“What is that?” Roland asked, peering out the carriage window.

  A crowd had gathered near the plaza, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, roaring loud enough to shake the air. Dozens shouted, fists raised high, all eyes fixed on the black-draped podium at the center.

  “It’s nothing important, my Prince,” Flora said gently, her voice soft and quick, almost pleading.

  “It’s a public execution,” Carmilla said flatly, cutting her off. “Usually these are done behind closed doors. Whoever’s on trial… their crime must be severe.”

  Roland frowned but said nothing, a faint unease gnawing at his chest.

  Leon, leaning lazily against the carriage wall, tilted his head toward him. “Want to see the spectacle, Your Highness?”

  Flora’s sharp glare could’ve cut stone, but Leon just shrugged.

  Roland hesitated, fingers curling in his lap. A part of him wanted to ignore it, to stay inside the carriage where it was quiet, simple, safe. But another part — stronger, sharper — remembered a promise whispered long ago in a dim hospital room: See the world for me.

  “…Sure,” he said finally, forcing his voice to steady.

  Flora lowered her gaze, silent disapproval shadowing her features. Carmilla’s crimson eyes flickered toward her briefly before turning to Roland. Then, she smirked faintly.

  “Fortune favors the bold,” she murmured. “But we won’t arrive as ourselves. We’ll need cloaks.”

  ***

  The roar of the crowd grew deafening as they pushed into the packed mass of bodies, cloaks shimmering faintly with concealment magic. The heat of so many bodies pressed close together, mixing sweat, smoke, and damp stone until the air felt thick enough to choke.

  “Kill him!”

  “Make him scream!”

  “Don’t let it be quick!”

  Roland adjusted his hood and followed Carmilla, weaving carefully through the mob. Leon tapped his collar with a sly grin. “Sigil item,” he whispered proudly. “Masks us from recognition. Costs more than some estates. Don’t scratch it.”

  Roland didn’t answer. His focus was on the podium, where a golden chalice rested atop a black-draped pedestal. The liquid inside glimmered faintly green, bubbling softly like it was alive.

  “Poison,” Carmilla said before he could ask. “It dissolves both flesh and bone.”

  Roland swallowed. “…Fast?”

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  Flora hesitated, lowering her voice. “No, my Prince. It was designed to ensure the condemned cannot rise again as undead. For resilient bodies, the process is… slow.”

  Leon shivered briefly, and then opened his mouth to comment. “A drop went in my mouth once. Not a pleasant—"

  “Quiet,” Carmilla said, and the single word made him stop instantly. “It’s starting.”

  ***

  The herald stepped forward, unrolling a crimson scroll. His voice thundered above the crowd.

  “By the laws of Inferna, the accused is sentenced to death for the crime of harboring undead within the capital.”

  Roland frowned beneath his hood. “Undead? Inside the city?”

  Leon leaned close, whispering: “Huge offense. Anyone who hides undead risks killing and infecting the populace. One loose corpse and this entire place could be crawling with the risen. Hiding even a single one is a death sentence.”

  The guards dragged the condemned onto the podium.

  Roland’s breath caught.

  It wasn’t some hardened criminal.

  It was a boy.

  Ten, maybe eleven. His frame was thin, wrists swallowed by iron cuffs too big for him, clothes stiff with dried blood and grime.

  The crowd erupted, spitting curses and jeers:

  “Monster!”

  “Plague-bringer!”

  “Feed him to the wastes!”

  The herald raised his voice again. “This boy concealed two undead within his home — his own parents, already risen and rotting — rather than reporting them to the guards!”

  Roland stared, wide-eyed. His parents?

  The boy’s head was bowed, shoulders trembling.

  Flora placed a gentle hand on Roland’s arm. “My Prince… please. Don’t involve yourself.”

  Roland’s throat felt dry. “He’s just a kid.”

  Carmilla’s voice came soft, smooth, measured. “A child who endangered thousands. Do not interfere.”

  Roland tore his gaze from her, fixing it on the boy again. He was small, shaking, his lips moving soundlessly — a prayer, maybe, or just panic.

  And then Roland imagined himself in the boy’s place, watching Flora dragged away, powerless to stop it.

  His hands curled into fists.

  ***

  The guards forced the chalice into the boy’s hands.

  “STOP!”

  The word ripped from Roland’s throat, sharp and commanding.

  The crowd gasped as Roland stepped forward, throwing back his hood. The shimmer of concealment faded, revealing ashen white hair, pale skin, and the embroidered crest of the royal family glinting beneath his cloak.

  The plaza fell silent.

  “By my name,” Roland shouted, chest heaving, “I, Prince Roland of Inferna, order this execution halted!”

  Flora’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide — and for the briefest moment, Roland saw it: the smallest, proudest smile tugging at her lips.

  The herald hesitated, stammering. “Y-Your Highness, this is a law that must always be enforced! To override it—”

  “I SAID STOP!” Roland barked, louder this time. His voice cracked but carried over the hush. “He’s a child! He didn’t choose this — he just couldn’t kill his parents!”

  “Roland.”

  The voice was soft.

  Roland froze.

  Carmilla stood a few paces behind him, her hood shadowing most of her face, but her crimson eyes burned like distant stars — cold, endless, and unblinking.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t shout. Didn’t scold.

  She simply stared.

  And in that silence, Roland understood two things:

  First — he had just humiliated her, in public, undermining Inferna’s laws before hundreds of witnesses.

  Second — Carmilla never forgot a slight.

  The silence stretched until it felt suffocating. Then, slowly, Carmilla smiled.

  It wasn’t kind. It wasn’t forgiving.

  It was the smile of someone recalculating, rearranging, deciding what came next.

  ***

  The crowd erupted into confused murmurs. Guards shifted uneasily, torn between conflicting orders.

  Flora’s hand trembled where it rested against her chest, her smile already fading. Leon said nothing, his jaw tight, watching Carmilla like a man tracking a predator.

  Carmilla stepped past Roland without looking at him, her cloak brushing against his boots as she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear:

  “…Come home, little brother.”

  Roland shivered.

  She didn’t need to threaten him.

  That quiet promise was worse.