Page 17 of Dragon Gods

And now he was standing on the platform with the cold wood of the axe in his hands and the eyes of the entire city on him.

“For the crimes of treason, weapon smuggling, conspiracy to commit mass murder, Pedro Luz, you have been sentenced to execution. We thank the king and his men for stopping you before you could kill those you’d planned, but their grace does not offer you absolution. Do you have any last words?”

The man on the platform in front of Fox didn’t even move to acknowledge the question. He was already kneeling, head hovering just above the block. He knew the man couldn’t have spoken his last words if he had wanted. They had taken his tongue as his last punishment after weeks of refusing to give up information on the resistance and his co-conspirators. Fox had been invited to three of the interrogations and he even made it through one of them without vomiting.

He wasn’t feeling sick now, though, as he saw the man, laid low and pathetic before him.

The chief commander continued, having given the crowd enough time to be frustrated by the other man’s silence. “You should thank the crown for your merciful sentence, but I know how ungrateful youDragonborncan be. May your make-believe gods take you.”

“High Scout Ocon, if you will.”

Fox gave a nod of his head before stepping forward, eyes focused on the man’s back. He could just see a quiver of fear in the man’s muscles beneath his tattered tunic. It made him sneer in disgust. The man’s death would be quick and easy, unlike the dozens of people the resistance planned to kill. Or the thirty men, women, and children that died in a bombing near the work farms just two blinks before. Most of them had suffered—the initial blast only killing a handful—but the horrific injuries took the rest over the next few days. This man might not have been one of those who set the fuse, but the weapons he had had were the same type used in the attack.

The chief commander spoke true that this sentence was merciful in comparison to the crimes. And yet the man cowered from his death.

This is for you, Leon.The words were a whisper in his mind—a prayer sent to the old kings in hopes that Leon might hear them.

Fox lifted the axe, the muscles in his arms tensed under the weight, eyes focused only on the neck stretched out before him.

He didn’t hear the whistle of the axe or the thud of the metal into wood that followed. All he heard was the roar of the crowd gathered before him as the head fell forward, rolling off the platform.

He was glad to see it disappear. He didn’t want to witness the judgment in those dead eyes staring up at him. There was nothing for him to regret. The man had planned to commit mass murder. Yet his stomach roiled all the same and acid burned up his throat. He clenched his jaw and breathed slowly through his nose, pushing away the nausea. There wasn’t room for fear or regret in his world.

He didn’t realize he was staring down at the man’s body, laid still before him, until the large hand landed on his shoulder. The chief commander’s grip was firm and warm.

“Well done, Fox,” he whispered.

Fox’s eyes flickered toward the stands set back behind the platform to where his father stood, looking prouder than he’d ever seen. The tightness that had been constricting his chest for the past week leading up to this execution suddenly released, snapped like a bowstring.

And Fox smiled.

CHAPTEREIGHT

FOX

Fox had lost track of time in the never-ending darkness. His captors fed him, gave him water and took out his bucket every couple of days. It was the politest captivity he could have expected, but it made him wonder all the more what their plan was. There had been a steady stream of rebels, and they were always masked, which he kept reminding himself was a good sign for his odds of survival. Still, it made him uneasy every time he was forced to look into the cold eyes of someone he couldn’t see, save for the barest hint of their mouth and chin. That and those icy, hateful eyes.

What was their plan?

Why was he here?

How long would they leave him in the dark alone?

His hands had been retied shortly after they’d allowed him to change into dry clothes, but they were at least in front of his body now. It still made it difficult to do much more than eat and feel around the small cell, hoping to come across something useful. Other than the cold stone walls and the bucket he didn’t like thinking about, there was nothing. He’d even spent a good few hours scratching at the corner of the room, wondering how long it would take to dig himself out, only to find the dirt gave way to stone a few inches down.

He hadn’t seen the woman who initially lured him in since she’d thrown the clothes at him. Those he had seen were a mix of women and men, their ages varied from what he could decipher.

He mulled over the information he’d be able to bring back to the chief commander upon his escape, trying to ignore the coldness of the ground beneath him and the rock wall behind him. Numbers? Maybe. Locations? Possibly. Plans? Not yet. He was still counting up the different rebels he’d seen when the door gave a squeal. He hadn’t even heard the key in the lock.

The shadow that stalked through the doorway wasn’t holding a lantern. They were a silhouette against the light behind them, tall like many of his male captors. But the curve of their hips and the sway of their walk was plenty familiar. When the small hand wrapped around his throat and thew his head hard against the stone wall, he knew exactly who was crouched over him, face in shadows.

“Fox Ocon,” she spit out, the words wet against his face.

“Nice to see you again,” he said, the pressure on his throat painful, but not overwhelming. Her eyes looked nearly feral in the shadows and her hair stuck up in every direction, curls haphazard in their shape. She looked even more wild than when he’d first captured her. “And your name?”

“You don’t have the power here,” she said, letting go of him and stepping back. He resisted the urge to massage his throat. It would only show weakness. He noticed then that they weren’t alone. The fiery red angel that had saved him from drowning was standing a few feet behind the other woman, a lantern swinging in her outstretched hand.

“Hello, gorgeous lady.” He flashed her a crooked smile over the glaring woman’s shoulder. His red-haloed angel only sneered back at him.

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