The executioner's voice echoed across the square.
The words hung in the air.
The Saintess did not answer.
She did not bow her head.
She did not tremble.
She did not plead.
She simply lifted her gaze past the executioner, past the clergy, past the sea of faces—and looked toward the far horizon, where the sky met the distant mountains in a pale line of light.
As if waiting.
The silence stretched.
Seconds passed.
Then murmurs began to ripple through the crowd.
"Why isn't she speaking…?" "Is she… praying?" "Does she still think she'll be saved?"
The executioner shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, preparing to repeat the question—
When a voice broke through the tension.
"—Wait!"
Old. Cracked. Trembling.
A man stumbled forward from the crowd.
Guards moved instantly, spears lowering—but hesitated when they saw him.
