Chapter 30: The Chopping Block

Ronan was forced roughly to his feet by the two hooded men.

Ronan scoffed and asked, “Surely this is some mistake.”

Lord Wallace raised his nose to the air.

“There is no mistake,” he declared, “that from the moment you arrived at the temple, horrific monsters followed with you.”

Maritza headbutted Wallace in his pompous nose, and he recoiled both hands to his face.

“Ronan has nothing to do with the Hellsworn,” she shouted. Wallace’s blood dripped from the edges of her blonde bangs and onto her forehead.

Wallace shuddered, collected himself, then wheezed, “Seize her! Tie her slanderous mouth shut if you need to.”

Ronan wrestled with the hooded figures, but one stuck a scythe to his neck while the other approached Maritza with a bundle of rope.

“You can’t silence me,” Maritza yelled with a scowl. “I’m a Master. I outrank you, Wallace! You’ll be killed for this.”

Ronan’s forearm panged with heat, and he wondered if he might be able to burn the ropes off his wrist.

“Not yet,” The Shroud whispered to him. “Act away from the innocents. Otherwise, they will be dragged into your fight.”

It pained Ronan to watch Maritza wriggle her neck from side to side as the other hooded man tightly secured bushy rope into her mouth, cutting her lips.. But The Shroud had only ever acted in his best interest, and respected the fact that he cared about the lives of others.

Unlike Lord Wallace, who produced a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his navy blue pea coat. He dabbed the blood from his nose and shouted at the citizens of Augustate, “Go about your day, peasants! This is official Nightblade business.”

For a second, the citizens were silent.

Maritza’s muffled voice through the rope chilled the people of Augustate to the bone, and eventually Maritza ran out of breath and even her muffled attempts fell flat.

“We have nowhere to go now,” a woman with short brown hair said. “These are the people that saved us. We need the Nightblades help.”

Wallace’s left eye twitched. He threw his bloody handkerchief in the woman’s face and yelled, “You are to leave immediately, or I will slash your neck wide open and bathe your rat-children in the red waterfall!”

Two little boys and a young girl hugged the legs of the woman. She grabbed the three children and brought them as close as possible to her.

“This isn’t right!” Ronan exclaimed. He moved towards Wallace and the hooded man pressed the scythe harder to Ronan’s neck.

Like a nick from a close shave, Ronan’s throat began to bleed against the scythe as he shouted, “We are supposed to be helping these people!”

Sweat beaded Wallace’s forehead, and a lick of his black hair came undone, sticking upright into the air.

“They’re in this position because of you!” Wallace shouted at Ronan, first pointing a finger at Ronan’s face, then punching him in the jaw.

Ronan’s markings were burning, and he wanted to cast fires all over Wallace.

The Shroud whispered, “Patience. Not yet.”

The doors to the warehouse opened, and a voice called out, “Alright you good people, there’s nothing to see here.”

Ronan squinted and could tell that the man was Habbot, the baker whom Ronan had saved from the Slaug upon first arriving in Augustate.

Habbot waved the people out the door and said, “Ain't much, but we got some lodging in the bakery, if you ain’t got a problem with getting cozy with each other. Plenty of bread too, so we can keep your stomach filled.”

Habbot stood at the door, gesturing the scared civilians out from the warehouse. When the little girl who lost her sandal approached, he stopped her.

“Ay, youngin’,” he said. Habbot took a flour rag out from his apron and wrapped the girl’s foot with it, creating a makeshift shoe. “Somethings better than nothin’ on these rocky streets. Now, if you and the other little ones are sprightly enough to pick some sugar-root from the garden, I don’t see why we couldn’t all whip together some pastries and sweets, eh?”

The children of the group ran over to Habbot and let out a small cheer. He gave a few of them a tussle of the hair, and smiled at the parents, who patted Habbot’s shoulder and offered their gratitude. Before Habbot left, he gave Ronan a small yet serious nod.

Wallace sucked at his teeth and slicked his hair back with both hands.

“Out the back door with them,” Wallace said.

The hooded man holding Maritza kicked an old wooden door off its hinges, and Ronan and Maritza were led down a dirty, abandoned alley.

Wallace walked ahead of them all and said, “Where you’ve gone wrong, little Miss Maritza, is believing that you outrank me.”

A devious smile formed on his face when he said, “After much discussion with The Elders, you’ve been demoted for being an accomplice to a traitor.”

He gave a small, pretentious bow and with a hand pressed to his chest explained, “I, on the other hand, have been given the title of an honorary Elder member of the council, for helping to organize the capture of you mongrels.”

Ronan had heard Wallace blow enough smoke. “Listen Wallace,” Ronan said so sharply that Wallace’s eyes went wide. He quickly regained his arrogant attitude.

“The money from our bounty,” Ronan continued, “must go to these townspeople.” Ronan fumbled in the hooded man’s grasp, and bounced his full coin purse out of his pocket.

“Take this silver, too,” Ronan said, knowing full well that he couldn’t trust a snake like Wallace, but knowing also that he had to try and give aid to those who lost their homes. “Whatever comes of us, do one good thing with your rotten life.”

A white-cloaked figure waltzed out from another side alley. He tugged his hood down, and Ronan saw the raw pink burns beneath a ghost-white half-mask.

“I think I’ll hold onto these,” Alfred said, swiping the coin purse off the ground. “I’m sure I could buy Freya a nice necklace with this sum.”

He got right in Ronan’s face and grinned. “Good to see the traitor bound and no longer a threat.”

Ronan grimaced. “So you’re the one behind this.”

“I’ll take it from here,” Alfred laughed, pushing aside the hooded man holding Ronan. Alfred stuck the tip of a dagger to Ronan’s bare back.

“Just give me a reason to plunge this into your spine,” Alfred whispered.

Maritza made more muffled shouts, and tried to shoulder through the hooded figure’s grasp.

The other man went to strike her in the face, but Ronan belted out, “Hurt her, and I’ll kill you.”

Crows in the sky circled above them, cackling.

“Alright,” Alfred chuckled, leading Ronan and Maritza to the dark and tight alley he had come out from. “Let’s take these two to the prison. Perhaps The Elders will have a feast prepared for us.”

Wallace pulled Ronan by the hair and shoved his head down onto a square stone leftover from a crumbled foundation.

“There’s been a change of plans,” Wallace smirked. A hooded figure handed Wallace a scythe. “It’s been determined that the traitor should be executed.”

Alfred fumbled the coin purse and silver coins scattered at his feet.

“Executed?” he asked. “That wasn’t what we agreed upon.” Alfred was suddenly terrified of the demonic gleam in Lord Wallace's eyes. Alfred was no dealer of death, and for all his resentment towards Ronan, Alfred only wanted to taunt him behind bars, where Ronan would no longer be able to surpass him in his studies of Butterfly magic. All Alfred had desired was the attention of the temple, and to hear the discussions around the temple's hallways revolve around him, not Ronan.

Alfred had thought himself so clever to make this plot to have Ronan arrested, and now his months of preparation and sweet-talking The Elders were being used for something heartless. Alfred knew he was cruel, but he was not without any heart like Wallace.

Wallace stood on Ronan’s back, pressing Ronan’s cheek against the cold, jagged stone.

“Plans have changed,” Wallace smirked. “I’m making an executive decision.”

“Well,” Alfred mumbled, “We should run such a decision by the council.”

Wallace whipped the tip of the scythe over to Alfred’s neck.

“Sir Alfred, Noble of Augustate, are you defending the traitor here?” Wallace asked smugly.

Alfred looked at the sharp blade to his neck, gulped, then shook his head. Alfred had only wanted to embarrass Ronan in the same way Ronan had made Alfred feel so small and humiliated after claiming half his face with fire.

Maritza needed both hooded Nightblades to hold her arms back to contain her from launching at Wallace. Smoke rose from her markings, and for as much she tried to move, the grip of the men was too strong.

“Those are Rank 13s, Miss Maritza,” Wallace laughed. “Just as you turn your body weightless, these two Butterfly Nightblades can make your body weigh as much as a slab of concrete.”

“Get ready,” The Shroud whispered to Ronan. “It’s almost your time to strike.”

“An execution in an alley doesn’t seem right!” Alfred exclaimed.

The thought of a death before his eyes shook him at his core, and he wanted to wretch out the food in his stomach. He wanted away from this filthy alley and its rotten smells and to be back at the luxurious, safe Temple of the Butterfly. So Alfred did what he did best.

“It should be an event for the people!” he lied, trying to buy some time. “You know, something they can cheer for.”

“Oh nonsense,” Wallace scoffed. “I will be the people’s spectacle later, not now.”

He readied the scythe over his head.

“I can only imagine the role bestowed onto me for eliminating the traitor,” Wallace cackled.

Maritza screamed so hard she sobbed as Wallace brought the scythe down towards Ronan’s neck.

Then, Ronan’s forearm started to glow black, and his veins turned dark.

“Now!” The Shroud shouted.