And she turned and ran.
Ismene’s scream followed a moment later—a raw, broken sound that cracked through the air like lightning. Collin felt it hit his chest, felt it twist something inside him.
A chill rushed down his spine, fast and cold as a river in winter. His body knew before his mind did—something was horribly wrong. The fear bloomed in his mouth like a bitter fruit, thick and sour. He could taste it. His stomach lurched.
Connor grabbed his hand. “Come on!” he barked, yanking Collin after him.
They burst from the cabin into the bright haze of morning, their mother already far ahead, her dark skirts flying as she ran toward town. The boys stumbled through the wet grass and dirt, barely able to keep up, hearts pounding, feet slipping. The roadto Chroma stretched ahead, but they had no sense of distance. Only the thunder of panic in their blood.
In the mist-draped hush of morning, a crowd pressed into the sprawling town square. Six men stood rigid beneath the shadowy outline of the clock tower, their bare chests slick with sweat, wrists bound tightly behind their backs.
Jiah stood motionless, a deep gash running across his shoulder, bruises blooming dark across his jaw and cheek. Beside him, Izin swayed slightly, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth.
The others were no better—battered and broken, their bodies marked with lash wounds and open cuts, faces mottled with bruises. Together, they formed a silent tableau of defiance and suffering, framed by the pale light and the murmurs of the gathering crowd.
Collin clung to his brother’s hand as if it were the only solid thing in the world. Both boys trembled, eyes locked on the six men lined up before the clock tower’s looming silhouette.
He knew them all.
The baker with honey-colored hair who once gifted him sweet bread on his birthday. The steward’s son with the soft red curls now matted with blood, one eye swollen shut. His mother’s oldest friend, who used to braid wildflowers into her hair. Fathers. Neighbors. Friends.
Good men—all of them.
Around the square, iron-shod hooves struck sparks against the cobbles. The draft horses reared and snorted, muscles taut, eyes wide with agitation. The wagons they dragged loomed behind the guards—hulking.
Uniformed men prowled the perimeter, shoving the crowd back with flat blades and grim warnings. The townsfolkmuttered in waves of unease, craning for a view, the tension rippling like storm wind through wheat. Some whispered names. Others said nothing, lips pressed tight with fear.
“What’s happening?” Ismene cried, her voice fraying as she shoved her way to a guard. “What’s my husband’s crime?”
The guard sneered and shoved her hard enough to make her stagger. “Silence, woman!”
“Please! He’s done nothing wrong! Please!”
“They are thieves,” he snapped. “And they will be punished.”
Ismene let out a scream that turned heads. She clutched her face, sobbing openly, but no hand reached for her. No voices rose in her defense. The guards remained still and cold as stone.
Then the noise died—snuffed out in an instant, as if the square itself inhaled and held its breath.
The crowd parted in a slow, fearful ripple. From a polished black carriage, a tall man emerged, draped in deep red velvet trimmed with silver. His face was hard, his hair thick and slicked back with precision. A child’s delicate hand appeared at the carriage door, and then a girl stepped down after him, helped gently by a servant.
She looked no older than Collin, but where his fingernails bore dirt from the garden, hers shimmered with gold dust. Precious stones glittered at her neck and wrists, threaded through her dark braids. Her eyes—unlike the man’s hard, dark ones—were a vivid green, curious, warm.
As they passed through the quiet crowd, the villagers closed behind them like a wave.
Head Captain Sol stepped forward and bowed low, his tone clipped and devoid of sympathy. “My Lord Montigo. Therebelswe’ve been hunting were apprehended late last night. All carried unreported game—pheasants, rabbits, fresh eggs. We found a cache of cured meat—boar, venison—hidden in the baker’s shed.”
Montigo’s gaze was unreadable as it swept across the line of battered men.
“You all know the cost of theft,” he said to the crowd, his voice cool and steady. “Every time one of you hoards what belongs to the state, you steal from each other.”
He looked down at the girl at his side and allowed a flicker of something resembling a smile. “Today, my daughter, the village becomes your classroom. Pay close attention. This is how we preserve order. And what becomes of those who resist it.”
Collin trembled violently. Something terrible was coming—he felt it in his chest, but the shape of it eluded him.
“Close your eyes,” Connor choked out, wrapping both arms around him like a shield.
Collin twisted against him. He had to get to Da. Had to reach Mam. Mam was still sobbing, still pleading with the guards. Her voice was raw now—ripped from her throat—but she wasn’t turning away. He screamed for her, but the noise swallowed his voice whole.
