The crowd had thickened since he'd circled away.

Gabriel worked his way back through the press of bodies, positioning himself where he'd stood before, fifty paces from the scaffold, close enough to see, far enough to remain unremarkable among the gathered mass.

The sun had climbed higher. The bells would ring soon.

Around him, the atmosphere had shifted. Conversations had grown louder.

Someone laughed. A vendor called out, hawking meat pies. Children darted between adults, playing games that had nothing to do with the scaffold at the square's centre.

The execution had become entertainment.

Gabriel's eyes moved to the platform.

The woman was still there, kneeling on the ground inside the perimeter of guards, but something was different. A hood covered her head now, dark fabric that hung to her shoulders. Her posture had collapsed inward, shoulders hunched, head bowed low enough that her chin nearly touched her chest.

Two guards stood directly behind her. Another four formed a loose circle. White cloaks shifted in the morning breeze.

He watched for movement, some indication of awareness. The woman didn't stir.

The crowd pressed closer around him. Bodies jostled for better positions. Someone complained about the view. Another person adjusted a child on their shoulders.

Gabriel's attention remained fixed on the hooded figure.

She didn't move, not when a guard shifted position nearby, not when the crowd's noise swelled, not when a vendor's cart rattled past at the square's edge, loud enough to turn heads.

Still. Completely still.

A guard near the woman gestured to another. They moved toward her. One knelt beside her and pulled the hood back.

The distance made details difficult, but not impossible.

Where her eyes should have been, there were only dark hollows, empty sockets that didn't track movement or light. Her face tilted slightly as the guard stepped away, but the motion was directionless, searching for something that was no longer there.

Gabriel's breath caught.

His knees locked.

A sound cut through the crowd's noise, raw and muffled, not quite human anymore.

The woman's mouth opened, and the scream that emerged was thick, choked, the kind that came when the tongue couldn't shape it properly.

When there was no tongue left to shape it.

Her hands were bound in front of her, but the rope wasn't the only thing wrapped around them. Cloth had been tied at the ends, crude bandaging that had soaked through. Dark stains marked where blood had dried, then seeped fresh again.

The cloth ended too soon.

Where fingers should have extended past the wrappings, there was nothing.

His vision narrowed.

The woman's arms were visible below the torn sleeves of her dress. The skin showed wounds that hadn't come from rope or shackles, uneven and irregular, flesh removed in sections that served no purpose except answer extraction.

Or example.

The guard who'd removed the hood stepped back. The woman's head lolled forward again, unsupported.

This is why I should have killed her.

The thought arrived complete and certain, not rationalisation, not excuse, simple truth.

His face remained still.

He had known this would happen, had stood in rooms where the Church talked about these executions.

Where lessons were on applying to witnesses and suspects, the same methodical care in maintaining equipment.

Death would have ended it in that alley.

Her being taken had prolonged it.

He hadn't spared her. He had delayed her suffering and made it worse.

The crowd's noise continued.

Life proceeded as it always did around scheduled death.

Gabriel's hands hung at his sides. His breathing had steadied. The physical reaction was passing, leaving only observation.

And certainty.

Movement at the platform's far side drew his attention.

A figure emerged from between two church buildings, walking toward the scaffold with measured steps.

White armour caught the sunlight. White robes shifted with each stride. Silver hair marked him even at a distance.

The guards straightened as he approached. Paladins among them offered salutes that were returned with silence.

Lucius mounted the platform steps without hurry.

His sword hung at his side, pristine and ornamental, the kind of blade that stayed sheathed during executions.

He moved to the centre of the platform, positioning himself near the crossbeam, near the rope that hung waiting.

The crowd's noise ended instantly . People noticed. The presence of His Holiness at an execution meant something, meant the Church was watching, meant the message would be delivered personally.

Two guards moved toward the woman. They hauled her upright, her legs barely supporting her weight. She made no sound now, no resistance. They half-carried, half-dragged her toward the scaffold steps.

Gabriel's focus remained on her, not on Lucius, not on the other guards, not on the crowd, but on the figure being led up the steps, stumbling on wood she couldn't see.

The guards positioned her beneath the crossbeam. One held her upright while the other reached for the noose. From this angle, closer now, Gabriel could see more clearly.

The way her ruined hands hung limp in their bindings, the dried blood that marked her face and neck, the empty sockets that stared at nothing.

The noose settled around her neck.

The guard adjusted it, checked the knot with efficiency.

Gabriel's feet moved before a conscious decision was made.

Not running, not drawing attention, but forward, pushing through the crowd with steady pressure. Bodies gave way, annoyed but not alarmed. Just another person trying to get closer.

Forty paces.

Thirty-five.

The guards hadn't noticed him yet. The crowd was too thick, too many bodies pressing in the same direction.

Thirty paces.

The woman swayed slightly beneath the crossbeam. The guards had stepped back. Only the rope held her now, slack but ready.

A hand closed on his arm, firm and deliberate, not aggressive, but impossible to ignore.

Gabriel's movement stopped. His head turned.

The crowd's roar built suddenly, a collective cheer that started at the platform and rippled outward, voices lifting in approval and celebration.

The lever.

He knew the sound before he heard it: the mechanism releasing, wood striking wood, rope going taut.

The cheer swelled.

Gabriel didn't look toward the scaffold.

His eyes remained on the person who had stopped him.

The crowd continued its celebration around them both.

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