"So, you want my help," Saifan said, arms crossed and a smug look on his face. "Give me one good reason I should help a slave like you."
He would be hard to convince. Zad knew that. But there was a question lingering in his mind—something Saifan had hinted at earlier. If he played this right, maybe it would sway him.
"Saifan, don't you think it's strange?" Zad said, steady and composed. "You're a noble. Your execution would cause a diplomatic disaster—you said so yourself. And yet the guards acted like it meant nothing. Doesn't that seem off to you? Something's not right… for either of us."
He remembered the first loop—how Saifan had tried to appeal to the guards and failed. Now he was using that moment, playing the memory back as leverage.
And Zad had a point. A logical one. Nobles were supposed to be tried in formal courts. Regardless of the crime, they had their own legal process. Sending one to a place like here, a public execution town? That wasn't just irregular.
It was unthinkable.
Ali—now Zad—didn't fully grasp the legal structure of this world, but he could feel it. There was more going on here. The way things were being handled, the urgency, the dismissal of protocol—it all pointed to one thing.
Someone wanted to erase something.
Saifan's eyes narrowed, surprised that a slave would dare speak to him like that. He recoiled slightly—but then straightened up, reminding himself of his status.
"That is… correct," he admitted. "I've been wondering about it myself. Normally, someone of my rank would go through a formal trial. Especially someone whose family holds a barony on the Eastern Coast."
Zad pressed forward. "Doesn't it feel like they're rushing to get rid of someone? Like they're hiding something? Maybe trying to erase evidence."
Saifan went quiet. The smugness faded just a little.
"They didn't even allow me to send a letter. No audience, no formal charges read aloud. Just dragged here under vague accusations. It's not just unusual, it's an insult. They want someone to die."
Zad nodded, thinking fast. He didn't know the full political structure of this world, not yet. But even he understood—nobles weren't executed like this unless something was seriously wrong.
"I have a plan," Zad said. "It could work. But I'll need your help."
Saifan studied him. A slave making deals with a noble? In any other setting, Zad's tongue would have been cut out for that. But now—right now—they were both condemned men, standing in the same dirt.
"I'm listening," Saifan finally muttered, looking away, pride clearly bruised.
"If you can ask the guards for wine, just a cup, we can use it to get the witch her strength back. Then maybe she can break us out."
Saifan's head turned sharply. "Wine? For that woman? You want me to trust a witch?"
"She's the only shot we have," Zad said, holding his ground. "Yes, it's insane. But look around—this whole situation is insane."
There was a beat of silence. Saifan didn't respond right away. His eyes drifted toward the door at the end of the corridor—the one that led straight to the execution plaza. Then, back to the prisoners around him. Time was slipping through their fingers.
"…The guards don't like me . That much is clear," Saifan muttered. "But I'll see what I can do."
"All I ask," Zad said, "is that you try."
They both glanced over at Leon, who was breaking formation again—begging, panicking, pleading with the guards.
Zad didn't know how many more loops he could survive.
The cloaked figure stood still, silent and unmoving.
"So, are you in?" Zad asked.
Saifan let out a long breath. "It truly pains me to say this, but yes. Even if I must trust a witch, and even if I must rely on a slave… I need to get back to my father."
Then, with a scoff, he added, "This will be the only time you see me at my lowest. Don't mistake it for friendship."
Zad gave a half-smile. "Who wants to be friends with a shithead noble anyway?"
"I'd have your tongue cut for that. But thank our miserable circumstances." Saifan replied.
He adjusted his coat, stood straighter, cleared his throat, and called out—
"Guards. I require your attention."
The two guards, who'd been too busy shoving Leon around, finally turned their attention to Saifan.
"What is it?" one of them barked.
"For a guard to speak so arrogantly to a noble... how utterly disgusting," Saifan said coldly.
The first guard opened his mouth to snap back, but the other one raised a hand and stopped him.
"We know who you are," the calmer guard said. "But this is wartime. You know we can't just let you go, noble or not."
"That doesn't mean you get to strip me of a trial," Saifan said, voice sharp. "You threw me in prison and handed down a death sentence without even allowing me to speak in my own defense. That's not how nobles are treated—not in Agrabiyya, not anywhere."
The second guard finally responded, voice dripping with disdain. "Who cares what you think? In this town, nobody gives a damn who you are. You're going to die. That's the only reality that matters here."
"If this reaches my father," Saifan said, stepping forward, his voice calm but cutting, "you'll both be judged for disgracing a noble. Trials for men of my status are held in Qamara—the capital. That's the law. It always has been. Since when did war erase that? Don't insult me. You're hiding something. I'm being used as a decoy, aren't I?"
Qamara.
So that was the name of the capital. Zad etched it into memory. Slowly, the shape of this world was starting to emerge.
Saifan's words didn't just sting. They cut deep, dragging something raw and ugly to the surface.
The guards didn't answer. Not at first. They exchanged a glance—brief, instinctive. But enough.
They knew.
And Saifan was right.
Zad caught it. So did the cloaked figure, whose head tilted toward Saifan for the first time, silent and still. But Saifan didn't flinch. He stared back, undaunted, eyes hard with quiet fury. He refused to acknowledge their presence.
Leon, caught awkwardly between them all, stood frozen. His hands hovered at his sides, unsure whether to speak or bolt. The corridor felt tight, heavier with every breath. Somewhere nearby, a door creaked with the dry wind. Tension soaked the air like blood in sand.
Then, finally, one of the guards stepped forward.
"This is the execution town of Condema," he said with a cold smile. "Also known as the End Line for the Condemned."
Condema... so that's the name of this town? And "End Line for the Condemned?" Zad thought internally. The name struck him as strange at first, almost theatrical. But when he stood in the execution plaza, he understood. The entire town seemed built around that guillotine—as if it were the main attraction, the centerpiece of everything Condema had to offer.
"No one cares if you die here, little noble. Your name, your background—wiped from the records. You'll vanish like the rest. So scream if you want. Beg. It's over for you."
Zad recoiled at the blunt admission. This wasn't just cruelty—it was confirmation. They were hiding something. Something big.
Saifan's tone changed. "Then forget release," he said, voice level. "At least have the decency to grant me one last request. A drink. Some wine. That's not too much to ask, is it?"
The guards exchanged a glance again.
After a moment, the guard who'd been calling Saifan "little noble" sighed and turned away. He returned shortly, holding a clay flask.
Saifan reached for it—
—but before he could speak, the guard smirked and poured the wine over Saifan's head.
Gasps echoed down the corridor.
The witch's eyes widened. "No! Don't waste it!" she shouted.
The Clown burst into wild laughter.
The other prisoners looked on—some confused, some horrified.
Zad was stunned.
The guard leaned in, close to Saifan's face. "Doesn't matter who you were," he said. "Right now, you're under our command."
"Bastard!" Saifan shouted, lunging forward in rage.
Amal reacted immediately. "Leon! Hold him! The guards might kill him!"
"H-Huh?! O-Okay!" Leon panicked, arms flailing as he tried to restrain the furious noble.
"LET ME GO! I'LL KILL THAT SWINE! I'LL BURN HIS HEAD AND MOUNT IT IN MY ROOM!"
The guards laughed harder.
"Calm down!" Amal yelled. "The guards here—they kill the condemned for fun! Especially if you act out!"
And then, The doors at the far end of the corridor burst open. Harsh sunlight streamed into the hall. A gust of dry wind swept through, brushing against their faces.
Zad's heart dropped.
"…My time limit," he whispered. "It's up."
Emil turned to him, her tone quiet, eerie, and almost tender.
"Zad. There's no escaping this. Accept your fate. I saw our death today. Just give up."
She smiled—thin, weary, almost hollow.
"Try all you like, but you'll meet the same end. No matter how hard you fight it."
Zad was stunned. Her words hit harder than any chain. What did she mean? Why would she say this? If he gave up, it wouldn't just be his death—it would be hers too. And the others.
"So why... why are you telling me to give up?"
"It's for your own good," she said softly. "Just... rest easy."