It had been impossible to predict even six months ago but these, it seemed, were the winners. Those who would steer the Union into the future. Each with their talents, their rivalries, their ambitions. Probably no worse than his own Closed Council had been. Probably no better than the Closed Councils of his father, of King Guslav, King Casamir, King Arnault, and all the way back to the first Harod, namesake of the new.

“I must admit it’s a rather disappointing turnout,” called Orso. “Still, I understand. I’ve always hated hangings myself. And here’s one I’m particularly reluctant to attend!” He barked a laugh. No one joined him. “Dear me. Who would’ve thought I’d be the only one to keep my sense of humour?”

Tricky, with his hands tied, but he managed to nudge the executioner in the ribs with his elbow. “Lovely day for it, at least.” He squinted up at the blue sky. The few shreds of cloud, slowly shifting. “Looks like it’ll be a fine summer.” It made him terribly sad, suddenly, to think he wouldn’t see it. He covered it up with a chuckle. “For you, at least.”

The executioner, somewhat apologetically, offered him a hood.

“Thank you, but no. I’ve attended a few of these things. Let’s not pretend that’s for my benefit.” Damn, he wanted to scratch his nose, but his hands were tied behind his back. He wriggled it a little, but that only made it worse. Ridiculous, to die with an itchy nose. He raised his brows significantly. “I don’t suppose you could just—”

The executioner squinted through his eyeholes as he gently scratched the rim of Orso’s nostril.

“Ah, that’s good. A little to the right… perfect.”

The man reached up, pulled down the noose, secured it around Orso’s neck.

“Nice and tight, there’s a good fellow.” Orso winked at him. “So hard to find a good valet these days.”

The Young Lion looked somewhat nettled. “Have you anything to say?” he snapped.

“Too much, usually,” called Orso, “but I’ll try to keep it brief, I know you have a country to ruin.” The trapdoor creaked under his feet as he stepped forwards.

“Don’t grieve for me!” He glanced about the audience, brows high. “No? No one? The truth is, at my best, I’ve been a barely adequate king. My father’s son, I daresay. Though allow me to take just a little pride in my victory against the odds at Stoffenbeck. Unfortunate timing, to take the throne with not one but two bloody revolts on the way, but that’s no excuse, really. There’s always something horrible on the way, after all. You’ll see. Not that I bear any of you ill will, you understand. Ill will is too heavy a thing to carry through life, let alone up onto a scaffold, and it’s useless in a fight in any case.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the executioner wrap his hands around the lever.

“Well! I think I’m being given the signal to finish up. To my sister, Savine…” He grinned over at her. The way he used to, when they were together, in Sworbreck’s office. When he had just thought of the best joke. One he knew she would love. That was how he wanted her to think of him. As he had been. As they had been. “I take some comfort in knowing you’ll be a far better ruler than I ever was. We have had our differences, but you remain the woman I most admire. And, let’s be honest, the only one I’ve ever loved.” He was gratified to see a tear slide down her cheek. It was not as if it had all been worth it, for one tear, but it was something. He grinned at the Lord Regent. “To her husband, Leo dan Brock, I can only say… how’s your leg?”