“You have no hands to hold a blade,” Kaelen whispered. “No legs to walk to the balcony. But you still have your mind, Lysandra. That terrible, beautiful mind. So here is your Sexecute.”
The crowd below held its breath. Even the rats in the walls fell silent.
Then, her heart stopped.
But he did not raise it.
He gestured. Two masked figures emerged from the shadows, dragging a third—a man Lysandra barely recognized: the Royal Alchemist, her last loyal servant. His hands were gone, replaced by smoking stumps. He sobbed.