Mari pretended not to hear him. The idea turned her stomach. Nothing better exemplified the Everlorn Empire like feasting and gaming to celebrate a deity’s execution. Criers throughout the city begged for attendance in the great field west of Vallessau, and imperial soldiers had strung up banners and streamers across every main road. Come tomorrow, the empire would celebrate the culmination of two years of work. Come tomorrow, with the entire city in attendance, the Uplifted Church’s Anointed One would execute the goddess Lycaena.

That is, unless the resistance Mari’s father commanded stopped them.

Mari’s wandering took her through the darker and poorer parts of Vallessau. It wasn’t intentional, but it was in the forgotten places that faith in Endarius dwelt. She didn’t realize where she walked until the smell hit her, and she looked to the sky. Twenty-five poles had been hammered into the street at one of the cross-sections of two major roads in the southern portion of the city. Each pole was twice the height of a man, its sides perfectly smooth wood, its top marked by an upturned metal hook.

Corpses hung from all twenty-five hooks. Thick ropes were tied tightly about their necks and waists. Men and women hurried underneath their shadows, covering their noses and staring at the ground as if the foul stench were the only bothersome aspect. Mari forced herself to stare at the swinging bodies. Colored feathers fluttered from necklaces about their purple necks. Butterfly and harp tattoos marked their swollen hands and faces. This place was known as the Dead Flags, and it was the fate awaiting all who refused to abandon their faith in Endarius and Lycaena. Every morning, the Uplifted Church hung twenty-five new bodies. If rumors were true, the jails were full with enough traitors and religious protesters to keep the flags flying for another year.

“No other gods, no other faiths, only the one true God-Incarnate,” Mari whispered, repeating the order given to every conquered nation’s people. “Deny us worship, and we deny you life.”

Finally Mari’s stomach could take no more. She put her back to the Dead Flags and hurried away. Resistance groups were stationed all across Vallessau in preparation for tomorrow, and it was at one of them Mari would soon attend her first bloodletting ceremony. She passed underneath an archway, then paused to read graffiti written in a fading white paint meant to signal support for the resistance. It was in the imperial tongue, and while it was meant to read NO KILLERS, NO IMPERIALS, the writer, no doubt a native to Thanet, had botched the spelling so that it read NO KIILLERS, NO IMPRALS instead.

“I suppose it gets the message across,” Mari said as she passed underneath it. Not far was a vacant two-story tenement. Though the residents had been cleared out weeks ago, a young man with dark hair hanging over his eyes kept guard at the door.