The Weight of What Remains

22nd day of the 6th moon, 1162 HC

Valena doesn't speak. Doesn't even move. Mulsae watches her freeze, shoulders locked, jaw clenched, face gone ashen. She doesn't look at Hanna. Doesn't look at Mulsae. Just stares straight ahead.

But Mulsae knows what this is. He's seen it before. Former Flame Master Sorvak trained his children to recognize futility. To calculate the price of protest before they ever opened their mouths. This silence, this perfect rigid stillness, is not ignorance or indifference. It's survival.

Valena lowers her eyes. Barely. Just enough. And Mulsae sees it: Valena knows exactly what she's done. And she knows it can't be undone.

Garrick doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. That tells Mulsae everything. He has completely surrendered.

Mulsae will take action, though. His mask slips back on. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous. He saunters up the dais with feline grace. He dares lean into Zudaeshi's personal space and run feather-light fingers down her arm.

"Your Radiance," he coos, "She'll be useless to me if she isn't self ambulatory."

"She's not yours anymore," Zudaeshi says coldly, not sparing him a glance.

"You appointed me her handler—"

"I revoke that appointment. She's mine. And I want her to remember why she's mine."

He bends closer to her ear and drops his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, "But haven't we been having fun with her?" he tries.

Her eyes flick up to him. Her face stone cold. His attempt at seduction has utterly failed.

"Leave, Mulsae," she says, dismissing him with a flick of her fingers.

"Your Radiance—"

She turns her face fully towards him with barely contained fury, "You. Are. Dismissed."

Dripping in syrupy sweetness, he says, "What if—"

Violently he's flung, sliding against the floor and colliding with a wall of people, bowling them over like pins. He lies disoriented. He continues to lie there even as the felled people groan and rise. Those nearby help the others stand, but no one offers a hand to Mulsae. He lays there staring at the ceiling paralyzed with grief. He sees the faces of sneers look over at him. He deserves it.

I've failed you, Mulsae sends, I am so sorry. I failed you. He stands shakily and lumbers over to Damion with unsteady feet.

I know you're doing everything you can, Hanna soothes, *I have trust in you.

I don't deserve your trust. I don't deserve your care.* He floods the mental connection. I am a monster. I destroy everything I touch. I destroyed you. I am so sorry. I tried so hard. But I still failed you. He reaches Damion and stops before him and sways on his feet. I'm a failure.

Damion leans in close to Mulsae's ear, voice like an assassin's quiet blade, "Center her, not your grief, you selfish fucking prick."

He stumbles back, eyes wide gawking at Damion. But then he remembers what Damion was trying to tell him yesterday. That rejecting Hanna's gratitude was selfish. It hurt her. Mulsae didn't intend to, but because he was thinking about himself he hurt her.

It hits him like a crack across the face. She was just now comforting him. She is the one hanging from a rig, and she was trying to ease his pain. His wide eyes shift to Hanna. Fuck. He was just making Hanna center her own thoughts around him. He just distracted all of them to focus on him and completely ignore Hanna's needs right now.

He stumbles back again and rubs a hand absent mindedly against his chest. Hanna, what do you need right now? he asks.

Hanna gasps a sob. Damion's head whips towards her. I'm so afraid, she whimpers, I am so so afraid. Her body trembles.

Hanna, Damion sends soft and firm, We're right here. We aren't going anywhere. You aren't alone.

Hanna inhales shakily. I am so thankful for you two right now. I need you. I need you so badly.

Malric leads as servants drag in a heavy executioner's block and a massive axe that takes two small people to carry.

Mulsae and Damion lean toward each other, whispering urgently.

"Any other ideas?"

"No."

"Is this really happening?"

"Can we really not stop it?"

They eye Malric directing the servants to place the block in the cleared space before the dais.

"Anything?!"

"I have no ideas that won't get someone killed."

Malric lowers Hanna from the rig. Her feet touch the floor, but her body doesn't seem to understand how to stand. Her arms are still bound behind her, and the suspension has warped her posture. Her shoulders are locked back, spine unnaturally straight, ribs jutting outward like she's been molded into a mockery of elegance. She trembles as though the air itself hurts. Her head hangs. Her breathing sounds wet.

Malric steps behind her and undoes the bindings. The moment they're gone, her arms collapse forward like dead weight. She nearly folds over. Her hands dangle at her sides, fingers curled inwards, unsure of whether they can uncurl. She tries to roll one shoulder and winces. Her right hand curls protectively toward her chest. Her left drags against her thigh like it no longer belongs to her.

She doesn't speak. Malric steadies her by the elbow. Gestures forward. She doesn't move. Her feet stay planted, eyes locked forward but unseeing. Not defiance, just confusion. Her body doesn't remember how to decide.

Malric tugs gently. She stumbles forward half a step, then freezes again. The crowd watches in silence thick enough to be cruel. He pulls again, firmer. She flinches but follows. The descent is slow. Halting. Mulsae watches her lurch forward in stuttering motions, each one just enough to obey, never enough to escape. She sways like her limbs have forgotten their balance. Her gaze stays loose, unmoored. Her knees lock. Her back braces. Her body's quiet, unconscious resistance. Malric keeps her moving.

Mulsae's hands curl into fists to keep himself from splintering. This is what's left when you lose the gamble. When you try, and it's still not enough. He tells himself it's not over. That something can still be done. If he stays calm. If he thinks fast enough.

Hanna stumbles again. Mulsae inhales slowly. Forces himself to keep watching. She is still alive. But her words ring in his mind like a curse: I need to be able to dance. His breath catches. Survival might not be enough.

Malric gently lowers Hanna onto her back in front of the executioner's block. He bends one leg and pulls her forward so her calf rests across the wood. He works on tying two tourniquets: one above the calf, one below.

I'm so scared, Hanna's voice whimpers in their minds.

Close your eyes, Damion urges. Or look at us. They're at the front of the crowd, close enough for her to see. She turns her head and stares at them. They stare back. Her body shudders.

Mulsae can't stop himself. He has to try again. He marches towards the dais in determination.

"Mulsae, I swear on the Heavens above that if you bother me one more time that I will add Damion's arms to the chopping block." Zudaeshi slowly turns her head to face him with a preternatural calm that snakes fear through his spine. "He has never had a need for his arms." Mulsae stops mid-step.

Don't risk him! Hanna's voice exclaims. He takes a step back, then another. He looks to Hanna mournfully. He turns and regroups with Damion, his heart drags on the floor behind him.

Malric steps back from the block and lifts the massive axe with both hands. "At your command, Your Radiance."

Zudaeshi beams, glowing like a child whose fantasy has come true. "Garrick, you do the honors."

Garrick slams a fist into his thigh. "Zudaeshi! I've told you I will not harm some innocent girl!"

She sneers and lifts her hand into a claw. Gasps erupt from the crowd. It undulates and heaves and vomits Serelinne as she is yanked forward by the throat, dragged by a water rope and flailing into the clearing before the dais. She thrashes. Claws at her neck. Chokes.

"Hurt your lover," Zudaeshi says sweetly, "or murder your best friend's mother. You decide."

"Enough!" Garrick shakes with fury. "Release her! I'll do it!" He slams his fist again.

Serelinne drops, limp and gasping. Brayl appears as if summoned by magic that only someone deeply in love can do, darting from the crowd to kneel beside Serelinne. He helps her up, and the two vanish back into the masses.

Garrick slowly steps down the dais. Malric places the axe in his waiting hands. Garrick breathes slow and deep and steps to Hanna and the block. He positions himself and swings back the axe. He looks at Zudaeshi. She nods. He continues to stare at her.

"Do it," she says, voice like ice.

With a clean, practiced arc, Garrick brings the axe down. It slices clean through Hanna's calf, embedding deep in the block.

Hanna's screams melt the minds of everyone who can hear. It isn't from pain. Mulsae scrambles to recheck the pain block and everything is still active. These screams are from pure, visceral horror.

Her screaming doesn't stop. She can't move her arms to cover her face. Can't shield herself. She just arches backward, head tilted to the ceiling, and bellowing from the pit of her soul.

It's gone! Her wail rips through Mulsae's and Damion's minds as her screams bleed their ears. Mulsae crumples to his knees with a crack. Damion mirrors him a heartbeat later. They both choke on their breaths.

Zudaeshi closes her eyes, rapturous. As if the screaming is a song written just for her. She listens with pure contentment.

She rises. Saunters down the dais. The blood has begun to spray. Each wrack of Hanna's body makes her stump spasm. Blood spatters the floor, and Zudaeshi's dress when she approaches.

She leans in. Blood flecks her cheek. She runs a finger through the crimson smear and licks it off with a smile.

Then frowns. Tilts her head. "Malric," she says, low and sharp, "this better not be too much blood loss for a human."

All around her, no one breathes. Malric straightens. "Your Radiance, I studied after the spit incident. I'm monitoring her volume closely. What you see is within acceptable limits."

"Safe to amputate the other?"

"Yes, Your Radiance."

She steps closer to him, eyes narrowed. "If you've miscalculated and she dies," she gestures to Mulsae, still kneeling and shaking, "I'll let him chew on you until there's nothing left."

Malric flinches. "Understood, Your Radiance."

"Good." She turns, satisfied. "Set up the next leg."

Malric moves with practiced calm. He shifts to Hanna's other side and begins resetting the process. He positions the leg atop the block and applies the tourniquets.

Mulsae watches. He watches every single movement. And he plans. If she dies from this, Malric will not see death. Death would be mercy. No, Mulsae will take him apart so exquisitely that even the crows will pity him. He'll start with the tongue so he can give no more bland reassurances or calculated professionalism. Then the hands, yes, those surgeon's hands, so steady, so useful. He'll bend each finger back until they break, then keep bending until they spiral. Malric will live. He'll live long enough to regret learning anatomy. Long enough to envy the dead.

Hanna doesn't move. She stares up at the ceiling like the world is already gone.

Mulsae wipes his face. He hadn't realized he was crying until the warmth reached his jaw. Stay alive, he begs to himself, Don't you dare go where I can't follow.

Zudaeshi returns to her throne with a satisfied little sigh, her expression soft with delight. "Garrick," she calls sweetly, "go ahead."

He approaches Hanna again. No protests this time. Just slow, bitter compliance. He sets himself into a proper stance. Hanna doesn't look at him. She's staring at nothing.

Zudaeshi nods. The axe swings. A wet crack. Then the thump of severed flesh rolling off onto the floor. Her scream pierces the chamber once again. Shrill, endless.

But her mental-scream is worse. They're gone, she wails, I can't feel them, I can't feel them— I just— somehow I didn't think this would really happen!

My feet, she sobs, my feet are gone... I can't dance... I can't even stand... I can't... I can't...

Her cries surge like a tidal wave through Mulsae and Damion's minds, unstoppable, all-consuming. Damion sways forward, nearly falling to the floor. Mulsae stays upright by sheer force of will, fists balled, teeth grinding. Hanna keens in body and mind, hoarse and broken, and the blood pours.

The healer is summoned with a wave of Zudaeshi's hand, and he descends at once. No dramatics. Just quiet, brisk efficiency.

He kneels beside Hanna's bleeding body, unfurls a kit from his satchel, and begins stitching right there on the blood-slick floor. The thread bites through flesh with practiced rhythm. The smell of raw blood rises with each motion. Her stumps twitch with each tug of the thread. Her mouth hangs open, but no fresh screams come, just garbled whimpers. Her head faces Mulsae and Damion and she stares at them like a lifeline.

Mulsae stares at her from where he still kneels, fists trembling against the floor. Damion hasn't moved at all. He's carved from stone. Breath low, shoulders hunched, eyes glued to Hanna like any shift in focus might abandon her to the dark.

The block and axe are carried away by servants whose faces are carved into placid detachment. More servants follow with wet cloths to clean the blood. They scrub carefully around Hanna's body while the healer continues working, as if she's just another obstacle in the room.

Mulsae rises slowly. His knees don't want to cooperate. His breath comes unsteadily. But he rises.

Malric appears beside him. His voice is quiet. Respectful. "I'm sorry for your loss," he says. "I know you enjoyed her." His gaze stays forward, not daring to meet Mulsae's eyes. "You know I was only following orders. Nothing personal. I respect you deeply."

Mulsae doesn't speak. He looks at Malric the way a lion might look at a butcher. And then he pushes a single pulse into Malric's mind. A single second of Water Sanctum power that lives inside him. An emotion of pure terror.

Malric gasps aloud, stumbling back a step, eyes wide with instinctive, animal fear. "If she dies," Mulsae says softly, "you will learn what fear really is."

Malric nods quickly. "She won't. I promise. I'll see to her personally." He turns and rushes back to the healer and Hanna.

The stitching is done. The stumps are bandaged in thick wrappings, already soaked pink at the center. Malric bends, takes up the severed feet, and lashes them to her knees with leather cords, one on each side, so they dangle like puppet limbs. There is no magic in the binding. This is just crude, degrading theater.

The servants lift Hanna's body. She doesn't resist. She doesn't aid them. She's as limp as wet laundry, trembling in their arms, breaths stuttering out in ragged, high-pitched gasps.

They bind her wrists behind her again. Hoist her back up on the rig. Let her hang, dangling in front of Garrick. Her weight drags on every tendon, every ligament, and she sobs as her shoulders grind in their sockets. There is no elegance now. No symmetry in her form. Her head hangs, mouth open in soft, unending cries. Her severed legs sway slightly. The bandaged stumps drip.

Mulsae does not look away. This is what survival looks like now. Hanging like meat. And it is his fault.