“Aries, my boy, be brave!” Izin’s voice broke across the crowd, blood spilling from his mouth. His words rang out—not just for his son, but for everyone.
Then Jiah’s voice cut through the rising swell of panic.
“Do not allow them to take freedom from your children! My boys, my sons! Fight for your future! Do not be a bystander, stand up for what is right!”
A boot struck his stomach mid-sentence. He folded forward with a grunt. The sound of the whip cracked like thunder. Ismene cried out, her voice torn with terror.
The crowd surged. People pushed and whispered, eyes darting from guards to prisoners and back again. The atmosphere shifted—tightening. Fragile.
Guards barked louder. They shoved with their spears, snarling commands, but the edges of their control were unraveling like thread.
“Get on your knees!” the captain bellowed.
None of the six moved. Shoulders squared, jaws clenched, the rebels stood proud—unbroken.
Jiah closed his eyes, chest rising. His voice came steady and defiant, “We raise our voices, break the chain!”
Izin picked up the thread, fire in his voice. “With courage bold and hearts ablaze. United we will defy, through darkest days!”
“Get back, all of you! Stand back!” The guards bristled, blades ready, barking orders over the restless murmur.
“Silence! Get on your knees!”
The others—the bruised, the bleeding—raised their voices in unison. “No fear shall bind us, onward we stride, In unity, our strength will never subside!”
At first it was scattered, hesitant. But then—a tremor in the square. One villager repeated it. Then another. Then five. Ten. Their voices gained rhythm. Power.
“With hope as our shield, and justice our guide. We will rise! We will rise!”
Collin could feel it vibrate in the stones beneath his feet, in his ribs, in his spine. The chant filled the air, pulsed with conviction, and carved itself into the marrow of his bones.
“We will rise! We will rise!”
The six men would not be broken.
No threat, no blade, no barked command could drive them to their knees. They stood tall, unflinching, refusing to bow to the blocks placed before them.
Behind each rebel, a guard raised his sword.
At Sol’s signal, six blades swept into the air.
Only then did the men fall silent.
The thuds came one after another—dull, awful, final. Blood pooled across the courtyard stones. The cries that followed were not words, but primal sounds of disbelief and horror as the square erupted.
Collin screamed, but his voice vanished into the chaos.
The crowd convulsed into movement, fear detonating across the square like wildfire. People surged in every direction—trampling, shoving, shrieking. The press of bodies closed in from all sides.
Collin tried to run but couldn’t find his footing. A hard elbow caught his chest, someone’s shoulder slammed into his back. He reached desperately for Connor—and saw him shoved sideways, disappearing into the stampede like a leaf pulled under a tide.
“Mam,” he cried, twisting for any glimpse of her russet hair, but she was gone too.
Then—hooves.
A terrible thunder rose above the noise.
Across the square, the crowd split open, and the iron-shod beasts came barreling through. A dozen warhorses bore down on a thin row of protesters—young men and women arm-in-arm, voices raised in that same, defiant chant.
