Young Writers Society

“By the laws of the Varien Isles, you are found guilty.”

Below the balcony where the prosecutor read from, the taller two figures on the stand sobbed. Next to them, their two children stood, tied to the poles just as their parents, pale and wide-eyed, staring at the small crowd that had gathered.

Reiner signalled for the prosecutor to continue.

“Before the Palace of Justice, and the people, you are called to confess.” The prosecutor let that last word cut the air and linger for a few moments.

“Confess and repent for what you’ve done,” Reiner continued, “and your children will be given a future within the Academy.”

One of the parents let out a sob again, but Reiner knew they’d comply. He looked down at the podium, caught the executioner’s eyes, and nodded once.

The executioner, their face wrapped in dark fabric rather than covered by a mask, stepped forward with a lit torch. A gentle touch to the base of the pole, and fire licked against the straw and the wood, making its way towards the tied man. He struggled against the pole and the restraints that held him, as the executioner took the few necessary steps towards the woman. Reiner could hear her breathing all the way up where he stood on the balcony. It meant she’d inhale the smoke in large gulps and die before the fire even touched her — Reiner idly hoped she’d confess before that.

The executioner moved to his right, towards the first child. And, expectedly—

“We confess!” The man yelled it through the sobs, and the woman nodded violently, straining against the restraints as if she wanted to push the executioner further from the two unlit poles. Next to Reiner, the prosecutor sighed.

“That’s five out of five this month,” she whispered to him, almost too quietly to be heard. Reiner gave her a tiny nod in reply. That was good — the heretics’ loyalty to the forbidden arts was starting to waver; a year earlier, he had stood on this same balcony and ordered executions of entire families, and the accused stood proud of their sins as they watched their children burn before them.

“You stand convicted of crimes against the Palace and the Order,” he said loudly, voice cold, eyes on the heretics below. The two adults started yelling again, so he raised his voice against theirs. “Silence. Your confession, you’ve given. Do you repent for your doing, and realise the extent of your crimes?”

“Yes,” the man yelled, and the woman continued, gasping for air and coughing as smoke was all she found: “We— we stole, we stole from the Order and d— defiled the purity of our children’s— souls— please!”

Reiner gave another sharp nod to the executioner, and turned to go back inside. He’d seen his share of executions — he had more important things to do than stay and spectate another one.

Behind his back, as he walked back into the Palace of Justice, he heard the two adults scream as fire devoured their bodies.

Within an hour, Reiner knew, nothing but ashes and a few bones would remain around the sturdy poles of Caern silentwood. The children would remain there to watch until the last of the remains is swept away. It would be their first lesson: what comes to those who practice illegal magics, thus directly opposing the Palace of Justice and the Order it advocates for. And in twenty or so years when they’re about his age, provided they performed well at the Academy, they may yet be standing in Reiner’s place.

*

It was late when he returned home. The Palace, he could see through the western windows of his rooms, was nearly completely dark, apart from the fires. They burned in shallow bowls, one on each of the small terraces that climbed like stairs up the eight stories — he remembered that from his first visit to the Palace. It was before he got the first of his masks, and he had wondered if one could jump from one terrace to the other. Now, he knew that each was accessible from its respective floor — as well as their counterparts on the other side, invisible from where he observed it.

To the left of the Palace of Justice, more fires burned on the rooftop of the Academy. Some of its windows were still lit: the Masters’, in each of the three towers, but also some of the students’. Reiner imagined them in there, those who lived within the Academy, studying and preparing for the next day.

Perhaps I could pay them a visit, he thought. One of the few things he missed, now that he no longer had any business there, was the Academy’s great hall, with its constantly crisp air and impossibly tall ceilings.

He unbuttoned his uniform, shrugged it off and folded it on the dresser, where it would wait for one of the servants to take it to get washed. Then he slipped into his house clothes, completely black and looser than the Captor’s attire, and adjusted his hair in the mirror by the wardrobe. It was windy on his way home from the Palace, and the wind has lured out strands of his hair. He carefully tucked them back where they belonged just as someone knocked on the door.

“Sir?” The young servant girl, whose name he couldn’t bother remembering.

“Yes.”

She peeked in. Her eyes were light green, a sharp contrast against the thin red mask around them. A student at the Academy, maybe three years older than Reiner’s little brother. He still couldn’t remember her name. “Dinner is ready, sir.”

“Good.” Reiner gave one last glance to the mirror, making sure all the strands were in place. The silver markings on his own mask caught the light. “Go, let Brinn know as well. Preferably in a way that doesn’t leave me waiting for him as long as yesterday.”

She nodded and scurried away. Once alone again, he looked out the window towards the palace once more.

Smoke still rose from the courtyard where the heretics burned.

*