The lid of the barrel had only been resting on top and it popped free, jolting Dell as it crashed onto his head.

He groaned and rolled onto his side. “Bloody brilliant.” A harsh laugh escaped him and echoed across the dark room. He winced as he rose onto his knees, using the now open barrel to pull himself up. He placed a hand on each lip of the barrel and closed his eyes, willing the pain to fade from his body.

The sliver of moonlight struck the cask in front of him as he opened his eyes, revealing a black substance.

Curious, he stuck his hand inside, pulling up a handful of fine black powder, not unlike the sand from the beach he’d taken Helena too.

But this was no sand.

His eyes widened as he dug his hand in again, his fall a distant memory.

He eyed the row of barrels as if they would explode right where they sat, but he had to know. Picking up the shovel, he moved to the next one and pried the round wooden lid free. He barely heard it hit the ground as his mind filled with what was before him.

The same powdery substance.

Six barrels, all the same.

He stumbled back, rubbing the crown of his head.

What was his family doing with six barrels of explosive powder? They could take down the entire palace wall and a part of the city with it. Was that the plan?

And Dell couldn’t do a thing when he was stuck in the bloody cellar.

He yelled, knowing full well no one would hear him. He’d been unsure which side was truly noble in this fight, but now he had no confusion.

His family had to be stopped.

He launched himself up the steps and smashed his fists into the door, feeling slightly less useless for at least trying.

Desperation raced through his mind. Was it too late to stop the rebellion? Had everything already been set into motion?

He hit the cracked wood until blood ran between his knuckles and pain reverberated up his arms.

He moved down the stairs and sat with his back leaning against the deadly barrels. His brother had taken his whittling knife, the one thing that always kept him from losing his mind.

He patted the pocket where it usually lay.

The one thing Ian hadn’t taken was the half-carved piece of wood that made up his newest project. He fingered the rough edges, not yet sanded smooth.

Even after Edmund told him he could never again see Len, he started this… for her.

It was going to be the most perfect thing he’d ever made. A pair of beautiful shoes, meant for dancing, but also running away.