He lay there.
The cell was colder than death, but Cain had already made peace with dying.
The stone beneath him was slick with blood — his blood — dripping from wounds no one had bandaged. His arms wouldn't move. His back pulsed like a torn drum, each heartbeat sending a fresh wave of pain through his spine.
He couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep anymore.
Not that it mattered.
Dawn was coming.
And when it did, he wouldn't be here to see the next one.
⸻
He didn't think.
Didn't speak.
There was nothing left to say. No prayers to whisper. No names to remember.
The villagers had been right.
His mother had been right.
Everyone had always known — deep down — that he wasn't meant to live.
"Guess I really was just a mistake."
"Maybe the world's been trying to kill me since the start... and I just kept getting in the way."
He closed his eyes.
Tried to sleep.
But sleep didn't want him either.
⸻
At some point — hours in, or maybe minutes — a guard passed the bars, stopped, and squinted.
"Why the hell's he still breathing?"
Another guard leaned over, unimpressed.
"Bleeding like a pig for six hours. Should've been gone by now."
The first one clicked his tongue.
"Eh. Doesn't matter.
Let him rot — he's dead by morning anyway."
They walked away laughing.
Cain didn't move.
He just breathed, slow, shallow.
And no one — not even he — knew why that breath hadn't stopped yet.
⸻
☀️ Dawn.
They dragged him through the dirt like an empty sack of bones.
Chains around his arms.
Neck collar digging into skin already torn.
Clothes soaked in blood that didn't look red anymore.
He didn't scream.
Didn't fight.
What was the point?
⸻
The execution square was full.
Dozens... maybe hundreds.
People standing on crates, leaning from balconies. Children on shoulders. Vendors selling meat skewers like it was a festival.
And in the center — a platform.
Wooden. Stained.
With three figures in white armor waiting at the top.
The Royal Knights.
Cain was dragged to the post, bound upright, arms chained above his head, body limp, blood dripping into the cracks of the platform beneath him.
The crowd laughed.
Whistled.
Mocked.
"That's the one?"
"Pff. Thought he'd be taller."
"Bet he pisses himself before it starts."
⸻
Then he saw her.
The girl.
In the crowd.
Tears on her cheeks.
Eyes locked on him.
She was shaking.
Mouthing something he couldn't hear.
He didn't need to.
He understood.
And for the first time since this nightmare began...
Cain smiled.
Barely.
Just a crack in dried lips.
But it was real.
A broken, tired, final smile — meant only for her.
⸻
One of the knights saw it.
CRACK.
A boot slammed into Cain's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.
"Rotten bastard," the knight spat.
"Smiling on the day of your doom. How twisted can a man be?"
Cain coughed blood onto the platform.
Still didn't speak.
⸻
Then came the voice of the Royal Commander, his words amplified by spellcraft, echoing across the square like theater.
"People of Elvoreth!
Are we ready to pass judgment on this rebel filth?!"
The crowd roared.
Laughed.
Cheered.
"He broke the rules.
He betrayed your trust.
And what do we do when they break the rules, my friends?"
"WE BURN THEM!" the crowd screamed.
"Ah," the commander grinned. "Well, perhaps he can remember that advice... in the next life."
Laughter again.
Cheers.
No pity.
⸻
The commander raised his hand.
"White Knights —
Let's teach this corpse how light feels when it cleanses sin."
⸻
🩸 The Execution
The first knight stepped forward.
"Divine Flame: Blessing of Purity."
His hand glowed white.
Not warm light — searing.
He placed it on Cain's chest — and Cain screamed as his organs began to burn from the inside out.
Not fire. Not smoke.
Just pain.
His bones lit up beneath his skin.
His eyes rolled back.
His throat tore from the sound.
Still — he didn't die.
⸻
The second knight approached.
No words.
Just a flash of silver light.
He drew a blade made of radiant magic — and in one clean stroke, cut off Cain's arms at the shoulders.
Blood sprayed.
The girl screamed.
Cain collapsed forward, caught only by the chains.
⸻
The third knight followed.
No hesitation.
A blade of light to both legs — severed below the knee.
Cain slumped.
A dying mass of blood, flesh, bone, and silence.
And yet... he was still breathing.
⸻
"A job well done, my knights!" the commander announced proudly.
"Did you enjoy the show, Elvoreth?!"
"YES!" they cheered.
Some threw flowers. Others laughed.
Children clapped.
The girl stood frozen.
Broken.
Alone.
⸻
The commander waved two workers over.
"Get this filth off my stage.
Toss what's left into the sewage canal.
Let the rats decide what's left of him."
Cain's head hung forward.
Blood dripped from his mouth like ink from a dying pen.
He didn't speak.
Didn't scream.