“Bring the prisoner.”
Cormac was pulled up from the cells, blinking against the light, half-dragged, half-fighting the soldiers for every inch. His boots skidded on the stone as he tried to resist. Halverton leaned closer to Aoife, lips curling in satisfaction.
“So,” he said, “he is not no one. I wondered what it would take to make you show your true colours.”
Aoife’s throat tightened. She forced herself to look at Cormac instead of answering.
He was still struggling as the soldiers tied his hands to the flogging post.
“You think he’ll stop with me?” Cormac shouted at them. “With the villagers? None of us are safe. It’ll be you next.”
Once he was secured, the soldiers stepped away. He tugged once more at the ropes, then stopped, realising it was pointless. But he didn’t sag or look resigned. He stood tall, defiant, unbroken.
Lord Halverton stepped back, amused. He caught her eye and smiled, inviting her to watch, to learn what real power looked like.
Instead, Aoife moved down the steps. Her legs trembled, but she kept her chin high. Every eye in the courtyard followed her.She stopped beside the soldier holding the lash. Before she could lose her nerve, she held out her hand.
“Aoife, what are you doing?” Cormac hissed, low but urgent.
She met his eyes. Without a single word, she asked him to trust her.
He hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.
She turned to the soldier, hand still outstretched. He glanced at Halverton, uncertain.
Halverton tilted his head, curious. “Give it to her,” he said, a slow smile spreading.
The lash’s weight was worse than she expected. Her hands shook. She turned and lifted it toward Halverton. Her voice shook, but it carried in the silence.
“Do your own dirty work.”
The words hung in the air. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Halverton’s jaw clenched. He didn’t move.
The soldier reached forward to take it, but she stepped away, her voice rising, pulse hammering in her throat.
“Does the master not have hands of his own?”
A nervous ripple of laughter ran through the villagers, giving her courage. Their expectant eyes were on her now. She had never spoken to a gathering before, never dared raise her voice to power. The words scraped out raw.
“Look at him!” she cried, turning to face the crowd. “He calls himself lord, but without you, without us, he is nothing. It’s your hands that till the fields, your backs that break bringing in the harvest—”
“Silence!” Lord Halverton thundered.
But the word didn’t fall as cleanly as it once had. It met resistance: a murmur of voices, a stir of breath, the smallest sound of awareness.
Her knees wanted to give, but she forced herself to stay upright, turning to face him.
“Your greed has caused this famine,” she said, her voice carrying across the courtyard. “The land itself rejects you.”
A ripple ran through the crowd, low murmurs swelling into gasps and cries. Heads turned. From beyond the yard came the thundering of hooves. Two enormous shapes emerged from the morning mist: one black as pitch, the other chestnut brown. Both towered over the men, taller even than Cormac in Athraith form.
The soldiers faltered, uncertain.
Cormac struggled behind her.
“Aoife!” Cormac shouted, part warning, part plea. His voice cracked with fear, not for himself, but for what might follow. She understood his fear for his parents, for the villagers. She couldn’t allay those fears.
