The little angel is held aloft by a reaper-like figure, axe dangling precariously from one hand, chains bound tightly to the girl in another. The crowd at the foot of the dais have parted, as if repelled by the sight of mangled wings and feathers, yet simultaneously rooted to the spot, enchanted by the rarity of a public execution.
The small, winged figure whimpers, to young to be trained to keep such sounds of fear at bay as many of those in my clan often have been. The sound of it is almost pitiful- at least it would be had a roiling pit of guilt and torment not been welling in the pit of my stomach, consuming my conscience and threatening to break me down in the notion that I alone am the soul cause of this.
My failure.
