"The spy was to be executed for murder,
but on the day of his execution,
his allies arrived and freed him."
'Allies'... Interesting.
・ ・ ・
Slayen looked like he wanted to strangle something. Or perhaps stab someone.
Xenor couldn't tell which.
The redhead's arms were still bound, hanging in the air beside him, but he was tensed against the chains, shoulders hunched and body leaning forward, a feral growl rumbling in his throat. His crimson eyes flashed in the dim light, something akin to nervous anger simmering in their depths.
"I heard my dear little brother came down to visit you a few days ago," Xenor began as he watched him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Care to share what he spoke to you about?"
Slayen's gaze jerked away, falling to the ground. "... The lil' shit was curious," he grumbled out, shifting and looking mildly uncomfortable.
Xenor's eye twitched.
"About what, if I may ask?" He cocked his head.
"Nothing much." Slayen managed a small shrug. "Just wanted to know my motives and all that stuff."
Xenor said nothing, only continued to eye him through the cell bars. He noted the faint marks on the redhead's face— scars from Storm's beating on the night of Liss' death, he assumed— and the curls of his fiery hair, so tangled and matted with sweat and dried blood that it looked like a sodden cloud on fire.
The way he straightened his back every now and then to loosen the tension in his strained arms.
"I assume you know that you will be executed this afternoon," Xenor stated, flicking his gaze back to Slayen's face. The redhead grimaced, eyes still on the ground, and scowled.
"The fucking guards wouldn't shut up about it," he grumbled. His fists clenched. "Kept yapping away in my face about how I deserved to die."
Xenor tilted his chin. "But, Slayen, if you must know"— he smirked— "you're not dying today."
The redhead jerked, looking up and staring at him with wide, stunned eyes. "At least," Xenor added, "I don't intend on letting you die. It all depends on your cooperation."
Slayen looked confused. Xenor did not like the look he was receiving.
He sighed, rolling his eyes in exasperation at how the assassin before him did not seem to understand his intentions, and cocked his head, before gesturing to his person with elegant fingers. "I am being kind to you, you asinine simpleton," he stated with a rather flat tone, wholly ignoring the vehement protest uttered by the redhead at the insult. "You have proved yourself to be of great use to me, and thus I will help you escape from your execution this afternoon." His eyes gleamed, dark and green. "Besides, I have yet to fulfil my end of our deal. With this, consider us equal."
"What'll you do?" Slayen asked, his voice gruff as he processed the information.
"I will create a spectacle," Xenor answered, the corners of his lips curving upwards, "dedicated to your beloved clan and family."
Slayen blinked, eyes narrowing, brows furrowing together. "I don't get what that means, but..." He scowled. "Why can't you let me go right now, instead of later?"
"Why can't you use that puerile brain of yours for once and figure it out yourself?" Xenor sniffed, eyes narrowing as he clicked his tongue.
The redhead's face scrunched together in distaste but remained silent. A rather wise decision on his part, because Xenor was mildly irritated. "Moving on," he continued, pacing in front of the cell. Slayen paused in his contemplations, glancing up at him. "Where will you go after you are freed?" Xenor asked, stopping in his tracks and tilting his head. Green glinted in the faint dungeon light.
"There is... a place," the redhead said, hesitating. "A safe, hidden place."
"Where is it?"
"Home."
Xenor raised a brow, eyelids fluttering. He mused over the vague answer for a moment, wondering why Slayen would be so inane as to return to his own home. Then he decided not to question it. Slayen was not that brainless, he knew. Surely, the redhead had a plan of sorts, using whatever street smarts he had... although his intentions were rather questionable and obscure.
Turning away, Xenor could feel Slayen's intense stare on his back. He flicked a hand at the prisoner. "When the time comes, be ready," he said, stifling a yawn with his fingers. "The process will be quick, and there will be chaos. Use that chance to flee immediately."
"You sound so confident," Slayen grumbled. "How do you know if whatever you're planning is really gonna work?"
"My plans"— Xenor whirled and looked him straight in the eye— "always work, in case you hadn't noticed." The redhead still looked doubtful. Green eyes rolled and turned away. "I will be taking my leave now," Xenor said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Behave."
"I'm not an animal," Slayen snarled, wrestling against his chains.
"You certainly act like one." Xenor's lips parted as another yawn escaped them, which he hid behind a hand. A growl rumbled in the redhead's throat, and he caught sight of a savage fury within the depths of glowering crimson eyes.
Xenor allowed a small smirk to slip onto his face. He liked that look; the beastly hatred, the unquenchable thirst for vengeance. It was powerful, it was deadly— something that suited the convoluted tragedy of the Eltros.
Something that Slayen rightfully deserved to express, after all that his clan went through.
He began walking away from the cell, ignoring the redhead's low grumbles and irritated muttering. Walked around the snoring, drooling guards stationed at the entrance of the dungeons. A moment later, he was out of the stuffy prison air. Continued on. Paused. Allowed the crisp breeze of daybreak to run through his hair.
He found himself near the gardens, and peered in, gaze wandering absently. The sun was rising, casting its rays over the flora and fauna around him. It created a faint sparkle in the air, a glimmer that made him wince and shy away. Unbidden, there came a brief memory of Bayne and Liss strolling together through the gardens, laughing. Holding hands. Teasing. Xenor himself— just a child of two years at that time— was seated on his father's shoulders, reaching out curiously for a butterfly that was flying around his head.
Stop, a voice whispered at the back of his head. He could not waver.
Yet the images continued, unrelenting, undisturbed.
Liss was pregnant with Storm, and the tiny butterfly went to land on top of his mother's bulging womb. Little Xenor was fascinated by it, in all its colourful, azure blue glory. It was a small, fragile creature, like the little brother he—
No more.
Xenor blinked. Shook his head. He went to rub his eyes, and found that his hand was trembling. A deep, shuddery breath, and he forced the memory back into the darkest recesses of his mind. Turned away from the gardens.
He could not waver, he told himself again. Again. Again. He could not waver.
He would not waver.
The sun peeked over the walls surrounding the Palace; surrounding the gardens. Surrounding him.
Xenor edged away from the light that was beginning to fill up the dark area around him, illuminating the flower beds with orange and yellow. He tilted his head back. Stared around the gardens one last time. Shut away the joyous laughter and curious squeals that resounded in his ears from the little bits of youthful, mirthful memories that surfaced.
Everything had to disappear.
Another step back. He focused on the thought of Slayen, miserably waiting in his cell.
The memories wavered, withered, and eventually went away, falling back into the darkness of his mind. The sun was growing stronger; awakening from its slumber.
Xenor clenched his fists, erasing away the image of a chubby, smiling face graced with the bluest eyes anyone could possibly have that had clawed its way back up.
Then he stepped back, avoiding the sun's rays that were spreading over the ground, and retreated into the shadows of the Palace, the other inhabitants within beginning to stir.
Storm stood on the balcony, observing the daily proceedings of the kingdom below, with its many sprawling buildings and fresh greenery. His and Xenor's kingdom now, with the king and queen...
He pursed his lips, unable to finish the thought, and tightened his grip on the railing.
His gaze wandered the bustling streets of Argon, and he watched as shopkeepers yelled out their finest deals to passersby, men and women both laughed and talked, the occasional horse trotted around with a soldier sitting on top. Children ran after each other, shrill cries of exuberance reaching his ears. Even though the kingdom was still mourning the loss of Bayne and Liss, the people were beginning to move on. They had to move on for the sake of their families, their friends. Their happiness.
Or perhaps Storm was the only one who felt grief, because it was his parents who had been killed in cold blood, regardless of the fact that they were the former king and queen. It was his family that was gone. And maybe that was why the people could regain their happiness so quickly— they were relieved it was not their families that had to suffer at the hands of a deranged, psychopathic murderer.
Kings and queens could be replaced, after all. As long as the Avalon family remained, Argon would continue to have rulers. It was just a process of life, and the people had perhaps already grown used to seeing rulers rise and fall. Perhaps that was why they could move on so easily.
It was all but a simple cycle— a continuous, repetitive, monotonous cycle.
How jealous he was of their normal, royalty-free and unbound lives.
Then Storm wondered when his thoughts became so cynical. What was wrong with him, doubting his people in such a way? They had to be grieving as much as he was, he told himself. They had to be weeping under their jovial, jubilant facades.
Yet, a part of him didn't believe it. Would never be able to believe it.
The children's cries reached his ears again, snapping him out of his dull, dark lamentations. They seemed so happy, so oblivious to the crushing pain that the world was capable of inflicting in a single night.
A wistful grimace.
He and Xenor had been like that, once. A long time ago...
Storm then wondered where his elusive brother was. Xenor was still as slippery as ever— it was difficult trying to find him, and even more difficult just trying to get him to stay and talk for a moment.
A sigh, and Storm slumped, resting his chin on his arms atop the balcony railing. His gaze travelled over to the Main Square, where there were more people milling about. He eyed the platform that had already been set up in the centre of the Square.
That was where Slayen was going to be executed.
Storm trailed his fingers through his hair, recalling his last meeting with the redheaded murderer just a few days ago.
"Your parents were nothing but frauds."
He gasped, and shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. No, he would not believe those words. He would never believe those words. They weren't true.
They couldn't be true.
He focused back on the platform in the Main Square, pressing his lips together. Tried to feel a sense of satisfaction that justice would soon be served. His parents were going to be avenged.
Slayen would no longer be a threat to his family and the kingdom.
The Eltros would be gone for good.
Storm gulped, licking his lips as he ran his hand through his hair once more.
"I am an Eltros, Highness! A proud Eltros. The very last of my kind! And you would be wise to stay on guard at all times, because I'm coming for you next!"
Again, he shook the words out, pushing away the mounting chills and twist of foreboding in his gut.
The Eltros would be gone for good after Slayen was executed, he told himself firmly.
There was nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing—
"Why the tense face, Your Highness?" came Silix's voice from behind him, and Storm jumped, releasing a startled yelp. He whirled around, chest heaving, pressing himself against the railing, and was met with the advisor chuckling at him. An amused smile was on his rather wizened face.
"S-Silix," Storm gasped, "please don't do that, ever again." He placed a hand over his chest in an attempt to still his palpitating heart. "You scared me."
"I apologise, Your Highness," the advisor hummed, coming forward to stand next to him. He glanced down and watched the movements of the people for a moment, before turning back to Storm. "How are you feeling?" he asked, stroking the little goatee growing from his chin.
Storm shrugged, managing to calm his frantic heartbeats. "I..." He hesitated. "Should I be happy?"
Silix cocked his head. "You do not know what to feel?"
A nod. The advisor crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his head up to the sky while still stroking his goatee. A dark look fell over his face. "What did Slayen speak to you about, when you met with him a few days ago?" he questioned suddenly.
Storm blinked. Another shrug. "... He told me a story," he mumbled.
"What was it about?"
"A family of three."
Silix stiffened. Blanched. Stopped stroking his goatee. "... Injustice?" he said softly.
Storm made a soft noise of confirmation, and wondered how the advisor knew. Unless... "... He told me," he continued, swallowing, "that he's an Eltros."
Silix was silent. His hand dropped, as did his head, and he gazed absently down at the kingdom. Storm peered at him. "You know the story, don't you, Silix?" he said. "You were in it."
"I was." The advisor breathed in, and the creases on his forehead deepened.
"So it's true?"
"... It is."
A silence fell over them. The liveliness of the kingdom below was suddenly deafening; a monstrous clamour.
"... Why?" Storm whispered.
The advisor sighed, and rubbed his temples. He looked old. So old. "He was an Eltros, Your Highness," he stated, blinking wearily. "An Eltros."
"But it's unfair." Storm clenched his fists. "It's still unfair. Even though the father killed someone— maybe multiple people— it was only because they did something wrong to him. It's still unfair."
"I know." Silix offered a strained smile. "Your parents knew, too."
"So why did they still...?"
The advisor patted his shoulder and squeezed. "That is something only your parents would know, Your Highness."
Storm's breath hitched. "But... they're..." He swallowed, blinking back the sudden tears that had welled in his eyes.
"One day," Silix said, stroking his back. There was a knowing look on his face. "You will know one day. I assure you."
"... Okay."
Another silence. Storm eyed a couple of children running down the streets, waving sticks and pretending to be valiant soldiers. They were young, carefree. Vigorous and boisterous souls.
So happy.
"You know, Your Highness," Silix said suddenly, "you really do remind me of your father."
"How so?" Storm asked, curious. He was nothing like Bayne, if he was completely honest with himself. He had none of his father's royal qualities, none of his father's bravery and benevolence and confident leadership skills.
So why would Silix say such a thing?
The advisor hummed, and began stroking his goatee again. "I told you before, didn't I? When your father was your age," he began, "he was a lot like you, albeit a little more... rambunctious." A reminiscing smile. "As you know, he broke the rules quite often. He was foolish, and a... crybaby, at times."
Storm frowned. Silix took notice, and chuckled, patting his shoulder. "But at the same time, he had a strong sense of justice. He always worked hard, and was stubborn." The advisor nudged Storm's cheek with a finger. "Quite like you, if I do say so myself."
Tilting his head to the sky, Storm mused over Silix's words. A little pause. Then he smiled, and nodded gratefully to the advisor. "Thank you for telling me, Silix," he said.
"You are welcome, Your Highness."
"Just how old are you, anyway?" Storm asked, raising a brow as he peered at Silix's face.
The advisor simpered in a rather mysterious way. "How old do you think I am?" he asked back. The indigo of his eyes shone with a sort of mischief.
"You look like you're ninety."
"Then, shall we go with that?"
Storm pouted. A humoured chuckle was his response.
"Come now, Your Highness," Silix said, moving away from the balcony railing and gesturing for him. "It is time."
Following the advisor down the stairs, Storm caught sight of Ash waiting at the end, near the doors of the Palace. He had not seen her around for quite some time, even at training sessions, and only noticed the faint scar across her face after a few minutes.
A scar made by Xenor.
The general was giving the soldiers around her instructions, and only turned to face Storm and Silix when she was done. Storm eyed the scar across her face— it looked quite bad. "It isn't as bad as it seems, Your Highness Storm," said Ash, noticing his grimace. She offered him a quick, firm smile. He nodded, still doubtful, but decided not to think about it anymore.
There came light footsteps behind them, and Storm turned to see Xenor, appearing from who-knew-where. His brother stopped short upon catching sight of Ash's scar, and there was a flicker in his green eyes, before he turned away. Silix patted his shoulder, but he shrugged off the advisor's hand.
Storm's brows furrowed as he observed him.
"... Are you both ready, Your Highnesses?" Ash asked, her gaze moving from Storm, and landing rather awkwardly on Xenor.
"That scar," Xenor said then, voice low, "does it hurt?" He pointed loosely at the healed gash on her skin.
Ash scrutinised him. Storm noticed Xenor shifting and quietly clearing his throat. Then the general scoffed, and tossed her hair back. "It doesn't. It has healed." She gave a smirk of understanding. "Apology accepted, Your Highness Xenor."
Perhaps it was just his imagination, but Storm thought he saw a flush spread across his brother's face as he made a soft noise and turned away again. "I said no such thing," he muttered.
"Of course." But her smirk still stayed.
They proceeded out of the Palace, where a few guards were standing with their horses. Storm approached Thunder, and the stallion whinnied in greeting. He took the reins and ran a hand through Thunder's mane. "Hey boy," he whispered, "it's been a while." A grunt in reply, and he managed a smile, before climbing onto the saddle.
He saw Xenor mounting Nightshade, with Silix getting on his own horse. Ash was shouting at the soldiers around them, and as they scurried into formation, she swung onto her stallion, heels kicking once, twice, before they began to move. Out they went, past the gates surrounding the Palace, onto the streets of Argon. The people watched them, noises falling.
They understood what was about to happen soon.
Their procession moved down the streets, to the Main Square a distance away. Storm saw a crowd gathered there as they went closer, the wind carrying their many voices and whispers. He heard suspicions. He heard confusion. He heard vengeance. Their words were many, but within them all was anticipation like no other.
The people of Argon were waiting for the event that was to come.
Storm felt a shudder run through him as they reached the Main Square. Next to him, Xenor sat with an unreadable face, but his knuckles were white, tight around the reins. Was he nervous? Storm didn't know. His brother had always been difficult to read, perhaps the most abstruse person in the world.
But maybe that was just him. Maybe he was the only one who felt Xenor was being mysterious. Secretive. Elusive.
Maybe they just weren't close enough. As brothers. As family.
The thought made something inside Storm shrivel up. Xenor caught his gaze and raised a brow. He could only look away, face burning with something that wasn't shame.
They dismounted their horses, letting the soldiers take them to the side before Storm and Xenor were ushered by Ash and Silix to a tall stand that had been erected near the execution platform. A special stand for them to watch the execution, above the heads of the common folk.
Silix stood with them, maintaining a watchful eye, while Ash made her way back down to the platform to speak with the executioner who was already there. Storm observed the dark-skinned man, dressed in black with a hood over his head. He seemed fidgety in Ash's presence— Storm couldn't blame him though, for Ash was intimidating even if she didn't mean to be. That was how powerful the general was, in strength, character, and aura.
A few minutes passed as the executioner got ready, and the soldiers stationed around the place squared their shoulders. The crowd was clamouring, impatient and curious.
Then Ash moved to the very front of the execution platform, removing her sheathed rapier from her belt and using it to knock against the floor of the wooden structure once. Twice. Three times. The sharp, hollow sound reverberated through the air.
The crowd grew silent.
"People of Argon!" Ash's voice boomed like a shockwave. There was a ripple through the crowd— they were nervous, daunted by the general's sudden exclamation. "As you all know, our beloved king, Bayne Avalon, and queen, Liss Valentine, were murdered."
An uproar. The people shook their fists and stamped their feet in anger. Some wept, while others swore at the top of their lungs. Storm winced at a particularly loud and spiteful string of unidentifiable curses from a bullnecked middle-aged man.
Ash had to knock her rapier against the wooden floor again to call for attention. Once the noises died down, she continued, "Fortunately, we have caught the culprit. He has been proven guilty of assassinating our dear rulers, and so we are here today to execute this criminal."
Another uproar, but this time one of approval.
Turning, the general gestured at one of the soldiers standing near the exit of the Main Square. Her fingers moved fast, and Storm realised that they were hand signs, which made for easier communication with all the racket being made by the anticipating crowd. The soldier she signed to nodded and left the Main Square.
A moment later, there came the sound of marching, and Storm saw Slayen, with his hands bound behind his back and head bowed, being escorted to the execution platform by a group of more soldiers. They shoved him onto the wooden structure, and he stumbled, almost tripping over the steps and his own feet.
The crowd saw him.
And they screamed, enraged.
Storm wanted to cover his ears at the sheer intensity and loudness of the people's jeers, a tremendous outcry that seemed to make even the heavens shake. He saw Xenor stiffen beside him, eyes narrowing at the crowd below them. Even Silix seemed surprised by the reaction, his old indigo eyes widening.
The people were all in pain, Storm realised. A collective pain that exceeded his own. They had simply been hiding it, perhaps to show the world that they could move on after such a heart-wrenching disaster. To show the world that the people of Argon could still stand strong without their rulers, even as they cried inside.
He should never have doubted the people. His people.
Ash thumped her rapier again, five knocks in quick succession. The din lessened, though the tensions and fury remained high. Slayen was forced to his knees on the platform, and the chains of his cuffs were attached to rings drilled into the wood, preventing him from escaping. The executioner brought over a small, steel column that had a round indentation in it, and placed it in front of the redhead. A push, and Slayen was made to hold his head over the indentation.
Storm saw his body quiver, muscles taut. Was he angry? Nervous? Afraid? He couldn't tell, what with the redhead's face hidden behind his ragged hair.
When he reflected back on it, he realised that it had been around four years since they met that fateful day, before everything went to hell. Four years.
That would make Slayen's present age nineteen.
"This man here"— Ash gestured at Slayen's silent figure— "is none other than Slayen, the criminal who murdered our king and queen."
More jeers, escalating into violent screams that called for death and vengeance. Slayen stayed unmoving throughout, even as a child no less than seven picked up a rock and threw it at his head. There was no reaction to the aggression being displayed towards him.
Ash waited until the commotion died down, before continuing, "Today, we will execute this criminal for treason, for committing the greatest sin there is to commit in this kingdom." She unsheathed her rapier and raised it high in the air, the Ultra Titanium blade glinting in the sunlight. "Today, justice will be served!"
The crowd cheered. Ash returned her rapier to its scabbard, dipping her head. "Let the execution—"
"WAIT!"
The noise came to an abrupt stop. Storm gasped, shuffling forward and peering into the crowd to see where the shrill exclamation came from. On the platform, Slayen flinched and jerked his head up, crimson eyes growing wide with astonishment. Horror.
Fear.
Someone was pushing through the crowd, and stumbled out right in front of the platform, gripping the wooden edge. It was a young girl who looked to be around thirteen, the same age as Xenor. She was dressed in light, patchwork clothes that told of her poor status, feet covered by scruffy sandals. Her face was smudged with grime and dust, eyes the colour of rubies. But what caught Storm's attention the most was her hair.
It was red. A vibrant, fiery red.
Just like Slayen's.
"Your Highnesses, Advisor Wisenmar, General Flamestar," the girl gasped, her desperation crystal clear on her face. "Please, give my brother another chance."
Shock rippled through the crowd. Storm blinked, unable to believe what he had just heard. "Your brother?" he gasped. He saw that Xenor's brows were raised, intent gaze trained on the flustered girl.
Since when did Slayen have a sister? He had never mentioned her, even during his trial when he had been asked about his family.
"I have no family. They all bit the dust years ago."
Storm remembered, clearly, that that was what the redhead had said. He tried to remember if there were any other instances in which he talked about his sister, reflecting on the events that happened during their first encounter. But nothing came to him. He couldn't remember.
"Minara," Xenor suddenly murmured, giving him a glance. "Slayen's little sister, Minara. That is her."
Storm blinked. How did his brother know that? He couldn't—
Then, finally, he remembered.
"She's my friend too, and Slayen's little sister. Her name is Minara."
Tesarah told him about Minara, during their secret meetings. That was how Xenor came to know of Minara too (he winced at the memory, and ran a shuddery hand through his hair). He recalled the report that was given when they first met Slayen, and remembered there being mentions of a girl presumed to be the redhead's sister as well.
So Slayen did have a little sister. She was called Minara.
But why did Slayen never mention her before?
"Little girl, I believe you do not understand the severity of this event and this criminal's sins," Ash was saying, her brows furrowed together in an austere frown. Minara shook her head, ruby orbs wild with anxiety. She glanced at Slayen, who had his head bowed and gaze on the floor.
"Big brother," she pleaded, "please tell me they're lying. You can't be the killer— you would never do such a thing!"
Ash's eyes flashed, and she snapped her fingers. The guards around the Main Square straightened, hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ready to move in. "During his trial, this criminal blatantly admitted that he was guilty of the assassination of our rulers. I witnessed the murder of Queen Liss with my own two eyes, done by none other than him!" Her voice hitched at the end, and her lips curled into a bitter, remorseful snarl. "Yet you have the audacity to rebel against the decision made by our ministers and even demand for us to give him a second chance? I think not!"
The crowd yelled their agreement, spitting hateful words at Minara. Storm felt pity for the redheaded girl, and watched as she shrank into herself. She was uneasy, he could tell, but her glassy gaze never left Slayen's figure. "B-but you can't kill him!" she shrilled. "You can't kill him! He's my brother! He's the only family I have left, you can't—"
"How dare you say that? What about the princes, who had their beloved parents so cruelly taken away from them? You have no right to say that—"
"NO!" Tears began to spill from Minara's eyes. "He's still my brother! He's still my only family! You can't—"
"She is not my sister!" Slayen cut in— a sudden declaration that immediately silenced the crowd. Minara gaped at him, leaking eyes rounding. "She is not my sister," he repeated again, voice level. He had raised his head, and was looking Minara straight in the eye. "You must be mistaking me for someone else.
"A criminal like me can never be your brother."
And Storm saw the utter disbelieving heartbreak in Minara's eyes as those words echoed around the Main Square. She had gone still. Silent. Even the crowd seemed stunned by Slayen's statement.
"Is this true?" Ash narrowed her eyes, pushing out a fraction of her rapier with her thumb.
"I-I can prove that!" came a young male voice, and a green-haired boy staggered out from the masses. He hurried over to Minara's side and grabbed her wrists, pulling her back from the execution platform. "I'm a friend of hers, General Flamestar. I-I can prove his words." The boy stabbed an accusing finger at Slayen. "Her brother died four years ago. He didn't look so old, and he was shorter. He didn't have those scars on his face. He didn't look so ugly."
A wry smile formed on Slayen's face, even as his dark eyes glared at the daring boy. Minara snapped out of her daze, and was staring at her companion in wide-eyed horror. A sob. "Karza, what are you—?"
"And," the boy, Karza (Storm remembered Tesarah mentioning him too), snapped, "he was my best friend." His voice softened as he gazed at Slayen. "A murderer like him could never be my best friend."
Slayen's face became unreadable. Storm wondered what he was thinking about.
"I'm really sorry for the trouble, ma'am." Karza pulled a blubbering Minara back into the crowd. "She misses her brother. That jerk up there just looks like him, that's all."
"NO!" Minara battered at Karza's arms, trying to wrench out of his grip. "Karza, let me go!"
"Sorry, Min." The green-haired boy wrestled her further back into the crowd. The people parted for them, watching them go. "Your bro's already gone."
Minara continued screaming, shouting, and kicking, reaching out for the redhead on the platform. Slayen turned his gaze back to the floor, his shoulders slumping in a gesture that seemed like relief.
When the screams finally died down, an awkward silence hung over the Main Square. Storm turned to Xenor, rather perturbed by what had just transpired. "Brother, do you think—"
"Merely a cover," his brother said, crossing his arms over his chest. "They collaborated."
"Then should we—"
"No. It's obvious they were desperate. It would be cruel of us to ruin their efforts."
Storm furrowed his brows. He could understand what Xenor was trying to say, but it still bothered him. What if Minara turned out like Slayen, after everything that had happened? Thirsty for revenge, blinded by rage and pain.
"But—"
"No, little brother," Xenor snapped. He tilted his head, green eyes glistening. "Let them be. She had nothing to do with his crimes, after all."
Storm relented with a nod and a sigh, then settled back, even as a tiny part of him wondered when his usually impatient and aggressive brother became so understanding.
Ash cleared her throat then. "Do you have any last words, Slayen?" she asked the redhead. There was no response. Slayen didn't even look at her. "Well then"— she scowled— "let the execution commence!"
The crowd cheered, although it was far less vigorous and bloodthirsty than it was before. Storm watched with bated breath as the executioner stepped up while Ash stepped down, away from the execution platform. The executioner carried the Executioner's Ax— a large, menacing weapon with intricate chains carved into the hilt, the sharp Ultra Titanium metal shining as black as the night.
Heaving it up, the executioner brushed Slayen's hair away from the back of his neck, revealing the tanned skin. Storm saw Slayen tense at the brief contact, but he did not protest nor move.
Justice would soon be served. Bayne and Liss would finally be avenged.
Yet Storm still found no satisfaction in the thought, and he wondered why. He seemed to be wondering about things a lot more often.
Xenor twitched beside him, piercing green eyes watching the process. The crowd had grown silent, waiting. The executioner raised his ax, aiming for Slayen's neck. Storm felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and turned to see Silix, his expression grim and skin pale.
Justice would very soon be served.
The executioner bunched his muscles. The crowd breathed. Storm clenched his fists.
Xenor squared his shoulders, gaze moving to rest on Slayen. "Now," he whispered, in a voice so soft that Storm just barely heard it.
Then the ground trembled.
The air pulsed.
And the world burst into flames.