Chapter 36 · Price of the Break

"Keep your head still, heretic."

The executioner’s hand slammed onto my neck, pinning me to the rough wood of the chopping block. Cold grain bit into my skin. It was nothing compared to the ice in Viviane’s eyes.

I looked up. She stood there in full Inquisitor regalia—white and gold gleaming under a brutal sun. She looked perfect. Like she’d never spent a thousand loops bleeding out in my arms. Like she’d never promised to find me in the dark.

"Do you have a final prayer?" she asked.

Her voice was a blade. Clean. Sharp. Zero warmth.

I let out a jagged laugh that scraped my throat. "I’ve got a few. You want to hear them, or are you just here to watch the blood spray?"

Viviane stiffened. Her gloved hand tightened on her sword hilt. She leaned in, her face inches from mine. I could smell ozone and incense. For a second, the mask cracked. I saw it—a flicker of something raw.

"Your tongue is as foul as your magic," she whispered.

Her eyes dropped. She saw the scars on my wrists. Not the chain marks, but the jagged, silver lines from the pact.