No one shouted.
That was the strangest part.
Alex waited for it—the cry that would fracture the moment, the raised voice that would name what was happening and force everyone to acknowledge it. Instead, the square adjusted itself in small, almost polite ways.
A woman stepped aside, basket shifting against her hip. A man turned his back, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wall. Children were pulled closer, faces pressed briefly into skirts before peeking out again.
The space made room.
The beggar shrank farther into the shadow beside the bakery, rocking harder now, his murmurs slipping into something that barely resembled language.
"No, no, no… not again, not again…"
Alex followed the line of attention.
Three guards emerged from between two buildings near the edge of the square. Their pace was steady, unhurried. Armor dull with age. Not ceremonial—used. One carried a spear with a nicked blade. Another had a coil of chain looped over his shoulder, iron links clinking softly with each step.
Between them walked a woman.
Her hands were bound at the wrist with rope that had darkened from use. She stumbled once on the uneven stone and caught herself before any of the guards needed to intervene. Her dress hung awkwardly, torn at the hem, stained with dirt and ash. Dark hair clung to her face in damp strands, her skin slick with sweat despite the open air.
Alex's mouth went dry.
This wasn't how arrests happened in stories. There was no resistance. No screaming accusations. No dramatic struggle.
Just movement.
Just procedure.
The guards guided her toward the old stone post near the center of the square. Alex had noticed it earlier—had wondered idly what it was for. The iron bands around it were scarred and blackened, the stone beneath worn smooth in places no weather alone could explain.
The stack of wood beside it was already arranged.
Careful.
Intentional.
Alex felt something inside him pull tight.
"This isn't—" he started, then stopped.
The baker didn't look up from her counter. She wrapped a loaf in cloth, movements quick and economical, hands steady in a way that felt deliberate.
"This isn't normal," Alex tried again, softer this time.
She set the loaf aside.
"It is," she said.
The beggar let out a broken laugh.
"They said she listened," he whispered. "They always say that."
Alex turned sharply. "Listened to what?"
The beggar shook his head, lips peeling back from his teeth in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Doesn't matter," he whispered. "It never does."
The guards reached the post.
Up close, the iron bands looked older than the square itself—dark with soot, pitted with rust that had eaten deep into the metal. The stone beneath bore faint grooves, shallow but numerous, worn smooth by years of hands, rope, and heat.
The woman looked at it and stopped walking.
One of the guards tugged the rope at her wrists. Not hard. Just enough.
She resisted then.
It wasn't violent. She didn't thrash or pull away. She simply went rigid, feet planted, breath hitching sharply in her chest. For a moment, the guards paused, exchanging glances as if deciding whether this deviation required force.
The crowd leaned in.
More people had gathered now—drawn from side streets, doorways, open windows. The square thickened with bodies, closing in from all sides until Alex felt the press of it against his back, his arms, his shoulders. Heat rose between them, breath and sweat and anticipation blending into something close and stifling.
The woman's breath broke.
"No," she said hoarsely.
The word carried.
Heads turned fully now. Conversations died. Even the beggar fell silent, rocking slowly until it stilled altogether.
One of the guards stepped behind her and forced her forward.
The rope bit into her wrists.
She screamed.
The sound tore out of her, sharp and unrestrained, ripping through the square like a blade. It wasn't loud for long—but it didn't need to be. It carried something raw enough to make Alex's skin prickle, his stomach twist hard.
A child began to cry somewhere in the crowd.
Someone shushed them.
The woman sagged against the post as the guards worked quickly, looping rope around her torso, her arms, her waist. Knots tightened. Fibers creaked. Her scream dissolved into ragged breaths, then into a hoarse sob she seemed unable to stop.
The firewood was stacked neatly at her feet.
Alex stared at it, at the deliberate care taken in its arrangement. This wasn't a mob's anger. This was preparation.
"This isn't right," he said again, though the words felt thin even as he spoke them.
The baker did not look at him.
"It's necessary," she replied.
The guards stepped back.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the crowd parted.
Not hurriedly. Not dramatically. People simply shifted aside as an older man made his way toward the center of the square. He walked with the assurance of someone who had never had to raise his voice to be heard.
He wore layered robes in muted, earthen colors, their hems embroidered with symbols Alex didn't recognize—lines and curves worn smooth with age. His hair was white, drawn back neatly, his beard braided close to his chin. No weapon hung at his side.
The guards inclined their heads as he passed.
The murmurs quieted.
The woman lifted her head, eyes wild and shining.
"Please," she rasped.
The old man stopped before her.
He did not answer.
Instead, he turned to face the crowd.
"People of the stone," he said.
His voice was calm. Measured. It carried without effort, threading cleanly through the crackle of wood and the shallow breathing of hundreds of bodies pressed together.
"You have gathered as witnesses."
The words settled like a weight.
"This judgment is not born of anger," he continued. "Nor of fear. It is born of memory."
He gestured once, slow and deliberate, toward the post.
"We remember what listens."
A murmur rippled through the crowd—not loud, not chaotic. Agreement. Recognition.
The old man turned back to the woman.
"You were warned," he said. "More than once."
She shook her head weakly. "I only sang," she whispered. "I only repeated what was already there."
"Hearing is not harmless," the old man replied. "And repeating is an invitation."
He raised one hand.
The guards moved toward the firewood.
Alex's chest felt too tight.
This was no longer something he could explain away. Dreams didn't justify themselves like this. They didn't build rules, didn't gather witnesses, didn't speak of memory as if it were a weapon.
The old man drew a breath.
"By the customs that keep our walls standing," he said, "by the silence that keeps the stone still—"
The woman sobbed.
Alex's heart pounded so hard it hurt.
The judgment was still unfolding.
And the world, for now, was watching.