Outlawed Desires

The mob surged forward, a sea of bodies moving as one, their faces contorted with hatred, eyes alight with the same unshakable zeal.

The first strike landed, a brutal kick to Kenny's ribs that sent him sprawling on to the unforgiving ground. He barely had time to gasp before a woman, her face twisted in a snarl, hurled a rock. It struck his temple with a sickening thud. Blood spattered onto the ground. His mouth opened in a choked sound, but there was no chance to breathe. No mercy.

More hands. More fists. More feet.

The air rang with the dull, wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh, of bones cracking under force, of agony bleeding into the morning light.

Kenny screamed, his body jerking against the assault, but the noise was swallowed by the roar of the mob. The sound sent a chill through my bones, and I knew I would be haunted by it in my dreams.

Cheney wrenched free from the Mayor's grip, stumbling forward and throwing himself over Kenny's body. "Stop! Please! Take me instead!" His voice cracked, raw with anguish. But the crowd did not stop. They were a beast, a single, monstrous entity fueled by bloodlust.

A rock struck the side of his face, splitting the skin open.

Blood poured down his cheek, but he didn't move, didn't flinch. Only when the enforcers stormed forward did he jolt—kicking, thrashing, screaming as they wrenched him away. His nails clawed at the dirt, leaving behind deep, desperate grooves as the drag him back.

Breathe. Keep your head down. Do not feel. The words echoed in my mind, the same words I had lived by for so long. I had buried my emotions deep, locked them away where no one could find them. But now, something inside me was fracturing.

I wanted to look away, to close my eyes, to pretend this wasn't happening. But I couldn't. If I turned away, if I showed even the slightest flicker of emotion, they would know. They would question me. And in Eldermire, being questioned meant being a suspect.

I exhaled shakily, forcing myself to turn my head, just for a moment—to gather myself, to stop myself from shattering completely. No one was paying attention to me. No one except—

My breath hitched. Across the square, his gaze locked onto mine.

Malcolm Hayes. The Mayor's son. Tall, composed, and utterly unreadable.

He stood near the platform, his posture relaxed, unaffected, as if the chaos before him was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

His sharp features—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and the unmistakable blue-grey eyes of the Hayes bloodline—remained frozen in cold indifference. His blonde hair, always neatly styled, hadn't shifted despite the violence that unfolded before him. And even amid the chaos, I couldn't deny how handsome he was.

My heart lurched, and for a fleeting second, fear gripped me—not of him, but for myself. Had I let too much slip?

Had something in my face, my stance, my breath given me away? A single crack was all it took in Eldermire. One moment of weakness, one misplaced glance, and you were swallowed whole.

And of all people to witness mine—why did it have to be him?

But then, Malcolm's eyes flickered toward his father, a subtle movement, but deliberate. The Mayor remained engrossed in the spectacle, his cruel satisfaction evident in the firm set of his shoulders.

Then, so subtly I almost missed it, Malcolm shook his head.

A warning? A command? Keep watching.

The unspoken message slid through my veins like ice.

I tore my gaze away, forcing my expression into cold neutrality, though my heart hammered violently in my chest. The blood-curdling cries of Cheney clawed through the air, but I forced myself to remain still, to watch, to be nothing more than another obedient spectator.

But why? Why had Malcolm—the Mayor's son, a boy raised in the heart of Eldermire's merciless rule, saved me from suspicion?

Does he pity me? The thought was almost laughable. There was no room for pity in Eldermire. No room for weakness.

Or... A colder, more dangerous thought curled around my spine like a vice.

Is Malcolm Hayes against the city's laws, too?

The realization was dangerous. More dangerous than any punishment, more dangerous than the mob's bloodlust. If Malcolm—the Mayor's son—harbored even a sliver of doubt about his father's rule, it meant that Eldermire's walls weren't as impenetrable as they seemed.

I stole another glance toward him—careful, cautious. He hadn't moved. His expression remained blank, his gaze forward. Perfectly controlled, giving nothing way.

Cheney's blood-curdling scream yanked me back into the moment.

Kenny's cries had weakened to a fragile, broken gasp—his body battered, twisted, and barely recognizable as human. And still, they didn't stop. They wouldn't stop. Not until there was nothing left but a lifeless, bloodied shell.

My heart clenched painfully as I watched the light fade from his eyes. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something—maybe one last plea, one final breath. But no sound came. His body went limp, life slipping away in an instant.

And then, they cheered. Their voices rose in a triumphant roar, faces twisted with satisfaction. A crowd of monsters masquerading as people, celebrating the taking of a life they had no power to create.

The enforcers finally released their hold on Cheney, shoving him to the ground. He collapsed, barely catching himself, then crawled toward Kenny's body with a strangled sob. His hands trembled as he pulled his lover into his arms, cradling him as if he could somehow piece him back together, as if he could will the life back into him.

"No… No, no, no," Cheney gasped, rocking back and forth, his grief pouring from him in raw, broken cries. "Kenny, wake up, please—please, I can't... I can't... Oh god, what have I done? You said we'd leave together, you said we'd be free." His fingers clutched at Kenny's ruined body. "Why? Why? What did we ever do wrong?"

He looked up then, his tear-streaked face contorted with grief and rage. "Who decided love was a crime? Who gave you the right to play gods? You murderers—cowards! You hide behind your laws, but there is no justice in what you've done! There is no righteousness in this!" His voice cracked, hoarse with fury. "May the gods you claim to serve see you for what you truly are!"

The crowd sneered at his words, some spitting at him, others hurling insults, laughing at his pain.

Cheney's chest heaved with emotion, every breath a struggle as he fought to keep his voice steady. He looked down at Kenny's lifeless form, his heart shattering anew with each passing second.

As the enforcers moved to drag him away once more, Cheney clung to Kenny's body, refusing to let go. "You can't take him from me," he cried, his voice breaking. "You can't take our love."

But the enforcers were relentless, prying him away from Kenny and pulling him back into the throng of people. Cheney's eyes never left Kenny's face, even as he was dragged away, his grief turning to a cold, determined resolve.

"I curse you all," he yelled. "I curse you all!"

Through it all, the Mayor remained indifferent, his expression unmoved as he stepped forward. The weight of his presence seemed to crush the square into silence. Without hesitation, he grabbed Cheney by the arm, wrenching him to his feet as if he were nothing more than a discarded rag. Cheney barely resisted, his body limp, his spirit already fractured beyond repair.

The Mayor sneered. "The words of an abomination that bears no fruit hold no value to the gods. You're a waste of breath. A stain upon this city. And now—" He shoved Cheney forward, sending him sprawling into the dirt. "—it's your turn."

Cheney didn't even try to catch himself.

He hit the ground hard, arms limp at his sides, his body folding awkwardly like a puppet with its strings cut. He didn't push himself up. Didn't plead. Didn't fight. He just lay there, as if he had already given up on life.

The crowd descended upon him with the same rabid fervor, their hatred sharpened by the blood they had already spilled. But Cheney didn't scream. Didn't flinch. He had already died the moment Kenny did.

I stood there, trembling, my hands shaking so violently I could barely keep them at my sides.

How could people be so cruel? How could they look at this and still call it jjustice

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw myself in front of Cheney like he had done for Kenny, to shield him, to tear the mob apart with my bare hands—

But I did nothing. I couldn't.

I stole another glance at Malcolm. He was still standing there, still watching with that same detached face.

The Mayor and the Council of Purity looked on with sick satisfaction, some of them even smiling as Cheney's life was beaten from his body. It was a spectacle to them. Entertainment.

And when it was finally over, when Cheney's blood ran cold and his body lay still beside his lover's, the Mayor turned to the enforcers.

"Burn them."

The order was carried out without hesitation. Oil was poured. A single torch tossed. The flames caught quickly, hungry and merciless. Their bodies twisted as fire consumed them, reducing flesh and bone to ash.

The smell of burning flesh thickened the air.

The Mayor turned back to the crowd, raising a hand for silence. When he spoke, his voice rang with authority, laced with cold finality.

"Let this be a warning to those harboring abominable desires.

Love is sacred when it is righteous. It is vile when it is twisted. There is no place for corruption in Eldermire. No place for perversions of the natural order. Kenny and Cheney chose to defy the laws that have protected us for generations, and this—" he gestured to the smoldering remains behind him "—is the fate of those who follow in their footsteps.

Discipline breeds purity. Order preserves peace. And I will not allow filth to taint this city."

With that, he turned, stepping down from the platform. The Council of Purity followed, their expressions smug and satisfied. Malcolm moved with them, his face as unreadable as ever.

The crowd began to disperse, their bloodlust sated—for now.