As much as I couldn't bear much respect for the Regent, Edgar Braven, I also couldn't deny he knew how to put on a show.

  Not that I could see it; I was in a prison cell with a window too high for me to look out of, stuck listening to a pair of idiots on either side of me discuss gods know what. The guard for our cell block tried telling them to shut up but quickly realized the futility and stuffed cotton in his ears, instead.

  The only bit of the execution proceedings I got to see was a parade of guards passing by my cell, Drifter in the middle of them. We locked eyes: I was very concerned, he was very amused by my predicament, and he was seemingly unconcerned about his own.

  The guards had pulled Drifter from his cell early in the morning and brought him to a Septemvirate chaplain for purification. As a midlander, I was often at a loss when encountering worship directed at the whole Septemvirate. The goddess of war, Arestria, had died a full millenium earlier. Most of the gods had fought each other at one point or another. I had seen Dyalis in my youth, even. They were distinct entities, hardly worthy of worship on their own but as a group even less so.

  Even then, they were all dead, now. It was all pointless, a formality leftover from when the gods still lived and could still be called upon. But the chaplain gave his speech anyways.

  "May the virtues of the Seven flow through and purify your sins. May Grima take your sin unto her waste; Ferom forge your sin into honour; Erasmus justify your sin with his wisdom; Dyalis subsume your sin among his own; Callous find that your sins mean nothing; Brodyn remember that your sins are not all you are; and may Arestria carve the sins from your flesh. Together, the Septemvirate have the capacity to forgive your transgressions, and so we will send you to their realm this day. may their will be your salvation. As the gods say."

  Drifter was then doused in water, given a coin, had his crimes recounted by a barrister, had his name recorded by the chaplain, and had his thumb cut open to offer a few drops of blood on the altar. It was a lazy version of an old ritual actually intending to purify the transgressor by passing the gauntlet of the gods' domains, but modern-day Beorne cared little. It simply made them feel less guilty, somehow.

  The next part of the purification appeared to be a cleaning, where Drifter was dragged into a washing room, stripped, scrubbed, dried, and re-clothed with a loose grey tunic, burlap pants, and oversized clogs. He did not cut a flattering image, although it was improved slightly when he kicked off the clogs and went barefoot. No one cared to stop him.

  From there he was brought to a dining hall in the castle. He was seated at the head of a long table and was served some leftovers from the Regent's meal the night before. It appeared to be a gesture of mercy, or pity, or something of that ilk, but had been stripped down nearly to the point of insult. "Should a criminal expect such fantastic food as is served to a noble?" It was a sentiment I saw often among the upper classes and it was never shared among others. The reheated vachon roast, pureed potatoes, fried fish, and vegetable soup was later rated as "alright" by Drifter.

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  After his last meal, Drifter was brought before his advocate, Adam Gentry, and asked to record his last will. "No need. I have nothing to give." It was a short meeting.

  Finally Drifter was brought to the execution platform. Adam followed along, insisting that even if he was unable to do much, he was at least obligated to see his client's end. The castle chaplain was on the platform alongside the executioner, Darion Guile, who appeared sheepish as a result of trying to hide his excitement; he was about to swing the two-foot-long axe head at the end of a seven-foot-long pole, something not done in Beorne in fifty years. His girth clearly hid impressive muscles to swing such a weapon.

  It was a large crowd - it was the first execution in some time, after all - but a quieter crowd than expected. The people seemed to recognize that the death of a man was a solemn event, and they watched with a surprising amount of respect. In the front, behind a thin curtain to block any blood splatters, was the Regent and his wife. In the rear, finding themselves with less business than expected, were local food stalls and souvenir stands who were expecting more of a festival atmosphere.

  Drifter was pushed to his knees over a block of wood, then chained and strapped to the platform to hold him in place. While this was happening the chaplain read out more northern scriptures of the Septemvirate, mostly the ones related to justice, punishment, redemption, and so on. The purification, it seemed, was such a pointless formality they decided to publicly treat it as if it hadn't happened.

  All that Drifter could see was the gathered crowd, and only by straining his eyes as far up as they would go. Lord Edgar met Drifter's eyes, neither seeming particularly thrilled. The whole affair was a miscarriage of justice done to put an older injustice to rest, and no one who knew that would be satisfied by it.

  The executioner stepped toward the crowd. "I stand before you with the orders to execute this man, Henry Noman, for the murder of the previous Regent, the late Edgar Braven the First; the assassination of the previous Regent, the late Edgar Braven the First; treason against the crown of Beornia, held in trust by the Regent Edgar Braven the Second; treason against the people of Beornia, as determined by..."

  The laundry list of charges, in full, would take me an inordinate amount of time to record, but suffice to say they were numerous, they were all false, and I hear the crowd was starting to disperse by the end of it because people did still need to get on with their lives despite the event. The plus side, I suppose, is that Guile spoke at a loud enough volume that I could just hear it through my window.

  Knowing that I was close enough to hear the executioner's speech, I assumed I would also hear cheers when Drifter was executed, but those never came.

  Darion Guile hefted his axe to his shoulder and walked beside Drifter. He asked "any last words?" to which Drifter replied "no."

  Guile braced himself, twisting slightly to hold the axe behind him, then brought it up and over and down with all the force he could muster alongside the help of gravity. The axe head caught the light at just the right angle to show the whole crowd a literal flash of steel drive toward Drifter's neck.

  The axe made contact. The shaft flexed, then splintered, then shattered as the axe head rebounded into the air and landed a few feet away.

  The silence of the crowd made it all the more obvious when Drifter stood up. The strain of leather snapping and chains breaking echoed through the square. Drifter did not speak loudly, but it was still easily heard by everyone present, even reaching my prison cell and drawing the guard and my criminal companions over to listen.

  "Let me tell you the story of Henry Noman."