Their sudden attack had accomplished nothing. Guy’s men had routed them back, recaptured them precisely where they were before, gathered in the dirt. Nothing had changed save for the body of the boy. No reason for blood, no reason for death. Guy tried to count his own men, praying that none had been seriously injured. Reginold and Bolt were both still absent, though they had been positioned at the north road. Morg clutched the biceps of his right arm, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping down to his elbow. Some of the Common boys had split lips and bloody noses. For no reason. For these outlaws to kick at the world one last time. That was all they wanted, and it sickened him. Their only goal was to hurt.

Devon of York stood, pale as a statue, eyes locked on the child. Whatever innocence had once defined his features was gone now, replaced with this new gruesome reality. Guy wondered if Devon had known the boy, back before he had escaped their company. It was too terrible to think upon.

His mind raced to wonder if he could have done anything differently. It had happened before he even knew it. He never even saw the child. He only felt his weight on the blade, and had felt nothing since.

The years crawled up from his gut, old tracks in his heart he had long closed off. His first wife Loren, the one he’d loved. Their children. Henry, his wide toothy grin, his smile that burst from nowhere and lit up the world. His sickness. His body. The empty weight of it in Guy’s hands.

He heaved and vomited—his throat burned as fiercely as his eyes. It tore him back to the present, to the sounds of shouting, of curses.

What do we do, Guy? Eric of Felley’s face, bringing him back. His beard was matted with blood, his missing teeth bled fresh.

“The girl got away,” he was saying. “She might be going for reinforcements. We’d best handle this group now.”

The ground bobbed, which meant Guy was nodding.

“How do you want them, Captain?”

They’d trained a child to kill. They’d used him as a distraction. A quick death wasn’t good enough. But it wasn’t always about what they deserved, Guy managed to remember. There was a fairer world once, where these things didn’t happen, where Murdac was still sheriff. He had to find his way back there. There was more at stake now than dealing justice to a handful of criminals. If he killed them here without any witnesses, there was no telling how their sympathizers would twist the story. There would have to be a trial, and a public display, or the truth would never get out.

“Bind them,” he ordered. “We need them alive.”

“All of them?”

“Most of them,” Guy snorted, daring them to try another escape.