A Girl, an Axe, and an Arrow

A restless crowd swelled around her on all sides as the guards dragged her onto the platform. The bloodthirsty mob roared and jeered. „Off with the thief’s hand!” „Cut it off!” They judged her, demanding a painful punishment – though she never harmed any of them.

She stole only from those whose coffers still overflowed with more than enough. Thikune had grown up on these very streets – among the very people who now pelted her with rotten fruit and called for her blood. And who now wished to see her spend the rest of her life handless.

She lifted her head, trying to meet their eyes. To remind them she was one of their own. She even recognised a few faces. Old Magge, who sometimes gave her a bread roll — if one had been left from yesterday. Cobly the blacksmith, who could very well be the one to forge the axe that would part her hands from her wrists.

She didn’t want to think about it, yet she saw them. And none of them wished to see her — not truly.

They saw only the thief, the spectacle. Not one of the wealthy she lightened by a few coin pouches stood among them. They already forgot their loss.

The Governor of Globerg was known to favour mutilations over swift executions. The crowd came for the screams, not the silence.

But Thikune decided she wouldn't scream. Though she was terrified — trembling so hard her teeth chattered.

She knew exactly where she’d gone wrong; her thoughts kept circling back to the moment of her failure. That purse, hanging carelessly from the belt of a tall, elegant stranger, was too tempting. There were guards in the square, yes, but she trusted her speed and her luck – as she always had.

She moved swiftly; the small blade hidden between her fingers sliced the leather strap cleanly, and the purse dropped neatly into her palm. She was already turning to flee when a firm hand gripped her wrist and yanked her back.

Spinning like a dancer, she found herself face to face with the man. For a moment, all she could see were the dazzling green eyes, and she marvelled at how someone could move so quickly.

The marketplace began to stir as the first shout rang out – “Thief!” – and only then did her gaze tear away from the smiling face, searching for a way to escape.

The man released her wrist and looked around with nearly the same alarm as she.

The shout summoned the city guard, and soon the thunder of their boots surrounded them. Too many, too close.

Like a cornered animal, she turned in place, seeking a way out – but there was none. The man calmly reattached his purse and turned to the guard officer, easily recognisable by his crimson sash.

“Please, good sergeant, it’s all a misunderstanding.”

Two guards were already gripping her arms.

“A misunderstanding? She robbed you.”

“But I have my purse,” he said, tapping his belt, “and no one was harmed. I have no wish to press charges.”

“Press charges? This is a caught-in-the-act offence. And believe me, good sir, a dozen others wished to press charges before you. We thank you for delaying her. Take her away!” he barked to his men and strode off.

The man watched them go, his gaze dark with thought. He knew well the local laws and what awaited a convicted thief merely to satisfy the governor’s bloody taste for theatre. And the officer’s words left no doubt – she would be convicted.

If she were lucky, she might even keep half a hand. If not, she would not be the first to die slowly after a torture like this.

This was partly his fault. A few rubies were not worth this. Why did he stop her? Perhaps because it was the first time someone actually took his purse – though many had tried.

It would be a shame to lose those nimble fingers. He needed to do something. But words would no longer suffice. He turned and quickly made his way towards the western quarter, his long black hair tied back, swaying with each determined step.

Thikune was dragged up the rickety wooden steps. She would have walked on her own, but the guards knew what the crowd craved. Public punishments were never just justice – they were spectacle. The guards were part warriors, part performers.

Atop the platform stood a low chopping block, ringed in straw to ease the cleanup of blood. Its dark brown hue spoke plainly of the many hands and heads that met their end here.

She was forced to her knees.

The crowd howled.

Someone behind her began reading the sentence aloud. She heard the words, yet their meaning slipped past her. Her thoughts were gone, her body ruled by feeling. And right now, she wished she could feel nothing at all.

The rasp of whetstone on the blade pierced the air.

The enforcer was sharpening his cleaver – for show.

It was sharp enough already.

She felt the damp straw beneath her knees. The guards loosened her bonds only to loop new ones around her wrists, stretching her arms painfully wide. She bent forward from the strain.

A strange scent hit her nose, mingling with the familiar stink of sweat and straw. The texture of the block was rough beneath her fingers, and she clutched it tightly, desperate to remember the feel of it – perhaps the last thing she would ever touch with that hand.

Then came the cold. An aura of chill wrapped around her, and she began to shiver. She looked up, confused – the crowd was still screaming, jeering, thirsty for blood, but none of them seemed to feel that cold.

And that was when she saw him. A glint – green eyes on a distant balcony. Then something streaked from that direction – a single arrow with a blazing tip.

It struck the base of the chopping block, and in a heartbeat, the whole platform burst into flame.

Oil, she realised. That was the strange scent she’d noticed.

Her arms were free – the guards let go, caught off guard, now flailing in burning uniforms. Panic surged through the square. She was ringed in fire, but she felt no heat. Still cold. She heard the shrieks as the crowd scattered. The guards saw only their own peril.

Now. Run!

Leaping through the flames, she vanished into the fleeing masses. She shook off the scorched rope-ends. Snatching up scarves and a crying child left behind, she blended in with the chaos, screaming with the rest. She ran towards the direction the arrow came from. She had to leave the city – too many knew her face. But first, she wanted to thank the green-eyed man.

She set the child down in a doorway and pressed on. The crowd thinned. Some stopped, others already reached the streets. She no longer ran, but moved quickly, heading for the building with the balcony.

But she saw no sign of him. No tall figure among the retreating shadows. She turned towards the city gate. Perhaps they believed she perished in the flames. With luck, no one would search for her.

Only now did the truth settle: she should have died in those flames. She remembered the cold that shielded her. Again and again, her thoughts circled back to the green-eyed stranger who risked so much to save her – her hand, her life. But why?

She imagined what would have awaited her – mutilated, branded. Whatever path lay ahead, it would be better. She caught up with a wagon, head down as she walked through the city gate, leaving everything she'd ever known.

From the shadows of a nearby pillar, the man watched the last wagons depart and the small figure trailing behind.

”We’ll meet again,” he whispered.