Errol stood on the platform and watched the blade drop. It struck with a wet crunch that carried across the square. His face stayed blank, the mask he had perfected years ago. But his stomach drew into a hard knot as the head rolled free and dropped into the wicker basket with a solid thud. One cheer rose from the thin crowd gathered below. There was always one.
The square used to pack tighter on execution days, back when the condemned had clear blood on their hands; murder, rape, theft caught in the act. Lately the crowds thinned. People found reasons to stay away, whether boredom or a quiet unease, when the charges carried the sharper stink of politics than of crime.
The high priest stepped up to the body and raised his hands, chanting some incantation Errol did not understand, nor cared to. The words, and the action seemed theatrical more than functional. Errol suppressed a groan. As the priest lowered his arms, two soldiers approached and carried the headless body away, the crowd sensing the show was over slowly dispersed, returning to their own lives. Errol shifted to a more relaxed stance, releasing his clasped hands from behind his back, to resting one on the hilt of his sword.
The priest turned and walked past Errol, “Walk with me soldier.”
Errol fell in step. They descended the wooden stairs from the platform onto the wide, clean stone of the upper city square. Eskil stood average height, his head level with Errol’s shoulder. The priest’s soft slippers whispered against the pavement; Errol’s boots struck heavier, measured beats.
“You handled that one well,” Eskil said as they crossed the open space. “Arrest was quick. Evidence held. The King’s justice moved clean and fast.”
Errol gave a single nod. Praise for this kind of work always sat sour in his throat, but he kept his voice flat, “It is our duty.”
Eskil’s mouth curved in a small smile. “That is why I like you, Errol; the way your people take your duty so seriously. Other tribes let their hearts lead, especially when they believe they understand more than they do.”
Errol eased his pace to stay half a step behind as they moved toward the high temple. The courtyard stretched wide and empty except for a pair of guards standing at attention beside a stone bench.
“These magic users are a threat to the kingdom, Errol. Today’s man was a criminal as well, so the King’s decision came easy. But even the King does not see the full danger. Magic in the wrong hands can tear apart order. It must be taught carefully; Only by those who know the risks and how to contain them. You understand this.”
Errol answered with another short nod. The words sounded smooth on the surface, but they landed hollow, the speech of a man shaping others to his purpose.
Eskil glanced back, saw the nod, and gave one of his own. “Good.”
They reached the temple entrance. Four thick pillars of pale gray marble framed the doorway, each rising thirty feet before spreading into carved capitals. The first showed roots and mountain lines cut deep. The second carried clouds and lightning, stars and suns as if vibrating with energy. The third held flame shapes curling around vessels, glowing, alive. The fourth traced flowing water, a river that wove through intricate patterns before it disappeared into the stone overhead. Four blocks of stone propping up a roof built on secrets, Errol thought, and followed Eskil inside without speaking.
The hall opened wide beyond the pillars. The floor ran seamless white stone veined with gray, laid in sharp geometric lines that met exactly at every corner. Arches curved high overhead, keystones marked with straight, interlocking cuts. The walls stood lined with polished slabs of alabaster and darker granite, carved row after row with robed figures marching in endless procession—every fold of cloth and every lifted hand cut clean and deep. Lower sections held smaller reliefs of star maps and flowing lines, the edges worn smooth where fingers had traced them over years.
The air stayed cool and still, carrying only the faint smell of cold stone and distant candle smoke. Light fell from high narrow windows of clear quartz, spreading soft and even so the carvings stood sharp even in shadow.
Eskil walked through as though the space belonged to him alone, slippers barely audible on the stone. They passed an open inner courtyard where potted trees stood in rows, then climbed a wide staircase to the upper floor. At the top Eskil led him into a large office. Tall windows opened onto a balcony that overlooked the royal gardens below, where new spring leaves moved in the breeze.
“I spoke with your commander,” Eskil said, stepping behind the heavy desk. “He has freed you from regular duties for a time. I need your help bringing in another.” He lifted a sheet of parchment from the desk and held it out. On it was an intricate sketch of a woman’s face, clearly one of the Skogfolk with her thick long curls and thin slightly upturned nose. Errol took the paper.
“Keep it,” Eskil said. He turned toward an open window. Crisp spring air drifted in, carrying the thick, sweet scent that clung to the priest’s robes and now pressed against Errol’s nose.
“I need you to bring her in for… questioning.”
Errol studied the drawing a moment longer. The lines were clean, the face direct. The way Eskil had said “questioning” carried an extra weight that meant more than words in a room. But questions were not Errol’s to ask. He folded the parchment once and slid it into the inner pocket of his cloak.
“Any idea where to start?”
Eskil gave a low, satisfied chuckle. “She was last seen in the lower city, near the western docks. You are not the first I have sent. She always seems to know we are coming and slips away at the last moment. But you…” He paused, eyes moving over Errol from boots to shoulders. “You are not like the others. I think you will have better luck.”
Errol gave another nod, "And a name?"
Eskil studied Errol for a long moment before giving his head a shake, "Soska." He turned his back on Errol and waved his fingers over his shoulder in a clear dismissal.
