His hair had been combed back, perfectly parted with not a curl out of place. He'd been allowed the liberty of bathing in peace and had contemplated somehow drowning himself in the water—although he knew it was impossible without his body attempting to save itself. So at least he would be clean before he died. That was his one consolation.

He wore the color black—mourning colors for Polaria. The color made him appear even paler, almost as if he was a ghost of a person.

And perhaps he was.

He stood, shackles around his legs and hands making noise as servants finished the final touches on his execution garb.

A touch of kohl on his eyes and then a woman clasped the black cloak around his shoulders. He stared at his reflection in a mirror. His eyes slid down to his shirt that was for the most part unbuttoned. He lifted his gloved hands and touched the black scar on his chest before buttoning his shirt. "Death did not harm me the first time. Why should I be afraid this time?"

The servants were silent by Aslaug's command. No one was to talk to the Prince.

A woman sprayed a thin perfume across his skin and hair and Ketil sighed deeply at the smell. From the back of his mind, he remembered the smell. Perhaps it was his mother's? Maybe it was something else.

He combed his hands through his hair, earning a scowl from half of the attendants.

"Apologies, I've been disappointing people for twenty-three years, figured I would continue to do it to my grave." He dropped his shackled hands, glancing into the mirror.

If his clothes had been pale blue, it would have been a coronation outfit. But instead, black was for the dead and dying. "At least I look sharp," he whispered to himself. "I smell wonderful too. It doesn't lessen the sting of death, but it's nice."

He carefully turned, the shackles around his ankles making every movement harder. He stared at the young girl. "I suppose I will meet my maker today, yes? I will see my parents and Vasco and Mikhail and Olve and Kaia." He dropped his shoulders. "I tried—I really did. I failed."

The door to the dressing room opened and a few guards appeared in matching black, axes in hand. "Ketil Østberg, come with us. Please do not resist."

He nodded, keeping his head up so curls did not fall into his face. "I suppose this is it. Thank you all." He bowed to them a little before slowly making his way to the guards. He still limped, his ribs a dull ache—execution would fix that problem right up for him.

The guards flanked him. One behind him, one in front, two beside him, and they were slowly gaining a following of attendants and guards with even more weapons.

Ketil felt nothing. Maybe a hollowness in the pit of his stomach and an ache in his chest—if those counted as feelings per say.

He still had duties to preform. He still had dreams and desires and people to care for. What about Kaspar? What would happen to him and the promise he'd made to Kaia?

He'd failed them.

Maybe Runa would keep Kaspar or maybe she would turn him over to the streets. If that was the case, he would never taste freedom and he'd grow up as a sad and terrible orphan.

Poor Kaspar. He had a duty to protect him, but he couldn't even do that.

He felt tears pull at his eyes and blinked them away.

An old woman stopped them as they proceeded through the palace. "A blossom for peace." She pressed the flower into the breast pocket of his shirt before sticking a mint leaf into his mouth. "And mint for remembrance."

He shut his eyes but smiled, bowing slightly to her. "Thank you."

She passed by, hurling words of wisdom at him and the company as they passed by. He sucked on the mint leaf, feeling more like an animal lead to the slaughter than a criminal sentenced to die.

But what was his crime?

Existence?

He began to drop his head before stopping himself.

He was an Østberg and he would keep his head held up. He would not fear death. He would not fear the executor—he was only a man too. And he would not fear the blood or the pain. He had felt death's sting once before, and this time it would be no different—except that he would not wake up to Anubis' face. Or maybe he would get to see her again—just not as they once were.

Would he ever get to see the stars again? He looked up at the ceiling as if it could tell him the answer, as if he could see through to the stars lingering above him.

The universe answered with a single staggering no in the form of its infinite silence.

He was heading through grand doors now that would lead past the throne room and into the gardens.

Ketil's boots touched the brick walkway, clicking lightly as the procession followed. The walkway was illuminated with large candles and both men and women who stood with their hands clasped behind their backs. He looked up to the glass dome above him with a small sigh. It was beginning to grow dark, but he couldn't see the stars. Only the North Star was there, bright as ever.

At least he would see that star one more time. The star of Polaris—Polaria's namesake.

The procession behind him was alive with whispers as he stared straight ahead. It wasn't everyday a noble was executed. Perhaps they were curious to if he would fight back or beg for mercy or simply stand and take the blow.

Ketil was curious about that himself.

The first time he died he had ran—which did no good, he still ended up with a sword through his side—and he had then begged for Aslaug to save him. That did not work and she betrayed him. Begging was obviously a waste of breath and so he wouldn't even try that. Maybe that was his unabashed pride speaking now—who knew what would happen in his last few moments.

What about his final words? He needed something important to say. Something that would ring through the ears of the people. Then there was the object of forgiveness. Before his father had died, he told him he wanted to die with a clear heart.

Ketil did not want to die at all, let alone forgive Aslaug for murdering him twice.

He bit onto his lip hard enough to draw a thin bead of blood. He looked down at his hands as the large tree loomed before him. He finally looked up, stopping to bow toward the statues that stood silently under the tree.

Security around him intensified around the statues, afraid that he would somehow manage to manipulate them and escape. He felt a spear against the back of his skull and shook his head.

"You can take that away, I'm not stupid enough to try to escape that way. You have me severely outnumbered. Besides, I have enough decency not to manipulate my parents." The spear still remained tight to his skull and Ketil could do nothing but walk on.

He held his head high as Aslaug finally came into view. She wore white from head to toe, a gold and silver crown sat on her hair, stretching out toward the night sky like ice formations. A few blue and red gems sat on the crown, glittering in the candlelight. She was the only one not wearing mourning colors.

"Brother," she said, staring at him down her nose. "It's time."

The spear against his skull moved and he bowed slightly. "Sister."

"Follow me." She turned her back to him, a silver cape glittering across her shoulders and dragging across the ground.

"Where is your axe," Ketil muttered. "Or do you prefer to stab me through the heart first?"

She made a noise that sounded like a chuckle. "You foolishly believe I will bloody my hands? I am an Empress, brother."

She led him into a clearing, where a throne sat on a dais. She took her place on the dais, hands clasped in front of her. In the candlelight, she looked like their mother, nothing like the sister he'd grown up with.

He still managed a laugh as he saw her standing there. "It's a little extravagant that you moved your throne outside, isn't it? Always for the dramatics, huh Aslaug?"

She rolled her eyes. "I can't wait until you die."

"Well that's a bit rude isn't it?" He shrugged a little. "Your only brother, about to die for the second time and that's all you can say? I mean, I knew you had no heart, but perhaps you could have a bit more tact."

Aslaug gave him a look. "Don't give me a reason to make your death painful."

"Boo," Ketil whispered, "you have no humor. What happened to the girl who couldn't braid her own hair?"

"I grew up and became an Østberg—something you obviously never decided to do."

"What happened to the girl who taught me how to ride? What happened to us, Aslaug? We used to share a room and tell stories. I taught you how to sew and you taught me how to use a knife. What happened to us?"

"I became a leader and you became..." she shrugged. "You became you. A lamb among wolves. If you had been born into any other family, you would have thrived. But you were born an Østberg and it would have been better if you were never born. You don't have it in you."

"And you do?"

"I think it's obvious that I do." She looked to the guards beside him. "I believe it's time."

He felt a boot kick against his leg and his knees bucked. He fell forward into a kneeling position, his head bowed slightly. His old wounds cried out in pain but he just inhaled deeply and bit his lip. He balled his hands into fists to conceal the shaking. Tears pulled at his eyes but he wiped them away with his shoulder.

"Do you have any last words, Ketil Østberg?"

He looked up to see Aslaug standing over him now. Her face was devoid of emotion, only her eyes showed a spark of life.

Ketil shook his head. "I suppose we make our own paths in the end. Goodnight Polaria, may you prosper."

Aslaug raised her head. "Goodbye my brother."

She took a step back as a man in a black hood emerged from the crowd. Ketil let out a deep sigh.

He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not when he had so many things left to do. He had so many promises to keep. So many things that he still had to accomplish.

He wanted to hold Kaspar one more time. To somehow change the way things were. Perhaps if he had traded his life in for Kaia's instead. This death was so meaningless. This death brought nothing after. No change. No life. It simply was an end. It was a period at the end of a sentence, a wax seal against the letter that sealed his acts, it was the end.

Ketil's executioner placed his foot on Ketil's shackled hands, causing him to bow down. Ketil looked up at him, tears brimming in his eyes. He adjusted his grip on the handle of an axe. The guards around him stood back, forming a large circle around them.

Would this be his last view? Staring up at a man in a hood with an axe?

The executioner looked down at him and through the eye slots in his hood, Ketil recognized those eyes. He recognized something else too. The executioner wore a pendant necklace—Dante's necklace, the one Jameson had stolen for her.

Jameson?

"Jameson?" Ketil's voice shook.

The executioner dropped something in front of him before raising his axe and swinging towards Aslaug.

There was a collective gasp as Aslaug tripped over her own cape, blood spurting from her side as Jameson's axe sliced through its mark. She let out a stifled scream of pain, blood soaking through her white clothes almost immediately. Jameson removed his hood, smiling at Ketil and the shocked audience who did nothing but stare.

Ketil grabbed the keys in front of him, desperately undoing the shackles around his wrists. His hands shook as he cast off the shackles.

He watched as Jameson raised the blade again and swung down. Aslaug slid out of the way, producing a dagger from the sheath on her thigh.

"NO! Jameson look out!" Ketil screamed but Aslaug was fast, even with the blood loss and shock, she was much faster than the wounded Jameson. She was on her feet before Jameson knew what was happening.

She plunged the dagger into the man's chest, slicing down until the gash was thick and deep. Jameson let out a single noise that sounded more like a squeal than a scream of pain. He clawed at the wound as he fell to his knees. He fell again, a small gasp escaping his lips. His eyes flashed to Ketil, glossy and unfocused, his lips moving with slow, unintelligible words.

Aslaug left the dagger inside Jameson's chest and picked up his axe. She turned towards her brother now with a look of anger and insanity.

"I have to do everything for myself around here," she stumbled a step before Ketil found his feet.

He tried taking a few steps back, but he hadn't managed to free the shackles around his ankles and they prevented any quick movements. Aslaug raised the blade, swinging viciously towards him. He stumbled back, hands outstretched to protect his neck—as if that would help.

She swung again and a pain came across his face, searing into existence as he fell back, blood tasting against his lips. For a moment, he was paralyzed, the blood dripping into his left eye blinding him and rolling down his cheeks.

He rolled out of the way as Aslaug chopped down at him. He was on his back now, looking up at the dome. His hand touched the gash across his left eye, mouth open in horror. He didn't have time to think about what happened to his eye, Aslaug was standing over him with an axe. She was going to kill him. Again.

"This ends now," she whispered. "Brother, I've allowed you to continue for far too long. Now, we end this."

"That's where you're wrong, love," came a voice and Aslaug dropped the axe as a crack echoed around the room. She screamed in pain, her right hand now bloodied. Her fingers curled into a fist slowly and she pressed the injured hand against her side. Her mouth was open in a mangled scream.

"Do something!" She screamed at the guards around them. "Kill them!"

"They're all batræ by your command," the voice said again and Ketil finally recognized her.

Anubis!

"And I think they'd rather see you dead. After everything you've done to them and their families—they want to see you bleed."

Aslaug looked at all of them before breaking into a limping sprint.

"You won't get far," Anubis called after her, "my new Order won't let you escape, love."

Ketil floated between shock and hyperawareness. He knew he was still lying on his back looking up at the dome and that perhaps fifty pairs of eyes were on him, watching for his next move. He knew that blood was beginning to pool in his eye-socket and drip down his cheeks. But he also couldn't force himself to sit up, all he could do was cup his left eye in his palm and stare up with his right eye.

Anubis appeared in front of him, holstering a revolver. He let out a whimper. She knelt beside him, her mouth pulled into a frown. She smelled of sewage and something stained her dark clothes—he didn't ask about it. She worked on the shackles around his ankles, freeing him.

"Ketil, you have to get up. You have to finish this. No one else is going to do it for you."

"My eye—Anubis—my eye, it's. it's—"

She grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him upright. The blood escaped his cupped hands, streaking across his face with gravity's intervention. He could taste it against his lips. "I know. It's bad and you're going to be blind in that eye. It's bad, but you have to go. You have to do this, Ketil." She kissed his cheek, "go. Be strong. Remember the mission. Remember what you're fighting for."

What was he fighting for?

Kaspar.

He thought about the child—an orphan with no one to care for him. And he promised Kaia. He promised her that he would always look after him. And that was one promise he would never break.

Fight for Kaspar.

He forced himself to his feet now, picking up the bloody axe that had fallen to the ground. He dragged the axe behind him. Without looking at the trail of red, he knew where she would be.

He looked back to see Dante holding onto Jameson, sobbing as she desperately tried to wake him up. But it was no use. Jameson was thoroughly dead now.

At least it wasn't a painful end.

Ketil didn't have the time to process what it really meant.

And perhaps that wasn't a terrible thing.

Ketil stumbled down the pathway, marking his trail with droplets of red. He was a wounded animal—something feral and untamed and something that wanted revenge.

The black-suited guards lining the sides stepped away to let him pass.

They would see how this ended before declaring their master.

He found his way underneath the weeping tree, throwing aside branches until he found her crouched by their mother's statue.

"Ketil. Never thought I'd see you here." she muttered, blood coating her dress and face. The gaping wound on her side spilled even more until the ground was nearly muddy. She was delusional from blood loss. She wiped her shot right hand across her mouth, smearing red against her lips. "You coward, couldn't even kill me yourself!"

"Shut up." His voice was unusually steady and Aslaug did as he commanded for once. "I'm doing the talking now."

Ketil took a deep breath, blood streaming down his face. His eye stung. Aslaug's eyes met his right eye, heavy breaths wracking her chest. She gritted her teeth, her own blood running down her white dress. Her hair stuck to her skin, matting together in the red that dripped down her side.

"Looks like you chose the wrong day to wear white, sister."

"Coward!"

Ketil looked down to the axe in his hands, his head light from his own blood loss. Memories ran through his mind in slow motion. Memories from when they were children and life prized innocence. Back when their mother was still alive and tried to keep them away from the Østberg way of life.

He remembered something else too...the dagger in his chest, Olve facedown in the snow, Kaia's final words, Jameson falling to his knees to die, Vasco lying dead in the snow, their father in his last moments....

He looked into his sister's eyes and saw something feral behind the icy blue irises. But now there was a fear there too.

Aslaug feared him?

He took a breath, lips curling into a snarl. "Remember when you said I wasn't an Østberg because I couldn't do what was necessary?"

She opened her mouth to protest and he laughed, cutting her off.

"My sister, you were very wrong. I am an Østberg at heart."

~~~

Ketil Østberg walked back to the throne, dropping the blood stained axe he held in one hand. The sound reverberated across the garden, but Ketil could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart and the blood rushing to his head.

As he walked through the pathway, black-suited guards fell to their knees, heads bowed down. Anubis fell to her knees as she saw him, the rest of the Order following in suit.

They respected him.

Not one there would meet his eyes.

No.

They feared him.

He found his way to Aslaug's throne, taking a seat. He raised his right hand that held a bloody crown—the same crown he took from Aslaug's head. Ignoring the red fingerprints that stained the jewel in the center and the long white strands of hair that stuck to the metal, he lifted it and placed it on his head.

It fit his head as if it was made for only him.

He lifted his head, blood running down his face, his mangled left eye open and staring straight ahead.

Emperor Ketil Østberg watched his empire fall to their knees.