Chapter 1
The Feast of Saint Cristian, the day that marked the first arrival of spring.
As if to bless the occasion, the sky stretched blue without a single cloud, and the weather was bright and warm.
From early morning, the central plaza of Eltra, capital of Laetania, overflowed with people.
On any other year, the entire city would be buzzing with excitement for the grand weddings and engagement ceremonies held by the nobility on this special holiday.
And indeed, the atmosphere was somewhat lively again this year, much like before. But the reason behind it was entirely different.
From morning onward, crowds had gathered shoulder to shoulder in the plaza. Their shouting voices and barely contained excitement had only one purpose.
By now, the people should have grown tired of the endless executions—bloodshed had become so frequent that the metallic stench hardly had time to fade before the next spectacle.
And yet, even more spectators had come today than for the first one.
They say the higher one stands, the harder the fall hurts.
The pitiful downfall of men who once held power so great the common folk dared not even meet their eyes—because those tragedies had nothing to do with the crowd’s own lives, they became all the more fascinating to witness.
Drunk on the feverish atmosphere around them, the people shouted even louder.
“When does the execution start?”
“Hurry up and bring out the criminal!”
Their cries were like the eager calls of an audience waiting for the lead actor to step onto the stage.
And soon, something began to appear in the distance, moving slowly toward them.
A massive guillotine had been erected in the center of the plaza.
Under the precariously suspended blade, a man was stumbling forward, guided by the executioner, a hood pulled low over his head.
He cut a pathetic figure.
His tattered clothes were so short on his tall frame that they looked almost comical.
His hands and legs—once surely pale and immaculate—were now filthy, the skin peeled and crusted with dried blood, the result of brutal torture.
“Take off the hood! Take it off!”
“Yeah! Let’s see that arrogant face of his!”
The murmurs swelled into a roar as the man was dragged to the foot of the guillotine.
The demand to remove the hood turned into a full-throated scream within seconds.
The fury of the crowd was dangerously immense.
They were not yet so frenzied as to swarm the platform like they had during the execution of Count Greenwood, but their resentment toward the corrupt traitors had not cooled in the slightest.
The executioner, not wanting a repeat of the last incident, quickly did as they demanded and pulled the hood away.
Silence fell instantly.
A strange, unnatural silence—like every person in the plaza had vanished all at once.
Even battered and ruined as it was, the face underneath the hood remained extraordinary.
“Good heavens…”
Ordinary commoners like them could live their entire lives without ever seeing such a person face-to-face.
The crowd recalled an old tale—the silly rumor claiming that the founder of House Angel had been born between an angel and a mortal woman, which was why the family’s name meant “angel.”
But now, upon seeing the man’s face with their own eyes, many felt convinced that the story might not be a myth after all.
His brilliant golden hair and deep blue eyes were the very likeness of the divine angels depicted in the sacred paintings—figures one could only glimpse from afar inside the temple.
“Traitor!”
Someone shouted sharply, ashamed that they had momentarily wavered in their hatred of a traitor simply because of his looks.
At the same moment, an egg flew through the air and struck the man squarely on the forehead. Rotten yolk slid down his jawline with a foul stench and a slow, sticky trail.
The crowd, who had been gazing at him in a dazed, dreamlike stupor, collectively snapped out of it. His pitiful appearance no longer stirred even the slightest fascination.
Rage spread through the people like a contagious disease. Soon the earlier chants transformed into something far more vicious.
“Kill him! Kill him!”
“Do it! Kill him already! Kill the traitor—Cedric Angel!”
Cedric Angel.
A name once belonging to the most powerful ducal family in the nation—House Angel.
And Cedric was the last remaining head of that once-glorious line.
A name that commoners would never have dared to speak aloud was now being hurled through the air like a pebble rolling across a market floor.
“What a pity.”
Standing in the middle of the crowd’s near-madness, the executioner muttered the words before realizing he’d spoken.
The noise was so overwhelming that only Cedric could faintly hear it.
“What do you mean?”
By protocol, the executioner should never converse with a prisoner.
But the moment of regret passed quickly.
Seeing the man still trying to maintain his noble composure made irritation surge in the executioner’s chest.
He spoke curtly.
“Once upon a time, you people could knock birds out of the sky with your power. I never imagined—just a few months ago—that I’d be executing noble lords one after another like this.”
He spat to the side, clicking his tongue.
“Should’ve stayed away from Greenwood, of all people. Tsk.”
Just speaking the cursed word “Greenwood” made him feel as though misfortune had crawled under his skin.
“I’ll ask you something. Did you really take part in the rebellion? No, right?”
The executioner lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial.
“People are dying to know. Plenty don’t believe someone like you would join that idiotic revolt. Honestly, isn’t it unfair? All because of that witch—Ines Greenwood—you ended up like this.”
Cedric hadn’t reacted to anything the executioner had said so far, but at the sound of Ines’s name, his gaze wavered ever so slightly.
‘Just a little more and he’ll spill the truth’ the executioner thought.
Prisoners facing death often grew loose-tongued. Curious like everyone else, he coaxed Cedric on.
“Everyone knows. They say that wicked woman framed her own husband to save her life. As if it’ll do her any good—she won’t live in luxury ever again.”
Witch.
Vixen.
The Greenwood Devil.
Ines Greenwood, once honored as the Duchess of Angel, was now called every disgraceful name imaginable.
But when the eager executioner glanced sidelong at Cedric, the flicker of emotion he’d seen earlier had already faded completely.
“You talk too much.”
Cedric’s voice was quiet, almost amused, as he spoke to himself with a faint smile.
“If I’m going to die anyway… wouldn’t it be wiser for only one person to die instead of three?”
The executioner had sharp hearing. He caught the murmur and stared in disbelief.
So even the haughty nobles were the same—when facing death, they all crumbled into ordinary, pitiful humans.
Even the ringleader of the rebellion, Count Greenwood, had died screaming and clawing for life, shrieking that the merciful Empress had fabricated everything.
Surely this young man was no different.
“You hit your head or something? Three? It’s two. Hah. And here I thought I’d hear something interesting.”
The executioner muttered to himself, losing interest. Clearly the man had gone mad—unable even to count properly at the end. If it were him, he would have dragged that wicked wife of his to the afterlife as company.
Cedric didn’t respond. He had forced himself into this calm state; hearing anything more about his wife would only unsettle him.
But once the thought of Ines surfaced, it refused to fade. One thought led to another, pulling his mind into a spiral.
At last, with slight hesitation, Cedric asked quietly,
“…Where did you say she is now?”
The executioner looked him over with open contempt.
“So it’s true what they say—the Greenwood Witch, huh? I’ve heard quiet women are even wilder at night. Must’ve been quite the woman, seeing as you can’t forget her even now, eh?”
Sharp-tongued as he was, the executioner still gave him an answer, pointing to one side.
“She’s locked in the northern tower, over there. Top floor. Not getting out for the rest of her life, or so I heard.”
“I see.”
Cedric’s gaze drifted to the tall, black tower rising in the distance.
She was alive.
Fortunately, the Empress had decided to keep her promise. The tower where she was imprisoned was infamous—no one who entered ever came out alive.
“If you keep your mouth shut and die quietly, I will at least spare your wife.”
He hadn’t realized that “spare” meant condemning her to a living death. Still, Cedric felt relief. A prisoner would never leave the tower—but…
“Kill him! Kill him!”
The crowd’s shouts grew even louder.
The executioner could delay no longer, though something about this death left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Even after all his years in the job, certain executions made him lose his appetite for days.
“Sir.”
Cedric nodded calmly at the executioner’s gruff call.
“I know. Thank you for waiting.”
As he stepped toward the platform, the executioner asked one final question.
“Any last words?”
Cedric answered in a soft voice.
“I want to see my wife.”
☆▪︎▪︎▪︎☆▪︎▪︎▪︎☆
By Anna 💓
