It was the third year of the rule of Alden Barthas, the Emperor of Barthasia. The mood was sombre, with the dark metallic winter clouds hanging over the execution grounds.
Albert Ashen II clenched his teeth, his breathing heavy. His hands were trembling so much that his older sister noticed.
"Relax," she said, her eyes deadpan. "Whatever you're feeling, make sure you don't show it. The Emperor's watching."
Albert nodded bravely, but he couldn't stop his shaking.
The execution grounds were like a colosseum, and the seat that drew the most attention belonged to Alden Barthas. He looked a young man, but his apparent youth was an illusion conjured by the blood of Barthasian royalty. The young man seated in the emperor's seat was well over a hundred. To either side of him sat his wife and oldest son, surrounded by his other concubines and mistresses, with their children standing behind each of them.
An official stood up and declared loudly:
"Let it be known that the sons and daughters of Barthas value loyalty above honour, and filial piety above loyalty. For the murder of the previous Emperor, after fair trial and assessment, Albert Ashen is now called to the grounds of execution. To be laid to rest by the hands of his own blood. To wash away the shame of the Ashens, and to appease the honour of the Barthasians."
His voice was not domineering, but it echoed through the sombre silence like a chink of glass in a quiet room.
Chains rattled, and a man was dragged along the ground, making his way to the podium, spurred on by a whip. The crowd broke into callous cheers, casting stones, fruits, shoes, and whatever they could at the piteous man.
Alden Barthas raised his hands, and the noise immediately stopped. The clinking of the chains continued, slowly but surely, until Albert Ashen stood at the centre of the execution grounds, his head bowed.
"Albert Ashen, is there anything you wish to say," the Emperor's voice echoed.
Albert Ashen looked up at the Emperor, his eyes bloodshot. He mumbled weakly.
"Long live the Barthasian Empire."
At that utterance, Keril's eyes turned a shade darker, but Albert II's eyes become teary.
An executioner brought a hatchet and placed it in Albert II's hands. He took it weakly, mustering his resolve as best as he could.
"For the crimes of Albert Ashen, the sentence is death by his own kin. Death!"
The executioner shouted. At this Albert II flinched, dropping the hatchet. The clattering metal created an awkward atmosphere.
The entire crowd turned to Alden Barthas, but he remained expressionless, looking down at the boy. A heavy silence permeated the atmosphere.
"It's ... okay ... son," Albert said, bringing his neck closer to his son.
Albert II burst into tears. Keril sighed, picked up the hatchet, and put it his hands, while he trembled.
"Hesitation will only make it harder for all of us," she said.
Albert II glared at his sister, wondering how she could be so callous. He thought he was looking at a monster. She could feel the disgust in his gaze, and it made her scoff.
That's where we're different, you and I. Don't let them know what you're thinking.
"Albert Ashen II," the executioner blared. "If you do not cleanse the shame of your family as the next family head, the Ashens, although regrettable, will all undergo trial."
Albert II trembled even more at those words. He brought the hatchet up, but couldn't bring himself to swing. The gazes of the crowd made him dizzy.
Albert Ashen sighed, then he glared at his daughter. She glared back at him.
The official called on the executioner.
"It is regrettable, but it appears the Ashen have fallen. Following this execution, you will all be put on trial."
As the executioner approached Albert II to take the sword from his hands, Keril snatched it. Then she walked toward her father, and without flinching, swung the hatchet down.
Her swing was weak. It couldn't be helped, as she was a woman with little physical training. She was only able to bear into his flesh, causing him to wail. She could hear her mother screeching with despair from somewhere within the crowd. She recognized her voice.
She didn't stop. She didn't flinch. She didn't hesitate. She didn't know how many times she swung. She didn't care about the horrified look on her brother's face.
Before she knew it, she was holding his head in her hand. The entire crowd fell silent.
That was the first time that Keril killed anyone, but it would not be the last.
* * *
Sena was sitting outside a tent, caressing Celty who laid on her laps. Her small chest flowed with labored breathing, snow melting on her forehead. It pained Sena to see her like that, but she could only watch ... and wait.
"Next!"
An old man called from within the tent, parting the drapes to rest his gaze on Sena, and then Celty. He visibly scowled before beckoning her in.
Neither of them said a word of explanation. Sena knew where to put her daughter, and the old man knew what medicines to gather. After the preparations were complete, he held his hand out to Sena.
She rummaged through her pockets and gathered a few coins. The man tossed them around in his palms before frowning even deeper.
"Twenty silvers won't do this time," he said indifferently, pointing at Celty's forehead. There was an ugly pink rash forming.
"The curse has already progressed too far. This is likely the last treatment I'll be able to give her before it becomes unmanageable for me."
"Its all I can manage for now," Sena responded. "Once we get to the settlement, I'll make sure to give you the rest."
The old man looked at the silver in his hands and sighed. He seemed a little conflicted as he continued, "Look, Sena. I think ... by now, even you should be aware that this is irreversible. Perhaps, you should start thinking about your remaining children instead. This one is as good as ..."
"Shut up."
"... Think of it as friendly advice.