Chapter Text
Sundays were for markets, church, and executions. The market was packed, and eager salesmen shouted their prices in the air. Marketgoers searched for the lowest prices, trying to strike deals; a clutter of desperate humans scrambling to feed their families.
Julian Devilee, master painter for grandiose churches nationwide, was running errands. He, like most civilians there, was busy talking a salesman into selling him a bag of potatoes for half the price that was originally asked. He struck a deal with the man, tipped his hat, and casually continued his day. Potatoes in one hand, his change in the other. When the shouting began, he stiffened, casting a weary glance over his shoulder. Julian was never a fan of commotions. Yelling, in his opinion, was the worst way to win any argument. It shows you are desperate, frightened, and angry. It never shows you are right.
Among the crowd, Marshalcy emerged. Young men clad in navy and scarlet, wearing the king's emblem, gathered on the large wooden scaffold in the middle of the square. One of them was lugging along a girl who seemed to be about 14 years old. Her wrists were bloody and scratched from how harshly she had been pulling at her bonds, and her brown hair was mussed and dirty as if it hadn't been combed through in months. She was sobbing, screaming at the top of her lungs to be released, lashing out and almost biting the guard who was restraining her. The rest of the guards piled together dry wood for the pyre, while another gathered a crowd to witness the show they were about to display.
An execution.
Julian was well aware that's what it was. It happened every other week. They'd capture a heretic or witch and burn them at the stake, for the whole city to understand what would happen if they were to defy the teachings of God. It was always a celebratory thing for the people, for it was justified and righteous. The square was quickly filled with cheers and laughter as the girl was tied to the stake and the pyre set aflame. It was hard not to be swept up by the crowd, not to have your eyes drawn to the flames as they engulfed the young girl whole. Her screams turned to silence, and the cheers turned to hushed mockery.
Julian, now trapped by the mass of people, waited for the crowd to disperse. He didn't often have time to witness these types of spectacles, but he knew how they worked. Just a few more words of mockery, and cheers about justice, and the crowd would go back to their daily routines. Forgetting all about the girl and her bloody wrists.
Just as the conversations began to change into different topics, a new commotion erupted. A thin girl in soot-stained clothes and an oversized hat that covered more than half her face had punched a man in the jaw. "You barbarians!" She yelled, her voice breaking a little. "You laugh and cheer and toast to murder! And you call yourselves just for doing it. Just what gives you the right?!" Guards rushed to restrain her. Only one happened to stand close enough to catch her before she could slip away. She struggled and lashed, tears forming in her eyes. It was hard to watch. "That girl did nothing wrong." She choked out. "All she did was worship differently. Were the words she spoke truly worth her life?!" She shouted the question into the air, as if speaking to the entire world, but still, no one at the same time. Maybe it was directed at God.
After a beat of silence, Julian could only watch in shock as the girl stomped on the foot of the guard as hard as she could and ran. The crowd surged in a fit of panic, taking Julian with it.