Barison Veril felt as though he were walking through a dream, or perhaps a very vivid, very terrible nightmare. The guards had dragged him through the palace gates, their iron-clad hands bruising his arms, but as they entered the inner courtyard, even they slowed their pace.

The air was thick and sweet with the smell of death. Barison’s stomach lurched. He had spent his life dealing with pelts and hides, but this was different. This was the smell of a battlefield left to rot in the sun.

"One Barison Veril as requested for Lord Hoff," the leader of his escort called out.

Barison didn't see Lord Hoff, he didn't see the soldiers, he didn't see anything except the trees and their horrible fruit. All around, bodies hung, their necks stretched, faces bloated and blue. He could not look for long at that sight, and his eyes fell to the piles of grey-shrouded corpses near the wall.

Motion drew his attention and Barison was grateful for the spark of life, of something that had not yet been killed. A boy was being dragged toward a tree near the dungeon entrance, his noose already being prepared. The boy’s hands were a ruin of red, and his face was a mask of pure, unadulterated shock. He wasn't even fighting anymore.

"The action of demons and devils," Barison whispered, his voice cracking. "Brothers, this is unholy. This is an affront to God."

He looked at the guards, at the jailer with his bloody knife, and at the piles of discarded limbs. The alcohol that had been clouding his mind did not evaporate, not entirely, but the warm fuzz was slowly overtaken by a cold clarity of purpose.

"Brothers, stop!" Barison shouted. The sound of his own voice surprised him. It was loud, resonant, and filled with a command he didn't know he possessed.

He broke free from his escort, his injured leg screaming in protest as he marched toward the men holding the pale youth. They did not move to stop him.

"This is not the work of God!" Barison cried, his arms outstretched. "This is not justice, no matter the crime! Imprison them if you must, but spill no more blood today! Have you no souls? Do you not see the sun watching you?"

The guards hesitated. They looked at each other, then at the man in the ruined fur coat who was charging at them like a mad prophet.

"Get back, merchant," one of the guards growled, but he made no attempt to raise his sword.

Another guard began to hoist the boy up, the rope tightening around his throat, and Barison let out a roar of desperate rage. He lunged forward, throwing his weight against the guard holding the rope. He clutched the youth’s shoulders, trying to take the weight off the his neck.

"No!" Barison screamed. He saw a frayed section of the rope where it passed over the branch. With a strength born of pure desperation, he grabbed the line and yanked with everything he had, his boots slipping in the gore on the stones.

The rope snapped.

The boy collapsed into the mud and blood, gasping for air, the noose still trailing from his neck. For a moment, the courtyard was silent. No one moved to stop Barison. It was as if his sheer audacity had frozen the world.

Barison didn't waste a second. He dropped to his knees beside the boy. He tore a long strip of fabric from his own expensive, ruined coat sleeve. With trembling but sure hands, he wrapped it around the mangled hand, pulling it tight to stop the flow of blood.

"Are you alright, my son?" Barison asked, his voice shaking.

The boy didn't answer. He just stared at Barison with eyes that had seen the end of the world. He was in deep shock, his body shivering despite the heat.

Barison looked up and saw an old woman lying a few yards away. She hadn't been hanged yet, but she was dying. There was a jagged wound in her shoulder and a deep gash on her head. Blood was bubbling from a hole in her chest with every shallow breath she took. A small child, a girl no older than five, was clinging to the woman’s skirts, her face buried in the bloody fabric.

Barison felt tears stinging his eyes, but he forced them back. He moved to the woman, gently prying the child away.

"Shh, little one," he whispered. He took off his remaining cloak, a once fine piece of northern wool, and wrapped it around the girl, shielding her eyes from the horror of the courtyard. As he did, he felt something wet on the girl’s head. He pulled back her hair to find a deep, ugly cut.

The rage that had been simmering in Barison’s chest finally boiled over. He stood up tall, his frame casting a long shadow over the dying woman. He spun around, his eyes searching the grim faces of the armored men.

"Who is in charge here?" he demanded, his voice a hiss that carried across the stones.

The guards shifted, looking away. Some of them looked at their boots; others looked at the palace walls. They were men of Marchand, men who had families and homes, and for a moment, the shame was visible on their faces.

"There is no greater gift than the gift of life!" Barison shouted, his voice building until it echoed off the mansion walls. "And here it is wasted! Torn and destroyed without a thought! Violence such as this has no place in any society! We are not beasts! We must help and clothe those who have been hurt! I will not let you hurt anyone else today!"

The leader of the guards, a weathered man with a face like cracked leather, stepped forward. He didn't look angry; he looked tired.

"You have no authority here, Veril," the guard said, his voice flat. "If Lord Hoff says they die, they die. We have our orders. Ours is not to question lawful orders, only to follow them."

Barison barked a joyless, bitter laugh. "Lawful orders? You have made murder legal, then? Make your excuses to the dirt if it helps you sleep, brother, but God will see straight through them. There will be no mercy for you when the reckoning comes."

"We do not need your God’s mercy here," the guard leader retorted, though there was a tremor in his hand as he gripped his spear. "Your God has no authority in Marchand. The only authority we need is that of the law, and of the Lord Governor, and his chosen representative, Lord Hoff."

"So the Governor is your God now?" Barison challenged, stepping closer to the guard. "Who determines what is just? Who determines legality and morality when they differ? You cannot tell me it is legal to kill a mother and a child! To torture them to death in front of each other! Is that the 'great' vision of your Governor?"

"Traitors and murderers hang equally in a lawful society," the guard said, reciting the lines he had been taught. "The Lord Governor was appointed by the Emperor himself. As such, there is no greater authority here."

Barison reached into his vest and pulled out a small, tattered book of scripture. "The holy book says, "

"I know what it says," the guard interrupted, his voice gaining a hard edge. "'Obey the kings of this world, for they are appointed by God.'"

"You quote the words but you do not know the heart!" Barison barked back. "God requires kindness! He requires mercy! True, we must obey the kings of this world, but only as long as their actions represent God’s teachings! When we are called to disobey a sacred tenant, when we are told to murder the innocent, we have no other choice but to disobey the king!"

A young soldier, barely older than Filip, stepped forward, his face twisted in a sneer. "Heresy! Treachery! Your flawed teaching will get you hanged right next to them, old man."

Barison looked at the young soldier, and for a moment, his anger vanished, replaced by a profound, soul-deep pity. "Then hang me," he said softly. "At least I will die a man, and not a dog on a leash."

He turned back to the weathered guard leader. He knew he couldn't win an argument with these men. Their hearts were locked behind iron and fear.

"Brothers, I am here," Barison said, his voice regaining its calm, merchant’s edge. "Take me to Lord Hoff. He sent for me, did he not? Well, I am here. But until I return, do not harm another soul here unjustly. Sacred is the life of all God’s beings, and you must not shed their blood, for your action is taken against God Himself. Each whip, each cut, each drop of blood is an affront to the Creator."

The guard leader nodded towards one of the other guards. "Take him to the dungeon. Lord Hoff just went that way and will likely be waiting in the interrogation rooms if he’s not too occupied with our other guest.."

As the guards moved to surround him again, Barison looked down at the boy. The youth was watching him, a spark of something, hope, perhaps, flickering in his dark eyes. Barison reached down and squeezed his shoulder.

"Stay strong, my son," he whispered. "The light always finds a way through the cracks."

Barison walked toward the dark entrance of the dungeon, his head held high. He was a drunkard, a failed merchant, and a coward by his own admission. But as he stepped into the shadows to face the man who was tearing his city apart, Barison Veril felt a strength he had never known, invigorated by the righteousness of his cause, for he knew that God was watching, and in this moment he could not step back. He was no longer just a witness. He was a shield. And in the heart of Marchand’s darkness, he would be the one to hold the line no matter the personal cost.