NOBODY CRIES FOR TYRANTS
The morning sun bathed Sacremisa's central square in golden hues, a cruel contrast to the horror unfolding below. Elara's crimson armor blazed like living embers, each polished metal plate reflecting light almost painfully. The air reeked—a nauseating blend of fresh blood, rotting fruit in the heat, and the acrid sweat of the gathered mob. The sea wind carried salt that mingled with the rusted guillotine's metallic bite, creating a symphony of horrors that left a bitter taste in Elara's mouth.
Her gloved fingers clenched her sword's hilt tight enough to leave permanent marks in the leather. Each heartbeat thundered in her ears like war drums, nearly drowning out the furious crowd's roar. Elara stood at the eye of this storm, the imposing figure in scarlet armor that all watched with mingled awe and fear.
Ariana was dragged toward the scaffold, her bare feet leaving bloody prints on the wooden steps. The magestone shackles screeched like breaking bones, their anti-magic runes glowing faintly against her raw wrists. The wind tousled what remained of her once-silver hair, now crudely shorn and whitened by despair.
"Look how the mighty empress crawls!" a man spat, hurling rotten fruit that struck Ariana's cheek with a wet smack. Fermented juice dripped down her face like grotesque tears.
A woman with burn scars shook her fists: "Blood for blood!
"Let her burn in hell as she burned our granaries!"
A chill ran down Elara's spine despite her armor's heat. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as Ariana faltered on the scaffold steps. The executioner—a brute whose scarred face mapped a lifetime of violence—wrenched the former empress forward by her slender arms.
"Don't resist, Your Majesty," he sneered, forcing her to kneel before the guillotine. The dark wood, stained by generations of executions, reeked of old blood and terror. Ariana lifted her chin, her rose-pink eyes—once famed for enchanting nations—locked on Elara with an intensity that made the warrior swallow hard.
Then Elara stepped forward, her combat boots echoing across the platform. The crowd fell silent instantly, as if someone had slit their throats. Even the wind seemed to pause."TODAY," her voice cannoned, making her armor plates vibrate, "TYRANNY ENDS!" The sun turned her scarlet armor to liquid fire. "For eight long years, we suffered under this woman's heel. We watched children starve while her feasts lasted weeks! Saw fathers die in mines to feed her greed!"
Rhe square erupted in agreement. Elara raised her fist, light glinting off her commander's bracer.
"But today," she continued, softening her voice to a near-whisper that still carried across the square, "today we plant seeds for a new dawn. Where no child will cry from hunger! Where no man will be whipped over unpaid taxes!"
The crowd roared, but Elara wasn't finished. A gesture silenced them again.
"Let this death warn all tyrants!" She pointed at Ariana, who still knelt, still watched her with those damnably knowing eyes. "The age of oppression dies with her!"
The response shook the earth: "EQUALITY! FRATERNITY! LIBERTY!"
The brown-haired - an important and dangerous ally ally - chose that moment to step forward, his smile sharp as the blade itself. He inclined his head slightly, fingers elegantly laced behind his back as if at a palace ball rather than an execution.
"Last words, Ariana?" His voice dripped poisoned honey. "Any final advice for your subjects? One last lie to tell?"
For a heartbeat, the deposed empress's rose-pink eyes gleamed as they once had. "I was Ariana of Sacremisa," she said, raising her chin despite the chains weighing her down. "First and last empress of this realm." Her cracked lips curved in a ghostly smile. "And you... will all be forgotten."
The executioner pulled the lever.For one terrible instant, the rusted mechanism jammed—a metallic screech that made the crowd hold its breath. Ariana laughed, the sound jagged as broken glass.
"Even your machines know I shouldn't kneel."
The brown-haired ally laughed first—a shrill, black-humored sound. The executioner cursed, hammering the mechanism. With a metallic groan, the blade fell.
The impact shook the entire scaffold. The blade severed with a wet thunk, and blood arced crimson, spattering the revolution's banners hung nearby. Red droplets slid down the fabric like tears, staining freedom's symbols with vengeance's price.
Ariana's head rolled past the basket, spinning until her lifeless eyes fixed on Elara, lips still twisted in that final defiant smirk. Her body remained upright for a breathless moment—refusing to acknowledge its end—before collapsing forward with a sickening thud.
Blood seeped between the scaffold planks, dripping rhythmically like a clock marking an era's end.
"TO THE PYRES WITH HER!" someone shrieked, brandishing a torch. The mob became a sea of contorted faces—some ecstatic, others hollow with relief. Vinegar and cheap beer mixed with iron in the air, creating an intoxicating vapor of liberation.
The masked ally approached. He stopped half a pace from Elara, rigid as a statue. Behind his black leather mask, his rose-pink eyes—so like Ariana's—were fixed on the severed head, pupils blown inhumanly wide.
Elara reached out, almost touching his arm, but hesitated at the last moment. "Are you all right?" she murmured, low enough for only him to hear.
He didn't answer immediately. When he finally moved, it was with a sleepwalker's lethargy. He knelt in the gore, hands visibly trembling as he reached for the silver hairpin that had fallen from Ariana's hair.
Elara crouched beside him, her armor creaking softly. "Leave it," she whispered. "She has nothing left to give you.
"His fingers closed around it with sudden fierceness, clutching it like a lifeline. For a long moment, he remained frozen, the hairpin pressed white-knuckled against his chest.
Elara placed her gloved hand over his, feeling the tremors wracking his body. "It's over," she said, her voice softer than she'd ever used in battle.
When he finally stood, his movements were uncoordinated—nearly stumbling. Elara steadied him with a hand at his elbow for a brief moment. He examined the pin one last time before tucking it inside his coat, over his heart, with near-reverent care.
His whole body shook, but when his eyes met Elara's, she saw more than grief—a dark, profound satisfaction that made her shiver. He gave the barest nod, an almost imperceptible gesture of gratitude, before retreating into the square's shadows.
The wind shifted, bringing clean sea salt to briefly cleanse the stench of death. Elara looked at her gloved hands—clean, yet forever stained.
As the sun blazed on her scarlet armor and the blood now watering revolution's seeds, a terrible truth took root:
This wasn't the end. It was only the first act of a far darker play.