The guard disappeared into the corridor and returned moments later. Steel flashed in his hands.
Newton's sword.
The guard walked forward slowly, both hands holding the weapon out with care. The blade rested in its dark scabbard, the leather worn smooth by years of use. Frost clung faintly to the metal fittings.
Newton reached out. For a moment his fingers hovered above the hilt.
Then he grabbed it. The weight settled into his palm.
Cold, heavy, and real.
The doors of the hall opened, and the movement inside began to spill outward.
Word had already spread through the fortress. People were gathering.
Guards moved aside as Newton stepped outside into the courtyard. The cold air struck his face immediately. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked forward.
The courtyard was already crowded. Soldiers lined the edges of the stone square. Servants and townsfolk stood behind them, whispering among themselves. Lords and councillors emerged from the hall and spread across the steps, watching carefully.
They had come to see. No one spoke loudly. But the air buzzed with quiet anticipation.
At the center of the courtyard stood the wooden execution post. The spike rose from the frozen ground like a dark spear.
Sigmoid was tied to it. His wrists had been bound behind the wood, chains wrapped tightly around his arms. His grey beard stirred slightly in the wind. The iron shackles clinked faintly every time he shifted his weight.
His eyes moved across the gathering crowd. Then they settled on Newton. Newton stepped forward slowly. The sword remained in his hand.
The metal felt heavier with every step. The murmurs grew louder.
The councillors gathered in a loose semicircle behind him. Fur cloaks rustled as they shifted for a better view.
This was no longer a council meeting. It had become a test.
Newton felt the weight of every eye in the courtyard. It pressed down on his shoulders like stone.
He stopped several feet from the execution post.
Sigmoid watched him carefully. The wind moved between them. Newton's grip tightened slightly around the sword.
He knew what was expected.
If Sigmoid lived, the message would spread quickly across the North. Lords would whisper that the bastard boy on the Ice Throne lacked the courage to enforce the tradition and defend the Warden's name. It will weaken his house's strength.
Defiance would grow. The North respected strength. Nothing else.
Yet the thought coiled inside his chest like a tightening knot. He had never done this. Never imagined himself doing it.
His hands trembled slightly. He noticed it. So did the people watching.
Newton inhaled sharply. Cold air filled his lungs. Then he exhaled slowly again.
His fingers steadied. Slowly he drew the sword from its scabbard. The blade slid free with a long metallic whisper. Steel gleamed beneath the pale winter sky.
A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. People leaned closer. Sandra remained upstairs.
She stood beside the tall window on the second floor of the fortress, watching the courtyard below. The cold glass pressed faintly against her fingertips as she leaned forward.
From that height she could see everything. Newton standing in the center. The prisoner tied to the spike. The crowd surrounding them like a tightening ring.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Does the bastard have the guts?" she muttered to herself. "Killing him would risk the fury of men loyal to him."
Below, Newton stood very still. The sword hung loosely in his hand. His stomach twisted painfully.
A part of him wanted to drop the weapon. To let it fall into the snow. To turn around and walk away.
To pretend none of this was happening. But another voice rose inside him. His father's voice.
Clear, and steady.
It echoed through his mind. Only men who have chosen to be men can rule a kingdom.
Newton's jaw tightened. The words continued.
We do not like all we do.
The memory sharpened. But we must do it for peace and order of our kingdom.
Newton's fingers closed harder around the hilt. The trembling in his hand faded.
He stepped forward.
The sword lowered slowly until the tip touched the frozen ground. The metal scraped softly against the stone beneath the thin layer of snow.
Newton lifted his voice. "In the name of Edmond Woodland of House Woodland…"
His words carried across the silent courtyard.
"…ruler of the First Men and of the Norsemen…"
People leaned closer. "I hereby sentence you to die."
He paused.
The words hung heavily in the air. Murmurs spread through the crowd. "The boy is going on with his threat," someone whispered.
Sigmoid's expression shifted slightly. For the first time since his capture, something moved across his face.
A flicker of fear.
His wrists twitched against the chains. The spike behind him creaked faintly. His voice came out rough.
"I underestimated you." His eyes narrowed as he studied Newton. "I should have known…" He took a shallow breath. "…that those born without privileges will use it to the fullest when they mistakenly stumble upon it."
Newton's jaw tightened. The insult struck deep. But he did not respond. His muscles tensed.
Slowly he lifted the sword. The blade rose above his shoulder. For a moment time seemed to slow. The wind swept across the courtyard. Snow drifted faintly along the stones.
The crowd held its breath.
Newton's arms moved.
Swuuush!
The sword cut downward through the air. A single powerful swing. Steel met flesh. Sigmoid's head separated from his body.
It dropped heavily into the snow.
Gasps erupted from the crowd. Some stepped backward instinctively. Others stared in stunned silence.
Blood spread slowly across the white ground. The body slumped against the spike, chains rattling softly.
Several councillors exchanged looks. Then one of them spoke quietly. "He has the Woodland boldness in him."
Newton stood motionless. The sword remained in his hand. His jaw was clenched so tightly the muscles along his neck trembled.
He turned slightly toward the guards. "Hang his head on a stake." His voice was cold now.
"Let it be known…" His gaze swept across the watching lords. "…no rebellion will be tolerated by me until my father returns."
The guards moved quickly. Two of them stepped forward to carry out the order.
Newton did not watch.
He turned away from the spike. The courtyard blurred slightly as he began walking back toward the fortress doors.
The image of the falling head clung stubbornly inside his mind.
It replayed again. And again. He stepped past the watching nobles without looking at them.
Their murmurs followed him across the courtyard..He entered the fortress. The warmth inside felt suffocating.
Lord Martins stood near the entrance. Newton passed him without slowing. "I need a jug of wine," Newton said to a maid standing nearby.
His voice sounded flat. The maid nodded quickly and hurried away.
Martins watched the young man walk down the corridor. He understood the look in Newton's eyes.
He had seen it before. Many years ago. The first time he had executed a man himself.
That hollow feeling. The strange sickness that crawled through the stomach afterward.
Martins followed him quietly. Newton pushed open the door to his chamber. He stepped inside.
The maid entered moments later carrying the jug. Newton took it from her hands and waved her away.
She left quickly.
Newton lifted the jug and drank deeply. Wine spilled down his throat in long, desperate gulps. The burning taste filled his mouth.
Martins stepped inside and closed the door. Newton lowered the jug slowly..His breathing remained uneven.
Martins approached him. "You did what you ought to do," he said quietly.
Newton said nothing.
Martins reached forward and rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Do not feel horrible about yourself."
His voice remained calm. "Do not let them see you as weak."
Newton nodded slowly. But inside his chest something twisted uneasily. The image of Sigmoid's head falling into the snow refused to leave.
He had wanted strength. He had wanted respect. But not being feared. Not been seen as an executioner.
Then he shook it off. "I did what I had to do."