The moon hung thin and watchful above the gathered folk, while voices, frayed by fear, braided themselves into a single terrible decision. A name was called the one the company believed marked in shadow and all eyes turned that way.
Yet fate is a stranger to our plans. As the sentence was given and the crowd held its breath, another faced the cold ring of judgment. Vincent the Artist was lynched.
Some call it sacrifice; others, a grievous error. Some say destiny shifted on a pin’s head; others call it the hand of doom guiding the blade.
The wind through the trees seemed to sigh in two voices, one lament, one question.
The Fellowship is left with a hollow both of grief and of wonder, for the act that was done was not the act they thought they chose.
Whether mercy, cunning, or mischance brought this result, the day will tell. For now, only the night holds the secret: why one life was spared and another taken in its stead.
Yet fate is a stranger to our plans. As the sentence was given and the crowd held its breath, another faced the cold ring of judgment. Vincent the Artist was lynched.
Some call it sacrifice; others, a grievous error. Some say destiny shifted on a pin’s head; others call it the hand of doom guiding the blade.
The wind through the trees seemed to sigh in two voices, one lament, one question.
The Fellowship is left with a hollow both of grief and of wonder, for the act that was done was not the act they thought they chose.
Whether mercy, cunning, or mischance brought this result, the day will tell. For now, only the night holds the secret: why one life was spared and another taken in its stead.
