. Why does it seize me to strike and not to save? Why during this ritual when the firmament is open? Why now, when the moon is not against us?
The questions tumble without answers. I do not pray. Mercy is a word I do not own. Fear has gone someplace I cannot find.
I recall how the shrine held me once, and how a single unlocked door let the storm out. I recall the feel of the spirit's weight and the speed with which it made me into a weapon. I try to find blame. I push it away when it comes for me, but it circles like a dog at the edge of a fire.
My forearms burn where the sacred rope bit. I count names again to keep from thinking of the sand. Each name is a coal in my mouth. Each name makes the world a little heavier.
In the corridor, a slow foot approaches. The guard outside shifts his weight. I hear voices low and sharp beyond the bars—plans, orders, the steady grind of law.
If death can judge, then I will wait the three days and let it be the one to say whether I was a monster or not.