Her eyes had burned with hatred and her decision had been final. The trial was a farce, just as the hearings he used to hold from that same throne. He’d already made up his mind in advance for every one of those, so of course she had already done the same. She didn’t need to hear that Albion would heal faster with his death and she certainly didn’t need to hear that keeping him alive would serve no purpose.

He stopped being her brother months ago, when he ordered her to choose who would live and who would die.

They’ve taken his chestplate and sash, leaving him without any of the trappings of royalty he once enjoyed wearing. The crown has been placed on his sister’s head now; perhaps she really can wear it better than he ever could. It’s a shame he’ll never get a chance to find out.

His hands are bound behind him and he’s pushed forward until he’s standing before the stairs leading up to the doors of the castle. It’s a fitting place for an execution. It’s where he killed Major Swift only two short months ago.

Staring down a firing squad isn’t nearly as terrifying as staring at his sister’s cold, dead eyes.