The Execution [18+]

Branwen moved smoothly through the courtyard, not yet aware of her death. Her bare feet brushed the wet stone; her dress was translucent, and sticky from the morning humidity—clinging to her thighs with every step. Around her moved her executioners; each in tight black garments, the fabric hugging their bodies like a second skin. Cruel elegance. Morwen, tallest and meanest, pressed the cold tip of her ceremonial blade to Branwen’s spine as they walked. “No more games, Branwen”, she whispered curtly. “You wanted this so don’t flinch now that it’s begun.” Lowri laced her fingers through Branwen’s hair, pulling her head back as they reached the altar, baring her neck like an offering. Her lips brushing Branwen’s ear. “We will strip you down, little adept.”

Her thighs glistened from the involuntary stream that now ran down her leg, a final betrayal of the body’s hold on dignity. The piss soaked her inner knees as she was made to kneel. None of the women flinched. They had seen it before. “Good”, Morwen said, her boot pressing hard into Branwen’s lower back to force her further down. “It means you know this is real. Not some performance.” Branwen had come willingly after years of effort to the detriment of herself. Years of climbing the path to Internal Adeptship. Not for fame or money, not for anything that may cross the pretender’s minds.

Seren knelt beside her, running the curved blade beneath Branwen’s breasts. Branwen could feel the tension in her gut. Her mind clutched at memories in an effort to anchor herself. But there was no anchor. There was only the slow self-dissolution, the yawning teeth of the Nythra’s abyss of a maw that she could feel pressed against her ribs. “Let it go”, Lowri whispered softly. “The world. It was never yours. It was never real.”

The fear remained, but it seemed to float free of her. The shame of pissing herself, the soft sad mourning of life being lost. Morwen, satisfied, pulled Branwen’s head up by the hair. “This is annihilation and you said yes.”

They laid her down on the stone slab, her arms bound wide, her legs parted, her body trembling like an animal. Above her, the endless stars in the inky black sky… but Branwen no longer looked. There was nothing to aspire to. The blade would pierce her and the ritual would end. Or perhaps begin. There was no stage here, nor audience to adore her bravery. This was for no one. This was for nothing. This was what it meant to be truly in it. And in the surrender, Branwen at last ceased to be someone.