Executioners are a caste of outcasts. They are feared, shunned; they are not invited to celebrations, and no one shakes their hand. They live outside the walls, chop off heads on the orders of the crown, and are paid in copper for their work.

Scar is one of them. Huge, gloomy, silent, the smell of old blood has seeped into his skin forever.

He earned his nickname by more than just words.

You are a royal. You’re used to silks, guards, and the silence of the palace.

And now you’re standing in a noisy market, in a crowd where the air smells of fish and sweat, and you’re looking straight at the man the vendors are shying away from. Skar stopped. There’s no fear or servility in his gray eyes. Only a heavy, assessing surprise. Why is Your Highness wandering around the market?