The woman arrived without chains.
That alone unsettled the square.
She walked between two soldiers, her hands free, her posture straight. No tears. No pleas. No trembling. She looked ordinary in the most dangerous way possible.
"A judge," the clerk whispered beside Aren. "From the southern district."
Aren glanced at him. "A judge?"
"She refused to pass judgment."
The woman stopped at the center of the square and lifted her eyes. They were calm. Not brave. Not defiant.
Simply calm.
"You know the charge," the magistrate said from the platform above. "You allowed three criminals to walk free."
"I did," the woman replied.
"Why?"
She didn't answer immediately. She looked at the crowd instead—at the hungry faces, the sharp eyes, the quiet anticipation.
"Because I didn't know which choice was right," she said at last. "And I refuse to pretend certainty where none exists."
A ripple of discomfort spread through the square.
Aren felt the warmth in his chest tighten.
"That is not your role," the magistrate said. "Judgment exists to prevent chaos."
"Judgment exists to give people someone to blame," the woman replied gently.
A murmur rose. Someone hissed.
"Silence," the magistrate snapped, then turned his gaze toward Aren. "You will decide."
The square felt smaller suddenly.
Aren looked at the woman.
"You could have chosen," he said.
"Yes," she agreed.
"And you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
She met his eyes fully now. "Because choosing would have made me someone I didn't recognize anymore."
Something cold brushed against Aren's thoughts.
"If you let them go," Aren said, "others suffer."
"Perhaps," she said. "Or perhaps not. But I will not sacrifice my humanity to feel useful."
The warmth recoiled.
Not vanished.
Recoiled.
Aren hesitated.
Just for a moment.
The crowd noticed.
The magistrate leaned forward. "This is not difficult."
Aren spoke.
"Execute her."
The words fell cleanly. Sharp. Certain.
The woman didn't cry out. She didn't beg.
As the soldiers moved, she only said one thing—quietly, clearly:
"I hope you remember this moment."
The sword fell.
The crowd exhaled as one.
The warmth surged back—stronger this time, almost pleased.
Aren closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, something was wrong.
The woman's face lingered in his mind.
Not her blood.
Not her death.
Her words.
That night, Aren stood before a mirror and studied himself carefully.
His face was the same.
His hands were steady.
But when he turned away, his reflection did not.
It watched him for a heartbeat longer than it should have.
Aren did not look back.