THE COUNT

They called it surrender. She called it benediction

They gave her the courtesy of a blindfold.

She declined.

She wanted to see their faces.

There were six of them. Clean uniforms. Tired eyes. None looked at her for more than a second at a time. She was just a task—one they’d all pretend was justice later.

The captain counted aloud, slow and clear.
She didn’t hear him.

Her fingers loosened around the scrap of cloth in her hands. Something a child had given her—blue, soft, frayed at the corners. She let it drop to the dirt.

Raised her hands.
Lifted her gaze.
Not in fear. Not in plea.

She looked up like someone giving thanks at the end of a long day.

They called it surrender.
It wasn’t.
She was blessing them.

Every one of them. Every man with a finger on a trigger. She gave them her mercy. Because they would need it more than she ever would.

The count hit one.
The rifles rose.

The last thing they saw was her face—calm, open, full of something none of them could name.

Not defiance.
Not faith.
Not even forgiveness.

Just a woman who knew exactly what was happening.

And chose to rise into it anyway.