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the nobles, and as Lord Nors nodded, the knights began
to push into the crowd, eager to find the offender. Yet they soon stopped and
thought better of it as they were swarmed by hundreds more villagers bustling
into the square, making passage impossible. One knight attempted to elbow his
way forward, but he soon found himself completely engulfed by the masses, shoved
every which way, and amidst angry shouts and cheers, he backed away.
    The crowd
cheered. Finally, they were standing up for themselves.
    Royce felt a
surge of optimism. A turning point had arrived. All the peasants, like he, had
had enough. No one wanted their women taken anymore. No one wanted to be
thought of as property. All of them realized that they could be in Royce’s
position.
    Royce scanned
the mob, still desperate to find Genevieve—and his heart suddenly leapt as he
spotted her at the edge of the courtyard, she, bound in ropes. Nearby stood his
three brothers, they, too, bound as well. He was relieved to see that at least
they were alive, and uninjured. But upset to see them bound. He wondered what
would become of them, and he wished more than anything that he could take their
punishment for them.
    As the crowd
swelled, the magistrates looked more nervous than before, and they looked to
Lord Nors with uncertain glances.
    “It is your law!” Royce called out, finding his voice, emboldened. “Not ours!”
    The crowd let
out an enormous roar of approval, as it surged forward dangerously, pitchforks
and sickles raised high in the air.
    Lord Nors,
scowling back down at Royce, held up his hands, and the crowd finally quieted.
    “My son is dead
on this day,” he boomed, his voice heavy with grief. “And if I were to uphold
the law, you would be killed, too.”
    The crowd booed
and swarmed threateningly.
    “And yet,” Lord
Nors boomed, raising his hands, “given the situation of our times, killing you
would not be in the best interests of the crown. And thus,” he said, turning
and looking to his fellow magistrates, “I have decided to grant you mercy!”
    There came a
great cheer from the crowd, rippling through in waves, and Royce felt a surge
of relief. Lord Nors raised his hands.
    “Your brothers
killed none of our men in your raid, and thus they shall not be killed,
either.”
    The crowd
cheered.
    “They shall be
imprisoned!” he boomed.
    The crowd booed.
    “Yet your
bride-to-be,” Lord Nors boomed, “shall never be yours. She shall become the
property of one of our nobles.”
    The crowd booed
and hissed, but before they could get any louder, Lord Nors finished, pointing
down at Royce with all his wrath:
    “And you, Royce,
shall be sentenced to the Pits!”
    The crowd booed
and rushed forward, and soon a brawl erupted in the streets.
    Royce did not
have a chance to watch it unfold. Suddenly the ropes were severed from his
wrists and ankles, and he fell to the ground, limp. He felt arms all around
him, metal gauntlets grabbing him, dragging him away through the chaos.
    As he was
dragged through the crowd, Lord Nors’ words echoed in his mind. The Pits .
Royce felt a deepening sense of foreboding. It was the brutal bloodsport for
the nobles’ entertainment, one no one survived. Lord Nors had shrewdly spared
him a death sentence to appease the masses—and yet the Pits were a sentence
worse than death. It was a crafty move. Lord Nors had spared a revolution, and
yet had still managed to kill Royce.
    Royce was
crestfallen. Better to have died here, nobly, before his people, than to be
shipped off to die an even more horrible death.
    Yet as he was
dragged through the rioting crowd, toward the towering arches to the city’s
exit, Royce thought not of himself but of Genevieve. She was all that mattered
to him now. She was all that had ever mattered to him. The idea of her being
given to another noble was too much for him. It made all of this futile.
    Royce bucked and
writhed, trying uselessly to get free. He glanced back as they dragged