Through the bustle of the mundane existence of the lower class darted a frightened man of common means. He left the copper-colored cobblestones and iron lamppost-lined streets that marked the domain of the noble usurpers. The dirt road of the everyday man felt more solid to his nervous feet than any well-laid rock. He sifted the madding crowd for any sign of betrayal. Though Jehri was of hearty strength, he was not immune to the underlying misgiving that enveloped Ashburton. His straight nose fitted ill his full face. One would have mistaken him for a merry fool rather than an anarchist. Deep-set eyes of black scanned the people. He kept his desperate visage in control and raced past store merchants and market cart hawkers alike. He strained to hear every whisper, every yell, or any hint that his name had been surrendered. His panic multiplied with every step. He needed to reach his home unnoticed.

Every noble presented a danger gilded in the aristocratic folds of silk and propriety. A few talked as they perambulated through the lower class, but most rode in coaches, curtains drawn closed against the stench of the working man. How this town had come under their grip was incomprehensible, but it had happened. At what point had the ordinary man lost hold of his destiny, no one could say. Jehri wiped his brow and realized that he was a fool to believe he could usurp their stronghold with talk and not come under opposition. Peaceful resistance is a lie!

His soul ached from the horror he witnessed; instead of helping he retreated like an abused mongrel. Liar! Betrayer! Abandoner! Yet he did nothing wrong—he just did not grant aid. It was to his family he owed protection. He prayed he would reach them in time.

He turned the corner and found twelve law guards, dressed in gray breastplates over white breeches. They surrounded a wooden three-story house with a stone base for its first floor. The building housed the apartment of his mentor, Kimpell Lenthorn. The silver-haired man was shoved from his house, his purpled hands bound before him. Dried blood streaked his battered face. Bruising was evident under his ripped clothing. Each step was purposeful and in defiance of his beating. Kimpell had spoken often of martyrdom. The town must be liberated from the nobles’ claws. Stricken into stillness, Jehri watched the man’s prophecy unfold.

Kimpell’s wife was thrust through the doorway. Tied hands clutched the front of her torn dress against her chest. Like her husband, blood stained her face yet it paled in comparison to the crimson humiliation of violation.

Their fifteen-year-old daughter followed. Kara had been spared the assault but not the binding. Her once long, golden hair had been butchered to the scalp. Terror widened her eyes. A blond-haired man clad in ebon armor dragged her by the neck. The inhumanity on his face waxed in contrast to the lust in his eyes. Lord Fairmont’s man. He knew the noble was behind the arrests from the first taking of Gwythel and Eliah, yet he was worried to see him proclaim responsibility for the captures. Jehri felt the noose close around his neck as well as his wife and children’s.

Kimpell’s intense, brown eyes locked with his. Is he telling me to flee, or is he pleading for me to save Sahar and Kara? Jehri cursed his sight. The memory of his mentor’s realization that Jehri would not offer any rescue oppressed him. Jehri could do little save be apprehended. His family could still benefit while he restrained the impulse of heroic vanity. He had no choice. Surely Kimpell realized that.

Jehri dashed down an alley and sidestepped the strewn litter and abandoned crates that were characteristic of this section of the town. He wanted to avoid gaining the attention of the law guards and nobles.

Jehri burst through the heavy wooden door of his home with panicked yells. “Nadya, Rebekah, children. Hurry.” He shoved the door closed behind him and placed the first of the three iron crossbars in the slots. “Nadya, help me!”

Nine-year-old Rebekah raced into the room followed by his wife, Nadya, with one-year-old Jesuelle cradled in her arms. “What is it? Jehri, what?” Rian held his twin sister Sarya’s hand as they hurried on their five-year-old legs, worry on their faces. The baby cooed, oblivious to the danger.

“They are coming. They just took Kimpell and his family . . . among others. They are headed this way. Oh Creator, help us. You and the children must leave through the back way. That’s it.”

“What, Jehri? That is madness. It is almost full dark. Those creatures will get us.”

“Don’t you think I know what time it is?” He placed the last crossbar and started barring the windows. “Those creatures will not be out for another hour or two; you can find someplace safe by then.” He knew his wife; she would debate the necessity of breathing if she felt the air was a threat.

She planted her feet down and took root. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly in a kerchief. With her forehead exposed over her darkening glower, she seemed to grow more obstinate with each spoken word. “Jehri, where? Tell me . . . Myrelle’s? Her husband will turn us out without a care for what could happen. No. There must be another way. You must come with us. Ladore is frightened of you. He would not do anything while you are around.” Her brown eyes flashed against any rebuttal he might offer.

His face flushed. Why can’t the blasted woman listen just once! “Do you think I am stupid? I cannot go with you. Creator, help me, I cannot.” A soft word turns away wrath, so with immense effort, he spoke with gentle reason. “If I do, they will follow us. They are coming to . . . for me.”

He saw her stiffen at his quick recovery. Panic framed her eyes. “Jehri, no. I beg you, no. Why, why?”

“Talk, all it was, was talk. Somehow Lord Fairmont caught wind. Nadya.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. He needed to penetrate her stubbornness. “You must protect the children. Don’t you see you must go now?”

“I need you.”

“Now is not the time.” Fear-driven, he pushed his family through the backdoor. “Nadya, I am sorry.” He brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “I love you.”

Nadya seized the moment and kissed him. Their lips’ touch was as tender as it was brief. “Creator, grant us a miracle.” She suppressed her tears and ushered the children forward. The twins clasped her skirt, their little legs hurrying to keep stride with their mother. Rebekah kept pace with her mother, yet she turned to have one last look at her father.

He returned her precious gaze with a saddened smile and then turned his attention inward. With a swift motion, he closed the door without a sound. He heard the pounding on the front door; they had arrived. His heart threatened to speed out of control. He would have to ensure they would not pursue his family—his family. I love you.

He grabbed a wooden chair and smashed it against the floor. He took the broken legs to use as weapons and rushed to the front of the house as the door burst open.