Chapter Text
The cell door rattled, then swung open with a metallic clatter that echoed off the stone walls. Subaru barely moved at first, muscles stiff, his legs trembling with disuse. Years—or what felt like years—of confinement had left him fragile, his body unwilling to respond, as if each step required more effort than the last.
“Get up,” one of the guards barked. Two others grabbed him by the arms, their grips tight, unyielding. Subaru’s chest rose and fell quickly as he struggled against them, but there was no escape. His legs barely held him. He stumbled, almost collapsing, and the guards had to support his weight as they led him from the shadows of the prison.
The corridor stretched ahead, lit by torches that flickered like silent witnesses. Each step was agony. The ropes bit into his wrists. Every jolt of movement sent shooting pains through his muscles. The world beyond the cell felt impossibly bright, impossibly wide, and he hated that he had to face it upright. His breaths came in short, shallow gasps as he forced his legs to carry him forward.
The courtyard opened like a nightmare. Sunlight fell across stone and grass alike, but there was no warmth here. Every face in the crowd—a mix of villagers, knights, and royal candidates—was fixed on him. The eyes of those who had trained beside him, laughed beside him, and even sparred with him now watched with expectation, suspicion, or indifference.
He was placed on the pedestal, in full view, ropes securing his arms behind him, legs trembling. He tried to straighten, to stand tall, but his body refused him. His knees buckled slightly, and the guards had to steady him again.
A hush fell over the assembled crowd. All at once, the ceremonial air pressed down, suffocating, as if the entire city were holding its breath.
A herald stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Today,” he began, voice firm but hollow, “justice shall be served. Pride, a threat to our princess and to the safety of the realm, has been apprehended. His crimes are undeniable. His guilt is absolute. And by the order of the crown, he shall pay the ultimate price.”
He paused, letting his words hang in the air like smoke. The villagers shifted nervously. Some covered their mouths. Knights exchanged glances. Even those trained for battle seemed unprepared for the weight of the moment.
“For three months, our efforts to uncover the truth about the Witch Cult have been hindered by Pride’s interference. He has endangered the lives of our people, and for that, he shall be made to answer.”
Subaru’s eyes, pale and hollow, drifted across the crowd. Faces blurred together. He recognized almost nothing, yet the echoes of memory—a smile, a laugh, a past kindness—haunted the edges of his mind.
The executioner stepped forward, the blade of his sword glinting in the sunlight. Subaru’s chest rose unevenly as he tried to prepare, tried to steel himself, but the exhaustion of years of imprisonment weighed too heavily.
The sword was raised. The crowd collectively inhaled. Time seemed to slow, the sun suspended in the sky, the distant voices fading into silence.
And then—
The sword fell.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Subaru’s body remained where it had been. The silence stretched uncomfortably. The crowd shifted uneasily. Some frowned. Some whispered. Had something gone wrong?
Then, like a spark igniting dry tinder, memories returned. Slowly at first. Faces remembered. Names recalled. Hands recognized. And then a wave of realization crashed over them all.
They had killed him.
Subaru—the boy who had survived impossibilities, who had fought for them, who had been their ally, their friend, their comrade—they had struck him down. And now the truth burned in their minds.
Gasps, cries, and shouts erupted. The villagers cried out in horror. Knights gripped their swords, some trembling with rage. Even the royal candidates, faces pale, could barely process what had happened.
Felix’s eyes widened, then narrowed in a dangerous intensity. His jaw clenched. The calm, precise exterior he had always maintained shattered like glass. “No… no… this cannot be,” he whispered, voice low and trembling. Then louder, almost shouting, “What have I done?”
The crowd’s confusion became chaos. People pointed fingers. Accusations flew. Every observer grappled with the unbearable weight of their actions. Subaru’s death was real, yet impossible. The boy they had executed—their savior, their friend—was gone from their world, and their own hands had delivered him to oblivion.
Some wept openly. Some cursed themselves. Some stood frozen, paralyzed by disbelief. But all shared a single, suffocating truth: they had failed him.
And somewhere, deep in the shadows beyond the courtyard, a fragment of Subaru’s consciousness stirred.
Bloodied, broken, hollow-eyed, and white-haired from the torment of years, he walked again. Mechanically. Without thought. Without purpose. Without knowing if he would survive another moment.
The crowd would never see the boy they had executed return—at least, not yet. But the world was far from over.
Subaru had returned.