The sound of the gunfire did not vanish immediately; it lingered, echoing through the execution field and bouncing off stone and steel until it became something heavier than sound itself—something almost physical that pressed against the air and refused to fade. Then, slowly, silence followed, but it was not peaceful silence; it was thick and unnatural, as though the world itself had been forced to stop breathing.
Smoke curled from the rifles in thin gray trails as the execution squad remained locked in position, disciplined and unmoving, waiting for confirmation that never came quickly enough. No one spoke, and no one dared to breathe too loudly, because at that moment there was only one thing left to do—look.
The commanding officer lowered his hand slowly. "Stand down." The rifles dipped in unison, boots shifted against gravel, and every eye turned toward the tree where Dorian had been tied, toward the place where the bullets were supposed to have ended everything.
