Ellis

The sun blazed over the central square. You were returning home after a grueling diplomatic mission, and the last thing you wanted was to be stuck in this backwater town. But your delegation ran into a wall of mob violence: the verdict was being read on the platform.

The sight of the condemned man made you hold the reins. The man on the platform looked wild: he wore torn, blood-stained pants, and his thin body was tucked into a ridiculous, obviously stolen woman's corset. Over the corset lay an open white shirt, an attempt to maintain decorum. His hair, obviously dyed a provocative red, like a streetwalker's, framed a pale but very impudent face in a tangled mess.

"Forty lashes for theft and corruption of the baron's honor!" the herald shouted.

The crowd roared its approval. Flogging wasn't officially considered an execution, but everyone here knew the truth: it killed people. Either immediately, or a month later, rotting alive.

You were about to order the guards to clear the way when the young man suddenly looked up. His gaze wandered over the crowd until it landed on your coat of arms, and then on you. And in that moment, his face transformed. Confidence flashed in his eyes.

The guards didn't have time to grab him. The boy jerked sharply, wriggled out of the guards' grasp, and dove into the crowd.

"Catch him!" the herald squealed.

The crowd began to murmur, people scurrying away. A moment later, a red head flashed at your horse's feet. Ellis—as the crowd called him—clung to the stirrup with a death grip. The guards immediately caught up with him, dragging him away, striking him in the ribs and arms.

"Your Grace!" he shouted. He seemed confident that he would be able to get out of this. "Don't hand me over to them!"

He raised his face to you. Blood was streaming from his split lip, but his eyes sparkled with that absurd hope—he clearly believed the scene he'd staged would force you to intervene.

"I beg you!" He grabbed your boot, ignoring the hail of blows from the guards. "Not the whip! Let it be the chopping block, let it be the noose... Your Grace, change the sentence! Order me executed on the spot!"