The blade touched her neck. It was cold. So this is what iron coldness feels like, Sophia thought. Fear, pleas for help—those feelings had gone somewhere else entirely. What remained was only a strange, perfect silence. She didn't close her eyes. Until the very end, she would keep them open. That alone was the only pride left to Arnoir Sophia now. ────── Gracesta had been in turmoil since morning. Gracesta—the capital of Vernard Kingdom. A metropolis of over 180,000 people. Before the white stone castle at its center—a five-story fortress built of white limestone—roughly 3,000 people had gathered today. The Judgment Yard, they called it. This place only grew this crowded on execution days. The viewing stands were lined with court nobility. Cloaks embroidered with gold thread, hats adorned with jewels. They must have arrived early to secure good seats, eager for today's spectacle. From the commoner's section, voices rose from every direction. "[angry]That villainous lady... to curse the Crown Prince himself" "[sarcastic]Truly, the deeds of noble daughters are something else" The commoner standing beside her muttered quietly. "[serious]...Evidence doesn't matter. It's the law. Can't be helped" His voice carried resignation, yet something cold and detached. Those words said everything. The Royal Sorcery Prohibition Act. Enacted 200 years ago, this law mandated beheading for anyone who cast sorcery against the royal family—no questions asked. No ordinary trial, no defense counsel needed. A single accusation from the royals decided everything. Among the nobility, it was called the "Blade Without Evidence"—a wicked law, but law nonetheless. No one tried to change it. So today, Arnoir Sophia was scheduled to die. ────── Sophia stood on the stone platform. Chains on both wrists. Chains on her ankles. The blue-violet dress hadn't been properly washed in two months; the hem was soiled. The finely crafted cloak that once signified nobility now looked like nothing more than a scrap of cloth. But her spine remained perfectly straight. Arnoir Sophia, seventeen years old. Eldest daughter of House Arnoir. House Arnoir was among the highest nobility of Vernard Kingdom, having managed the royal treasury for generations. Sophia had been born into this house, raised from childhood learning etiquette, academics, and a little swordplay. Three years ago, she had been betrothed to Crown Prince Lionel. It should have been the most glorious position at court. At least, it had been two months ago. Two months ago, a sorcery catalyst had been found in Sophia's chambers. A small vial containing dried human blood mixed with special black wax. That was the "evidence." But it was all a lie. Sophia bore no stigma mark. In this kingdom, roughly fifteen percent of the population was born with magical patterns on their bodies—stigma marks. Only those who possessed these marks could use magic. Sorcery required even more: the target's blood or hair, complex rituals. For someone without a stigma mark, it was absolutely impossible. Sophia's body had never possessed such a mark. She couldn't even start a fire. Yet no one defended her. Her father, Edmund, hadn't even submitted a petition to the palace. He'd chosen confinement instead, saying "the family's survival comes first." Sophia still remembered that night. Her father, writing at his desk, had spoken without even turning around: "It's unfortunate about you, but House Arnoir must be preserved." That was all. The end. No tears came. She'd known they would be pointless. Her friends Maria and Elvira were in the viewing stands today. They'd been whispering loudly enough for her to hear. "[whispers]I guess she really was that kind of girl, wasn't she" "[whispers]...I always thought something was off about her" Sophia's expression didn't change when she heard their voices. In the center of the viewing stand sat Lionel. Arms crossed, his gaze cold upon Sophia. Her former betrothed. Now the Crown Prince who had ordered her execution. She couldn't read what lay in his eyes. Anger, perhaps—but something else mixed in too. Fear? Impossible. What could he possibly fear? Sophia turned her gaze forward. I did nothing. I am not guilty. She repeated only that. ────── A man in black armor climbed onto the platform. The crowd stirred. The Knight of the Scaffold. Only three existed in all of Vernard Kingdom now. Appointed positions—no one volunteered for them. Society despised them, kept them isolated in special quarters, restricted their marriage and land ownership. They received triple the pay of ordinary knights, but lived in solitude for it. His face was completely hidden behind a hood and face covering. But he was tall, well-built. His gait was quiet, yet radiated an oppressive presence. Even to an untrained eye, the way he handled his sword possessed a natural refinement that screamed "this is the real thing." Someone whispered, "The executioner..." Another voice murmured, "First time seeing one in person." The man stopped before Sophia. Close. The black armor filled her vision. The smell of iron. In the morning air, the coldness of metal mixed in. The sword was raised slowly. Sophia didn't close her eyes. The crowd fell silent. Three thousand people, all holding their breath as one. The blade's tip touched her neck. It was cold. The next instant— The motion stopped. The executioner's hand was trembling. No one could speak. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Time seemed to have frozen. No—it actually had. The sword, the man, the air of the square itself, everything. Then a voice rang out. "[serious]...I can't... kill this one" The voice was muffled. But in the silent square, it carried clearly. A beat of silence, then the crowd erupted. What? What's happening? The nobles stood. Lionel's eyes sharpened. The guards began moving. A wave of commotion swept across the square. The executioner gripped his sword again and, without hesitation, severed Sophia's chains. A metallic clang. The chains fell to the ground. The man's hand seized Sophia's wrist. "[serious]Run" Sophia's mind went completely blank. "[surprised]...What?" "[angry]Stop! Seize the executioner!" Shouts erupted. But the man didn't hesitate, practically dragging Sophia as he ran. Her feet stumbled. The dress's hem was in the way. But the man's grip was strong, pulling her up before she could fall. The crowd descended into panic. People pushed against each other, screams rising from everywhere. That human tide became a barrier between them and the pursuing guards. Through that gap, the man forced Sophia through the white stone castle's gates with almost brutal strength. The cobblestones ended. They passed the outer wall. Outside the royal capital of Gracesta. They emerged onto the road along the Serena River. The man was fast. Like a horse. Sophia felt herself moving forward before her feet even touched the ground. The sound of hooves chased them from behind. Clinging only to this man's hand, Sophia ran. ────── They jumped. Into the river. When the pursuers drew close and they reached the riverbank's edge, the man didn't hesitate. Still holding Sophia, he leaped toward the Serena River without a moment's pause. When they hit the water's surface, the April river's cold engulfed her entire body. Sophia couldn't swim. Cold water filled her mouth. The current was strong. Up and down became meaningless. Someone's hand still gripped her arm—that was all she knew. Then consciousness faded. ────── When she woke, the sky was orange. Dusk. Sophia lay on grass. Her clothes were soaked, cold. The sound of the river drifted somewhere in the distance. The smell of a campfire. She sat up, and her head felt a little fuzzy. Her body still felt waterlogged. The dress was heavy. There was a fire. A small campfire. Beside it stood the man. He'd removed the black armor. A stained white shirt, leather pants. His back was turned as he tended the fire. Broad shoulders. Muscular arms. But his frame itself was lean, built for movement. He turned around. His face was scarred. A long, old blade scar ran down his left cheek. Several smaller scar marks dotted his forehead. Probably early twenties. But his eyes were far gentler than Sophia had expected. "[sarcastic]You can't swim?" His voice carried exasperation. Not accusation—just genuine surprise. Sophia thought for a moment before answering. "[serious]...There was no need to learn" "[sarcastic]A noble" "[serious]I was, but it doesn't matter anymore" Even as she said it, something felt strange. The Arnoir lady. That had been her entire identity until now, and yet she could say "it doesn't matter" so easily. Sophia looked at the man. "[serious]...Who are you?" "[serious]An executioner" "[serious]What's your name?" "[cold]Not yet" A short answer. There was an air of finality—he wouldn't say more. Sophia fell silent for a moment. The campfire crackled softly. The sound of burning wood. The dusk air was still cold, and her wet clothes made it feel even colder. But. Something moved in Sophia's chest. Something that had been frozen for two months. Cut away by her father, betrayed by her friends, met with cold eyes by her betrothed. Something that had hardened bit by bit with each blow. It stirred slowly. "[serious]...Why did you save me?" The moment she asked, she feared the answer. What if he said something like "I plan to use you later" or "For the bounty"? But now—there was nothing she could do about it anyway. The man was quiet for a moment. He stared at the flames. "[serious]Because you're innocent" That was all. Just those words made Sophia's eyes burn. Don't cry. Not yet. She bit down hard and turned her gaze to the campfire. The flames swayed gently. The man seemed disinclined to speak further, adding a dry branch to the fire. For a while, neither of them said anything. Strangely, it wasn't unpleasant. ────── The silence shattered suddenly. A horn sounded in the distance. Not just one. Multiple notes overlapped, shaking the air across the river as they reached them. The man stood abruptly. "[serious]...What is that?" The man stamped out the campfire. Darkness fell in an instant. "[cold]The Iron Crown Brigade" "[surprised]The Iron Crown Brigade...?" "[serious]The Crown Prince's personal pursuit unit. Eighty strong, all elite" His voice was quiet. Not shouting, not panicked. But that very quietness was terrifying. The man continued. "[serious]Wanted notices are already circulating at every checkpoint and inn in the kingdom. Three hundred dinars for you, five hundred for me" Sophia briefly thought "five hundred?" but pushed past it to process the situation. Wanted notices. Bounties. Pursuit units. Right. She was no longer the Arnoir lady, no longer the Crown Prince's betrothed, no longer the court's villainous daughter. Now Sophia was simply a fugitive. Hunted across the entire kingdom. Strangely—she could breathe better now than when she'd been chained in the Judgment Yard. The man spoke. "[serious]We head west. If we reach Miltia, the kingdom's law won't reach us" Miltia. A small nation beyond Vernard Kingdom's western border. "[serious]There's a non-interference pact. It's our only escape" Sophia stood up. The wet dress was heavy. The grass beneath her feet was soaked, water seeping into her leather shoes. But there was no time to worry about such things now. "[serious]...Understood" The man began to walk. Sophia asked, "[serious]What's your name?" The man paused slightly. He didn't turn around. All Sophia could see was his broad back. "[cold]We should hurry. I'll tell you as we go" He still wouldn't give her his name. Sophia felt a flash of irritation. But quickly, she thought: well, it doesn't matter. I can ask later. A name could wait. For now, she would follow this back. Trust it until they left the kin