“No, boy,” Barthol called. “She stays and she watches what she’s done.” He turned to the guard. “Take out your dagger, warrior. You know what to do with it.”

“No,” Ashyn blurted. “Please—”

She stopped as one of the other mercenaries stepped toward Ronan, his blade raised. Ronan put his arm around Ashyn, moving up behind her and whispering, “Keep your gaze on the wall beside him. Look, but don’t look. Think of something else.”

As Ronan whispered, the warrior pleaded.

“Please. I have a family. My wife, my children. My parents are aged, and I’m their only son. Give me any punishment, any at all. Please.”

Barthol’s men flanked him, one on each side, pressing down on his shoulders until he sat cross-legged, in the proper position. One took out the guard’s dagger and put it in his hand.

“Do you know the point of ritual suicide?” Barthol sounded bored. “I may not be a warrior, but even I know it. You take your own life with honor, not beg for it like a dog. You want another punishment? All right. I’ll take you into the village square, for all to see, and execute you. Cleave off your head in front of your wife and children and parents, so they may—”

The guard didn’t even need Barthol to finish. He thrust his dagger into his stomach and sliced it open. Ashyn fell back. Ronan’s arm tightened around her and he kept whispering, “Look to the side, Ashyn. Look to the side,” but even if she did, she could see the blood and smell it and hear the man, still alive, breathing hard and panicked as he died.

“Finish it,” Ronan said to Barthol, his voice a growl. “Finish the ritual.”

“Finish?” Barthol sounded confused.

“The killing blow,” Ronan said between his teeth. “That is how it’s done. As soon as he plunges in the blade, you cut off his head. Show him mercy.”

Barthol screwed up his face. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Barthol turned to the others. “Have any of you heard that part?”

They smiled and said no, they had not. Ashyn looked at the big man and she knew he understood the ritual full well. Writhing in agony, the guard whispered, “Please, please.”

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” Barthol said. “This does seem slow. We’ll be here all day.” He glanced at one of his men. “Finish him off.” He paused. “Drag him outside first, where it will make less of a mess. Leave the door open, though, so our Seeker can watch.”

Two men dragged the dying guard out. Ronan kept whispering for her to not look, but she was still staring at the bloody floor when the killing blow came. She pressed against Ronan, breathing deeply, trying to keep calm and upright.