Her Graceful War Song (Carissa Sinclair) novel Chapter 814

Henry began to ramble, "None of this was what I wanted! If I could choose again, I would never have pursued Eleanor. My family may have been in decline, but it was still a marquis' family. The foundation was still there—how bad could it possibly get?

"I came from a scholarly background. I could have taken the national examinations. There wasn't just one path before me. How could I have been so foolish? I was truly too foolish. I had such a bright future ahead. I could have married a virtuous woman, taken a couple of concubines, and had three or four sons and a few daughters. The marriage would have made my family stronger. Instead, I thought I was taking a shortcut, but I didn't realize it was a dead end."

The cutlery fell from his hands as his shoulders shook with sobs.

Peter picked them up for him. "Dwelling on the past is pointless. Action is what matters now. You can still share what you know. There's still a chance to turn things around. If you keep silent, you're sealing your fate."

Henry covered his face and cried for a moment before lowering his hands, wiping away tears and snot with his sleeve. After enduring torture, his movements were slow and clumsy, and he hunched over.

"No matter what, it's still a dead end. There's no way out."

Peter had been around the court long enough to see all kinds of villains, many of whom regretted their choices when death loomed near. They would confess anything in hopes of buying a chance at survival.

But Henry, though not a great villain, had a startling clarity of mind. Even now, as he faced execution, he weighed the pros and cons. With his intelligence and calm demeanor, how could he have fallen prey to Eleanor's manipulation?

At the end of the day, it all came down to greed.

At first, Henry may have resisted. Then, he was half-heartedly drawn in. Eventually, he found himself fully involved and pulling the strings from behind. He believed Eleanor to be the mastermind, thinking that playing the victim would shield him from blame.

But he was wrong.

Peter didn't press him further, simply waiting in silence.

Rafael and Carissa rode ahead, with the prisoner cart following behind. A crowd gathered to gawk, but no one threw anything at Henry—only the sound of jeers and curses filled the air.

Henry's hair fell over his face, and his former air of authority had completely vanished. He resembled a stray dog, desperately scanning the crowd for a glimpse of his family. Just one sight, no matter who it was, would ease the terror churning in his heart.

But he saw no one—not even a servant from his household.

Suddenly, a chilling thought struck him—would there be no one to claim his body after he died? The Kingsley family wouldn't come to collect his remains, would they?

If no one did, the Supreme Court would simply toss his corpse into a common grave. Here he was, the son of a marquis, a scholar by background, once a prince consort—yet in death, he wouldn't even have a proper coffin.

The sun hung high overhead, bright and unyielding. As noon approached, so did the moment of his execution. The closer it drew, the more Henry's fear intensified.