Halverton was already gone, striding across the grass, coat flaring behind him, not waiting to see his orders carried out.
The soldiers froze, some with their weapons on the villagers, some aiming at the staff, and others at their own. They looked to Wiren.
“Stand down,” he repeated.
It rang out sharp with command.
And for a heartbeat, it worked.
You could see the flicker of doubt, of relief. Shoulders loosened. Fingers faltered on triggers. Half the soldiers relaxed; the other half did not move, caught between conflicting orders.
Alton broke from the steps and sprinted forward with an awkward gait, wrenching the whip from the soldier’s hand. The man stumbled into the line, more startled than resistant, uncertainty flashing across his face.
Aoife followed, the movement instinctive and unstoppable. She raised her hands as she went.
“Stop,” she called. “Please—stop!”
Her voice was too small against the tension.
She reached the bottom of the stairs beside Wiren. Together they faced the armed men.
Most were Morran. Not strangers. Not enemies. Their own.
She stepped forward before she could think better of it, placing herself between them and Cormac.
Alton was already there, cutting him down. The ropes gave way. Cormac collapsed, his weight folding in on itself, and Alton caught him before he struck the stones.
“Lower your weapons,” Wiren commanded again.
The captain stepped forward from the line of his men, shaking his head. “No. Keep them raised. We can’t side with the savages.”
“Your soldiers aren’t going to hurt us,” Aoife said. Her voice grew louder as she spoke. “Because they are us.” Shewas speaking to the captain, but her eyes were on the Morran soldiers.
And they were looking at her.
The courtyard held its breath.
One man shifted. Another swallowed. A rifle dipped slightly before lowering fully.
It hit the ground, loud in the silence.
Metal struck stone in uneven beats, echoing outward, as more soldiers followed suit. A weight lifted from her chest at each one.
It was working.
A few Eldrossi held firm, faces full of doubt, their fingers tight on the triggers.
Someone flinched.
A shot rang out.
That single sound tore the world open.
For a heartbeat, time stopped, as if the air itself had forgotten how to move. The courtyard erupted. Smoke burst outward in a choking bloom. Men shouted, voices colliding into a shapeless and panicked mass. Steel clashed. Another shot split the air with a sharp crack.
The remaining Eldrossi soldiers turned, not on the crowd, but on their comrades.
Villagers scattered, bodies slamming into one another in blind terror. Boots scraped on stone, hands shoved, someone fell. Gunpowder overwhelmed Aoife’s senses, thick and bitter in her nose, on her tongue, already threaded with copper. The unmistakable taste of blood.
