Garroter

When the night wind bleeds ash over Emberstryk, seven figures march with chains and collars. They are the Garroters. Fire collars glint in torchlight; handcuffs snarl at wrists of the condemned elf. Logi leads, voice low and absolute, laying out the sentence: guilt proven, law declared.   If the condemned is a fire elf, they climb with trembling resolve. If not, the collar burns hotter—flesh blistered, courage tested. The Garroters do not speak of mercy; they speak of order. Will o’ Wisps drift near, curious for the scent of smoke, the promise of death’s first ripple. From the crowd, someone whispers a name, someone drops to knees. The Garroters tighten chains, watch the climb, watch the flames lick skin.