The sun is warm today, and the breeze carries the scent of roses.

  She laughs, and the kingdom listens. She laughs, and they take more.

  The baker wipes flour from his hands to hear her joke. The nobleman pauses mid-toast. The widow forgets why she was crying. Her voice rolls through the streets like a melody, wrapping around their throats, keeping them steady.

  She was always laughing. Even when her ribs ached, even when her voice cracked, even when she wanted to stop—because if she stopped, they might remember.

  And one day, they do.

  They remember she was never one of them. She was tolerated, even cherished, but never theirs. And that is dangerous. A thing too relied upon must be erased.

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  So they drag her to the square, not in anger, not in hatred, but in hunger. More, they say. One last time.

  She laughs. Even as her breath shudders. Even as her knees give out. She laughs as they clutch at her, hands tightening, eyes wide with need. The wolves are there too, waiting. Their teeth close in.

  But one of them hesitates.

  His grip is firm but not cruel. His mouth presses against her shoulder, but he does not tear. She knows him. Or she knew him, once. Before all of this. Before she was only laughter and nothing else.

  She turns her head slightly, enough to see him. Their eyes meet. He could let go. He could help her run. But the others would catch her, and he knows it. So he stays. And so does she.

  She is still laughing when her voice is gone, her mouth stuck in the shape of a joke they will never hear.

  The crowd watches, waiting, unblinking. They expect more.

  The wolves move in.

  Not because they want to. Not because they hate her. But because the rules say they must.

  And in that final moment, she exhales.

  Your throat is raw from screaming to a god who isn’t listening.

  And then, softly—

  The sun is warm today, and the breeze carries the scent of roses.

  And then—nothing.