The sun beat down on the assembled crowd as the procession crawled up the winding dirt road. The hill was sparsely shaded, and Amira felt sweat trickle down her brow as she waited at the top, her executioner's axe by her side. She watched the column of soldiers approach, a slim figure being lead in cuffs at the front.

Prince Markus was the final member of the dreaded Antonov dynasty, a family that had ruled the southern lands with an iron fist for generations. A strapping young lad, he had managed to escape the initial chaos of the revolution, but was ratted out by the fearful lesser noble charged with protecting him, and was swiftly caught. By the time he had been taken back to the capital, his mother, father and little sister had already lost their heads to Amira's axe.

Amira stepped aside as the former Prince slowly ascended the staircase to the chopping block. She bowed slightly in deference, and Markus bowed back. His round face was covered in bandages, and he wore a dirty peasant's tunic, a far cry from the luxurious finery that she had seen him in for the past 16 years of his life.

"I'll be in your care, miss" he said in a soft voice.

The executioner was impressed at the teenage prince's stoicism in the face of death. She bowed again and took hold of his shoulder. Two soldiers of the revolutionary army stood by the chopping block. Amira gently pushed Markus to his knees. She looked down, and was shocked to see Markus beaming brightly at her.

"Heaven is waiting for me" he said.

The two soldiers forced his head down. Amira picked up the axe and placed it over the nape of the Prince's neck. She looked down and took in the sight, the skinny tanned body, sweat shining with the noonday sun, the clenched fists, trembling despite his bravado. She raised the axe high, her muscular biceps bulging as she gathered up strength. With a grunt, she slammed the axe down, neatly separating the boy's head from his shoulders.

Bright red blood gushed from the neck stump as the head bounced into the waiting strawpile. The torso jerked and fell on its side, blood continuing to spurt as Markus's heart slowed rapidly. Amira left the axe embedded into the chopping block and walked over to the head, grabbing it by its messy brown locks. She turned it over and stared into Markus's face. His eyes flickered, signalling a fading consciousness. The boy's mouth opened, as if to say something.

It was a spur of the moment decision. She raised the head up and pressed her lips against his, pushing her tongue deep into his mouth. The crowd gasped, some in horror, most in shock. His tongue was warm and wet, and she could feel it weakly push back against hers, smearing the salty copper taste of blood into her mouth. Amira stared deep into Markus's eyes, watching his eyelids slowly droop. As they shut for the last time, she disengaged, wiping her lips with the sleeve of her shirt. The head dropped out of her hands, bouncing and rolling across the platform before being picked up by a revolutionary. The man jammed the head onto his spear and raised it high to a roaring cheer.