The crowd was quiet, but their whispers between each other felt more like chanting. The guards led Alaesa’s grandfather to the pyre. They tied rope around his waist against the wooden pole.
Kyrt Blackwell stood facing the crowd, with the newly appointed king beside him. He read, loudly, about her grandfather and his crime. Most people remained quiet, their complexions pale as bed sheets, but there were also those who wore smug expressions. Her grandfather had his eyes closed the entire reading. “Gabriel Damon Hall, you stand accused of treachery. How do you respond?”
Her grandfather did not open his mouth at first. The anxious crowd watching remained silent. Alaesa gripped onto the tree branch, clutching her cross bow, as he spoke in another language she never heard of.
She aimed the bow at the guards but knew it wouldn’t work with several of them there. It’d be disastrous. She had only been trained for a year. She trained for a steady hand, but the aim needed work.
It didn’t stop her.
Alaesa kept her eye on target, the man began lighting the pyre underneath. Her grandfather’s stoic face did not change. The man with the torch kept moving. She couldn’t hit him, and one mistake meant it was all over. What am I supposed to do? She thought.
He soon changed his expression, wiggling his body and trying not to scream. No, no, no! She thought. Alaesa aimed the crossbow again, but realized: It was too late, the fire had been lit. She couldn’t risk stop the fire now.
There was one thing she never considered, and it was risky but might be worth trying. She wasn’t sure if the idea would work until she heard her grandfather screaming in pure agony
She closed her eyes, recoiling the arrow back against the crossbow string. The choice her grandfather mentioned she’d have to make… it was time.
As the flames began nearly covering him, she shot the crossbow a few times. The first hit his chest, and the second hit him in the throat. She didn’t know if it worked until he lowered his head and ceased all movement. The crowd gasped, most of them sounding relieved. Kyrt Blackwell, on the other hand, was the opposite of relieved. His face went from pale, to red in all of one minute.
“I demand to know who shot that arrow!” he shouted. But no one gave any names or stepped forward. “If you don’t, I will do something much worse than burn this village to the ground.”
Alaesa made her way through the crowd, a crossbow in her hand. The villagers made a clear path for her. “There is no need for violence,” she said, raising the weapon high for all to see. “It was me who shot him.”
“You?” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Alaesa Menthial.”
“You were the one visiting him yesterday. I ought to slit your throat right now,” Blackwell said, taking out his sharp dagger from his side scabbard, and aiming it at her throat. Alaesa stood there in front of him completely still, her arms trembling, but he lowered it. “I can’t kill a child, at least not directly.” He looked at the other armored guards, who stood at complete attention. “Salt their grounds. Make sure no living thing grows here.”
No! She thought, attempting to call out to him, but one of Kyrt’s guards seized her, pulling her back. She heard shocking gasps arise from people’s mouths, their fiery gazes frowning upon her.
She had made a choice, and there was nothing more she could do.
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