Chapter 63

⸻

The Morning of Judgment

Lyra sat in her cell, her wrists chained and her white gown torn and blood-stained from the night before. The iron door creaked open, and the royal guards entered in grim silence. Their armor gleamed dully in the half-light, their faces hidden beneath metal masks.

“By the order of His Majesty, King Zerach of Zareth,” one of them declared, “you are to be brought to the City Square to face judgment.”

She said nothing. Her eyes, once warm and golden, were dull with exhaustion and sorrow. As they dragged her from the cell, her bare feet scraped the cold stone floor, leaving faint trails of blood.

Outside, the city was already awake. Drums beat slowly in the distance. The sky was filled with dark clouds that swallowed the sun. A long line of soldiers marched ahead, clearing the path, while the townspeople gathered in thousands to witness what would soon become legend — the public persecution of the cursed girl who had bewitched the prince.

Lyra walked through the crowd with her head bowed. Children hid behind their mothers. Men whispered prayers.

From the high palace balcony, King Zerach watched as his men escorted her away. His hands clenched the railing until his knuckles turned white.

He whispered under his breath, “Forgive me, my son. Forgive me, gods. For I do what must be done.”

⸻

The Prince’s Defiance

In the upper wing of the palace, Prince Lucien struggled violently as two guards tried to restrain him.

“Let me go!” he shouted, slamming his elbow into one guard’s chest. He grabbed a sword from the rack and swung it in a wide arc, forcing the others to step back. His eyes blazed, his heart pounding with fury.

“She’s innocent! You’re killing an innocent girl!”

The guards moved in again, surrounding him. Lucien fought like a beast — disarming one, knocking another to the ground. His sword clashed against theirs, sparks flying with every strike. For a moment, he almost broke through — but there were too many.

They overwhelmed him, dragging him down, his arms pinned behind his back.

“Release me!” he shouted, thrashing wildly. “I am your prince!”

But even princes could be silenced. One guard struck him hard in the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He collapsed to the ground, blood at the corner of his lips.

When he looked up, his father stood in the doorway.

“Father, please,” Lucien begged, his voice raw. “Don’t do this.”

King Zerach’s expression was unreadable. “Take him to his chambers,” he ordered quietly. “And post twelve guards at his door. If he leaves, chain him.”

Lucien’s heart shattered as he was dragged away. He could hear the faint echo of the city drums — the drums of execution.

He screamed until his throat burned, “Father! Don’t kill her! Please!”

But his words vanished into the walls of the palace like smoke.

⸻

The City Square

By the time Lyra reached the square, thousands had gathered. The air was thick with tension and fear.

A wooden platform had been built at the center — tall, stark, and crowned by a black banner. Upon it stood the executioner, his axe gleaming beneath the faint sunlight.

Lyra was pushed to her knees and tied to the post. Her hair fell over her face, the wind brushing it softly aside.

Then the King appeared.

He stepped up onto the platform, his crimson robe trailing behind him, his crown glinting coldly in the light. His face was carved from stone — emotionless, unflinching.

When he raised his hand, silence fell across the crowd.

“My people,” his voice boomed, deep and weary. “You have gathered here today not to celebrate victory, but to protect peace. This girl — this cursed child — carries the blood of the forbidden. In her veins lies power older than the gods, darker than night. You saw it with your own eyes. You saw the men burned alive, the fire that obeyed her call.”

He paused, looking down at Lyra. “I loved her as one of my own. But a king must love his people more than his heart. For if she lives, thousands will die. If she dies, perhaps our world can heal.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

King Zerach turned to the executioner and gave the order with a heavy voice. “Do it swiftly.”

The executioner raised his axe. The blade gleamed like ice.

Lyra closed her eyes, whispering a prayer she barely remembered.

⸻

The Voice That Stopped the Blade

“Please!”

The cry split the air — desperate, trembling.

Everyone turned.

A woman was running toward the stage, her cloak flying behind her — Mira. Her hair was loose, her face pale and wet with tears.

“Please, don’t kill her!” she screamed. “I beg of you!”

The guards tried to stop her, but she broke free, throwing herself before the king.

“Mira,” Zerach said coldly. “Step aside. This is not your place.”

Her voice cracked. “You don’t understand! She’s your daughter!”

The crowd gasped.

Even the executioner froze, his axe midair.

Zerach blinked, stunned. “What did you say?”

Tears streamed down Mira’s face. “It’s true,” she sobbed. “Lyra is your daughter — and Lucien’s twin sister.”

A wave of shock tore through the square. People whispered, eyes darting between the king, the prince’s tower, and the trembling woman before them.

Mira fell to her knees, clutching the edge of the platform. “Seventeen years ago, Queen Daphne and I made a terrible mistake. The prophecy of the forbidden twins — it was about them. To protect them, we separated them at birth. I took Lyra away and swore never to return. But fate brought them together again.”

Her voice broke. “Please, my king, please forgive me. Don’t punish the children for our sins.”

Zerach’s face was pale, his eyes wide with disbelief. “My… daughter?”

He stepped back, his mind reeling. The pieces fell together — the shared mark, the dreams, the bond between them. He covered his face with his hand, whispering, “No… gods, no…”

The crowd erupted into shouts — confusion, fear, outrage.

Then a deep voice rose from the back.

“She must die!”

The crowd turned toward the speaker — an old priest, draped in black robes, his eyes glowing faintly white. “It matters not who she is. She bears the mark of ruin. The prophecy demands blood. Kill her, or the world burns.”

The people began to chant — “Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!”

The King tried to calm them. “Go home!” he shouted. “I will settle this privately!”

But the crowd only grew louder, the chant echoing like thunder.

Lyra lifted her tear-stained face and looked toward the palace — as if searching for one last glimpse of him.

And as if in answer, the great doors of the royal balcony burst open.

⸻

The Prince’s Plea

Lucien appeared, breathless, his clothes torn from struggle.

He had escaped.

He ran through the crowd, shoving soldiers aside until he reached the platform. “Stop!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the noise.

The people fell silent.

He turned to face them, his eyes wild, desperate. “Please — she’s innocent! She didn’t choose this curse! She’s my sister… my blood!”

The crowd murmured, uncertain now.

“She saved my life,” he continued, his voice trembling. “She taught me what it means to love beyond the crown, beyond pride. If she dies, what justice is there in that?”

A voice shouted back, “She’s a monster!”

“She’s not!” Lucien’s voice cracked. “If she is a monster, then so am I!”

The King’s eyes widened. “Lucien, no—”

But the prince turned to the crowd, his hands trembling as he began to unbutton his shirt.

“I am one of them,” he said quietly. “One of the forbidden.”

Gasps filled the air. He turned, pulling his shirt aside to reveal the same glowing mark burned into his back — identical to Lyra’s.

The people recoiled, fear and disbelief washing over them.

King Zerach stepped forward, trying to speak over the murmurs. “He’s lying! He’s confused!”

But Lucien’s voice cut through like lightning. “You can’t hide it anymore, Father.”

He looked at Lyra, his eyes soft. “It seems fate made fools of us both, sister.”

The guards began to move forward, but Lucien drew his sword. “Stay back!”

He climbed the steps to where Lyra knelt, the crowd silent now — the air heavy, electric.

He stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I told you I’d protect you,” he whispered.

She turned her head slightly, tears glistening on her cheeks. “Lucien… please don’t—”

He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that breaks hearts.

“Maybe this is the only way we can be free.”

Then, facing the crowd, he lifted his voice one last time — steady, strong.

“If our blood is cursed, then let it cleanse itself. If death is our destiny, let it take us together. Let the prophecy end here — with us.”

And before anyone could move, he turned the sword toward himself, pressing the tip against his stomach.

Lyra gasped, shaking her head. “No, Lucien, please—”

He leaned close, his lips brushing her ear. “You’ll never be alone again.”

Then, with one swift motion, he drove the blade through his chest — and into hers.

The sound was deafening.

The crowd screamed as blood blossomed across their white clothes. Their bodies fell together, collapsing to the floor — his arm still wrapped protectively around her.

The world seemed to stop.

The sky darkened.

The wind howled through the square as if the gods themselves cried out.

The King fell to his knees beside their bodies, his crown clattering to the ground. “My children…” he whispered. “What have I done?”

Mira dropped beside him, clutching both of them in her arms, her cries echoing through the city.

The priest raised his trembling hands to the sky. “The prophecy is fulfilled,” he murmured. “The forbidden are no more.”

But far above, the clouds swirled red and gold, forming two streaks of light — one bright, one dark — twining together as they rose toward the heavens.

And those who looked up swore they saw two spirits holding hands, vanishing into the sun.