The Last Confession of Rhosyn Vale

The chamber I wake in bears no memory. I do not know how I arrived, but its stones know me well. Damp, cruel stone walls, stitched with moss and mildew. The air smells of rusted iron and ancient sorrows. I know, without needing to be told, that this is a prison.

They say I am to die.

Not in whispers, not in kindness. It was declared by the Tribunal in their crimson robes and jeweled collars. They say I killed a man—no, they say I murdered him. A deliberate, soul-stained word. Murder. But words are like blades: how they're used makes all the difference.

I’m told my executioner is already en route from the Capitol—Sir Merek the Justicar, the King's own Headsman. It is said he will arrive before the noon bell on Faithday, and that at the twelfth stroke of the bell, my head shall fall. This, they tell me with such finality, as if death is the only truth that matters.

They have also sent a holy man, a priest of the High Temple, Father Elian, to see to my “salvation.” I am to confess. To bare my soul. To weep and repent. But I am not afraid for my soul. For does the Book of Light not promise that the meek, the pure of heart, shall walk among the Everstars and dwell in the Light of the Seven?

What frightens me is not death. It is the taste of metal on my tongue when I recall that day. The sound of breath escaping a body like air from a broken bellows. The way silence settles into flesh. That is the ghost that lingers.

My nights in the cell are sleepless, curled beneath a woolless sheet that repels neither damp nor dreams. The straw beneath me smells of mildew and rot. The pillow remembers other necks—condemned necks. Sometimes, when I drift, I wake gasping, certain I felt the blade upon my own.

This morning, I awoke to find the priest already there, watching. Father Elian sits beneath the single barred window, a pale shaft of light outlining his thin silhouette. He says nothing for some time, as though words would shatter the solemnity of the space. His presence is unnervingly gentle. He looks no older than a novice, yet speaks with the practiced gravity of a man twice his age.

“I am here,” he finally says, “to prepare you, Lady Rhosyn.”

Lady. A name I had nearly forgotten. A ghost of status. I was once Rhosyn Vale of House Caern, born in a manor now overgrown with bramble. Daughter of a disgraced banner knight and a weaver’s daughter. When they died of fever, I was taken in by Magistrate Harwin—who later died by my hand.

He continues, “The Tribunal declared your guilt. There was no protest, no counsel assigned to speak for you. You stood in bloodied robes, and they called it enough. I do not come to dispute them. I come to prepare your soul.”

I study him. “What does it matter, Father, if a soul is already prepared?”

“You deny guilt?” he asks gently.

“I deny nothing,” I reply. “But guilt is not the same as evil.”

That silences him. I can see his thoughts dancing behind blue eyes, but he says no more. He departs not long after, with a troubled look shadowing his boyish features.

The wind returns in the evening, moaning through the slits in the wall. It brings with it the cry of something—like a child, maybe. A weeping babe. My chest clenches. But I know it for what it is: some creature of the wild, or a trick of the night wind. My mind is playing its cruel games again.

The next morning, he returns.

“You did not sleep,” he says.

“Who sleeps, knowing the hourglass has run dry?”

“Rhosyn,” he says, dropping the ‘Lady’ now. “I urge you to speak, not to sway your verdict—there is no more room for that—but to unburden yourself. You do not strike me as one born to wickedness.”

“No,” I whisper. “But wickedness found me.”

He waits, silent and still.

So I begin.

“Death has a scent. You don’t learn that from books. Or sermons. Or soft-handed priests in golden sanctuaries. It’s metallic—like biting a coin—and thick, like rotted rose petals. The taste clings to the tongue long after the act.”

I pause. Father Elian doesn’t flinch.

“That day, the day I... did what I did, Harwin returned from the Temple drunk on sacramental wine. He stank of fruit and fire. I watched from the kitchen window as he dismounted—his gait uneven, his breath a fog of liquor.

I was preparing his meal. I’d spiced the venison roast the way he liked. He was always particular about his food, but never grateful. That day, I had a blade in hand—a carving knife, nothing more.

He entered the kitchen with the same familiarity as always, but there was a look in his eyes. The look of someone who sees not a woman but a possession. A thing.

He struck me first across the face. That was normal. He accused me of shorting the wine ration, of stealing figs. Then came the touch—familiar, expected, disgusting. I had endured it before. Every woman in service has. But something changed in me that day. Maybe it was the knife in my hand. Maybe it was the weariness in my bones.

When his hand gripped my throat and the other slid beneath my skirts, I turned and drove the blade into his belly.

He screamed. Loud and animal. Blood soaked his white robes, bright and hot. But he didn’t fall. He came at me again.

I stabbed him again.

And again.

And again.

Until there was no more motion, only breath fading like a dying candle. I stood there, soaked in his blood, until the guards arrived, summoned by his screams. They saw the blood, the knife, and me.”

Father Elian is pale now. His lips press into a thin line. Still, he listens.

“I told no one. I had no family left. No advocate to speak for me. My only witness was dead. And so they condemned me.”

There is silence for a long while.

Then, he speaks. “You were with child, weren’t you?”

I look away.

“Yes.”

“You still are?”

“Yes. His.”

Later that day, the priest visits again, bringing a crust of bread and a pear. It is the most generous meal I have received. As we eat, he tells me of his home village, a place by the western cliffs where wildflowers bloom year-round. I ask why he became a priest.

He smiles sadly. “To save people.”

“Have you saved me, Father?”

“I don’t know,” he admits.

That night, the child’s cry returns, clearer now. I press my hands over my ears, but it breaks through like a blade through skin. It is not a bird. It is not my imagination. I feel the child stirring within me, as if it, too, hears the crying of some soul not yet born.

Faithday arrives under a slate-gray sky. The clouds hang heavy with rain, but do not weep.

Father Elian returns early. His face is different—marked by despair.

“Rhosyn,” he says softly, “the Justicar arrived last night. He demands it be today. The execution has been moved forward.”

A small shiver traces my spine. But fear does not follow. I am ready.

“Then let it be,” I whisper.

“They will not delay, not even for the child.”

“I never expected mercy,” I reply. “Only a clean stroke.”

He grasps my hand and we pray—not for miracles, but for courage.

The Market Square is swollen with bodies. Though it is not a true holy day, word of an execution draws a crowd. They cheer and jeer, some bearing fruit to throw, others stones.

I am led in chains, barefoot and bare-headed, to the scaffold at the square’s center. The Tribunal watches from their high dais, faces masked in solemn disinterest.

The Justicar stands beside the block, tall and armored in blackened steel. He carries no axe, but a longsword, gleaming in the gray light like winter ice.

Father Elian walks beside me, his young face drawn tight.

The crowd hushes as Magistrate Lorcan steps forward. “Rhosyn Vale of House Caern, you are hereby sentenced to death for the crime of murder. May the Gods have mercy on your soul.”

“I will speak,” I announce.

A few voices cry, “Let her speak!” And I see Elian nod fiercely.

“Let her,” the Magistrate says reluctantly.

I step forward. The words are already in me.

“People of this city, I do not ask your pity. I only ask you listen. I killed a man. That is true. But I did not murder him. That is a word for monsters, and though I have lived among monsters, I am not one.

He beat me. He used me. He defiled my body and called it his right. I have no family left to defend me. My only companion now lies within me, innocent and unformed.

This city teaches girls to be silent, teaches them that pain is their inheritance. I broke that silence. And for that, I must die.

But know this: the sins done to me were never mine. And the child I carry—his child—dies today not for what he might become, but for what this city refuses to see.”

A wave of murmurs ripples through the crowd. One woman sobs. Another screams, “Justice for Rhosyn!”

Then, clear as a bell, Father Elian shouts, “She is with child! Let no innocent die with her!”

The Justicar falters.

The Tribunal hesitates.

But then—Magistrate Lorcan nods grimly.

The sword is raised.

I kneel.

“I am ready,” I whisper. “Do your duty.”

But my eyes seek only one face: Father Elian. His lips move in prayer, but I know he prays not to the Gods. He prays to memory. To justice. To love unspoken.

The sword falls.

And then—silence.

A silence not of terror, but of release.

The world spins sideways, and I am no longer there. No more stone, no more blade, no more blood.

I am at a river. Not the ones of this world, but a silvery shore beneath a violet sky. The waters ripple with light. I hear the gentle splash of oars, and a boat approaches.

In my arms rests an infant, quiet and warm. Waiting beside the river are two figures: a woman with kind eyes and flaxen hair—my mother. And beside her, robed in soft blue, stands Sister Linna, the woman who once sang me lullabies at the Abbey.

The Ferryman extends his hand. I take it.

We cross the river.

And the Glory of the Gods welcomes us home.