Anastasia sat silently in the corner of her prison cell, her legs folded beneath her in a meditative posture, and her palms rested gently on her knees. Her breathing remained steady and calm, but the peace in her posture was only an illusion, because beneath that still exterior, her heart had not known rest for many years.
She had been informed that in two days she would be taken to the central plaza and executed during the Founder's Festival, a public death arranged as a celebration for the empire and a warning for anyone who dared oppose the church.
The thought of such an end no longer frightened her, because fear had long ago been burned out of her by grief, loss, and years of captivity. What remained now was exhaustion, regret, and a quiet resolve that had grown stronger with every passing hour inside this prison.
For the past two days, Anastasia had done little except sit in silence and think about the life she had lived and the choices that had brought her to this point.
