The empire gathered to watch me die at noon.
They called me traitor, witch, rebel, liar.
I climbed the scaffold anyway, chin high enough to make the ministers uncomfortable.
The executioner waited beside the block in a black hood and silver gloves.
When he grabbed my wrist, my soulmark burned for the first time in twenty years.
His hand froze.
Slowly, he pulled off one glove.
The same broken star glowed on his palm while the crowd roared for my death.
My executioner leaned close. "Tell me you are worth treason."