The boy, Luke had been his name, hung from a lamppost beside the road. The rope dug deep into his soft neck. Purple splotches traveled from it to his lips and down below his throat. His shirt had been cut apart to reveal his bare chest. A pair of butterfly wings were carved into his flesh, the cuts deep enough to expose his ribs. His gaze remained open in death, once beautiful emerald-colored eyes that now bulged in their sockets. His hands were bound before him, and forced into his grip was a single winter jasmine.

“What was his crime?” Rayan asked. His throat was so dry, his voice rasped as if he were ill.

“A soldier saw him give away one of those flowers while wishing a Blessed Midwinter.”

“That is it? But we’ve celebrated Midwinter every year, even after they invaded our island. Even after they…”

After they slew our gods. He didn’t say it aloud, though. He couldn’t give voice to that dark past, not even in the face of the swinging corpse.

“Aye, they did let us, if we were quiet about it,” Jesper said. “Looks like they’re done with that. I don’t suspect you’ll have much of a crowd at your lessons anymore, paladin. If you plan on keeping them, best you look into somewhere hidden and indoors.”

“There has always been a danger to our keeping the faith,” Rayan said. “It never stopped us before.”

“Yeah, but they never hung kids at the Dead Flags before, let alone at a gods-damned street corner. It’s different, and we all can tell.”

Rayan drew his sword. He would not leave Luke hanging like this. He pulled back to swing, only for Jesper’s hand to close about his wrist.

“Don’t. His parents already tried. They’re in a prison cell now. Leave it be.”

The sword shook in his hand. Rayan glared at the merchant, but he didn’t see his bearded face. He saw a swinging body. He saw knives tearing into black skin. Wordlessly, he returned his sword to its sheath. Jesper started to say something, then changed his mind. Instead he sighed, long and deep, and then squeezed Rayan’s shoulder with his meaty hand.

“Good luck to you, paladin.”

The merchant left Rayan to stand alone before the swinging corpse. The groan of the rope swaying at the top of the pole was a grotesque tick of an unwanted clock. Luke was dead, and his parents possibly condemned. He stared to the ground, not wanting to see those swollen lips or bulging eyes. A prayer, he realized, he should say a mourning prayer. The words would not come to him. Only bitterness and despair. Blessed Midwinter, indeed, he thought.