Itzal was bound hands and feet to a post in the courtyard outside the west prison of Dartxu, the capital of Basamortah. Though the afternoon sun scorched his skin, his happiness at feeling its warmth once again was immense.
It had been three years of damp and dark and now finally the weight of uncertainty had been lifted. He was going to die as he always knew he would, but not of slow disease as he had feared. Rather, he would suffer only a quick and sure execution in the light and warmth of the sun. His daughter would receive a report informing her in a few words that his imprisonment had come to a quick and final end. She would be free to move on with her husband, her children, with her life. Itzal was content with this.
When the execution party arrived, not one was what he had expec
