Six Sentence Stories #7

I looked up from my shackles, as I was lead to the chopping block by the tip of a spear. A crowd of nobles and peasants had come to watch the death of a man, whose only charge was murder. The executioner stood hooded in black  beside the block, with a sharp axe in his hand. A silent excitement seemed to fill the air as I was pushed down on the worn, blood-stained, stone block. I had felt no guilt for what I did. The cold steel of the axe fell on my neck, and into the unfeeling embrace of death.

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