The royal platform stretched before him, draped in crimson banners that snapped like whips in the morning wind. The king's throne dominated the center, carved from black marble that seemed to absorb light itself. Perry sat there with the cold composure of a judge weighing souls, his dark eyes tracking each execution with clinical detachment.
Even her disgust would have been a gift. One look of revulsion from those eyes would have been worth everything if it meant seeing her one final time.
But Queen Phoebe couldn't even grant him that much.
The torment this brought Reginald defied measurement.
He stood shackled in the execution line, watching his loyal warriors meet their gruesome end one after another. Their bodies jerked and convulsed, making one last desperate fight against the hemp rope choking their lives away. Some lasted mere seconds. Others struggled for agonizing minutes before surrender claimed them.
