Nanotechnology: The Last Prince Of Wales From The Future

The trial was grim, the tension in the air thick as Waladr's fate was sealed by the evidence found in his home—letters that proved his betrayal, and the damning testimony of the captured messenger. His fate was intertwined with that of a woman, accused of witchcraft. She would hang for the crime of writing equations to predict celestial movements, which the church and townsfolk viewed as meddling with people's future.

Ethan observed the proceedings from the back, his mind racing. It is a cruel time indeed, he thought, where brilliant minds were extinguished by the flames of ignorance, she'll be hanged for studying astrology.... The priest's voice boomed across the square, a cacophony of condemnation. "She is a demon!" he roared, his finger pointed at the woman, who stood silently, her head bowed. The crowd echoed his fervor, their cries feeding off each other in a frenzy. "She's the reason your children die early! She brings disease and death!"

Ethan clenched his fists, stepping forward deliberately. His voice cut through the noise, calm yet commanding. "May I have a word, Father?" The crowd hushed, turning their attention to him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

Ethan approached the priest, his eyes steady. "If you let her down, I'll donate a substantial sum of silver to the church." He named an amount that made the priest blink in surprise, his self-righteous demeanor faltering.

The priest cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. "Perhaps... perhaps, in her misguided ways, she sought knowledge out of curiosity rather than malice. As our faith teaches mercy, perhaps we should show it for now..." His words, though sanctimonious, carried the weight of the promise of silver.

Ethan suppressed a smirk. There's always a price for everything, he thought.

From the crowd, Gwyn leaned into Gruffudd, whispering, "The little lord has taken a liking to a witch. This doesn't bode well, especially with those dreams of his."

Gruffudd silenced him with a sharp glare, unwilling to entertain such talk.

Moments later, Waladr and his sons were led to the gallows. The woman, spared from hanging, was led away under Callwen's watch.

The crowd stilled, the chaotic murmurs dying to a hush as the executioner approached. The nooses, coarse, were slipped around the necks of Waladr and his sons. The ropes dug into their skin, leaving red marks as they were pulled taut. Waladr stood defiant, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of dread. His sons from different mothers were mere boys in the eyes of many, quivered but held their ground, bound by both fear and familial pride.

The executioner's hands rested on the lever, the moment stretched taut like the ropes themselves. Then, with a brutal yank, the trapdoors beneath their feet fell away.

A sickening crack echoed as bodies dropped, necks snapping, the air filled with the gruesome air of death. Waladr's head jerked violently to one side, his eyes bulging, mouth open in a silent scream. His sons writhed briefly, their limbs thrashing as they fought the inevitable, before the spasms ceased and their bodies hung limp.

Blood dribbled from their noses, staining their tunics. The crowd watched in morbid fascination, some turning away, unable to stomach the sight, while others stared, eyes wide with a mix of horror and satisfaction. The heavy thud of boots echoed as Gruffudd approached, his face carved from stone, gaze fixed on the lifeless forms.

"Let this be a lesson to all," he growled, his voice carrying over the gathered throng. "This is the fate of traitors."

The corpses swung gently in the breeze, the ropes creaking under the weight. Their eyes, now glassy and devoid of life, stared into the abyss, tongues swollen and purple, protruding from their mouths.

Ethan stood apart from the crowd, his jaw clenched, eyes locked on the scene. The stench of death, mingling with the sweat of the crowd, filled his nostrils. When Gruffudd leaves for Llangollen he'll take all the able bodied man....should i suggest for the town to be in my care, it sits at the heart of the north afterall.

Callwen, lead the witch away from the scene, cast a final glance back. The woman stumbled, her legs weak beneath her, but Callwen's grip was firm, guiding her away from the macabre display.

In Ethan's lodging, Callwen prepared new clothing for the woman, who stood quietly by the hearth, her figure shrouded in a tattered cloak. Callwen's voice broke the silence, gentle but firm. "What's your name?"

The woman hesitated, her long hair hanging over her face, which was streaked with grime. Her body tensed as Callwen approached, and she recoiled slightly at his touch. Finally, she whispered, "Beca."

Callwen nodded, offering a reassuring smile. "Listen, Beca. My liege is merciful and powerful. He's your kind, too."

Beca's brow furrowed. My kind? The words echoed in her mind, a question without an answer.

Callwen believed it made sense for Ethan to save her. She was a devil like him, in some way that wasn't entirely clear but felt intrinsically true. He left her to wash, the door closing softly behind him.

In the solitude of the small chamber, Beca shed the remnants of her captivity, revealing a slender figure beneath the layers of dirt. She bathed methodically, the water stinging her skin as she scrubbed away the grime, her thoughts a swirl of relief and apprehension.

Meanwhile, Ethan walked through the narrow alleys of the town, his nose wrinkling at the stench of waste and decay. "Ugh i must do something about this filth," he muttered, sidestepping a pile of shit. The squalor gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the realities of the world he was trying to get accustomied to.

He entered his lodging, the door creaking on its hinges. Shedding his fur coat, he called for Callwen, who promptly appeared, informing him of Beca's arrival and condition.

"Send her in," Ethan instructed, his tone measured.

Beca entered, her steps tentative. She wore the new clothes Callwen had provided, though they hung loosely on her slender frame. She inclined her head in gratitude. "Th-thank you for saving me....lord" she said softly. Does he also love the stars like me, that person said he's my kind...

Ethan gestured for her to sit. "Tell me, how did you come to be accused of witchcraft?"

Beca took a deep breath, her gaze flickering to the flames in the hearth. "The stars...." she began. "I sought answers in their movements, hoping to understand the patterns of the world. But when I questioned the teachings of the church... the priest's followers turned on me. They saw my curiosity as heresy."

Ethan listened intently, his expression unreadable. He understood the danger of knowledge in a world ruled by fear.

Beca studied him, noting the contrast between his youthful appearance and the weight of authority in his demeanor. She was twenty-three, a few years older than him, yet he seemed burdened with the air of someone much older. Her thoughts shifted to the unspoken debt she owed him. Nothing in life was free, the young lord will want something in return, she reminded herself.

Rising slowly, she moved toward him, her heart pounding in her chest. She stood before him, unsure of how to proceed. Then, in a gesture of vulnerability, she began to undo her garments, believing it was the only way to repay him.

Ethan's eyes softened with understanding. He reached out, his hand gently catching hers, halting her movements. "There's no need for that," he said quietly. His voice was firm but kind. "You will serve me in other ways. For now, rest. You've been through enough."

Beca's breath hitched, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and relief. She bowed her head, retreating a step. Ethan's touch lingered in her mind, a paradox of gentleness.

As she settled back into her seat, Ethan's gaze remained steady. "I paid a heavy sum for your freedom," he added. "You'll work for me until your debt is paid."

Beca nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. "Yes, my lord."

Inwardly, she marveled at Ethan. Am i not pretty enough for the young lord....is he perphaps....she wondered.