A few days ago the world Ravi knew had been measured by the rolling miles of farmland and moor around his village north of Luana. His family’s cottage sat on a hill surrounded by fields of the sweet red potatoes that were one of the area’s main crops. The houses of their nearest neighbors rimmed the horizon, spaced out by a half mile or so. A lonely landscape, damp each morning and cool throughout most days, no matter the season. It was a simple life he had led, daily toil at the tasks that modestly sustained their family of four.

His father was a quiet man with big hands; he limped from some injury of his youth. His mother had absurdly crooked teeth, which she showed often as laughter peppered all the words that came from her mouth. He knew that his mother had lost two children in childbirth before having him and Mór. This was not unusual. Perhaps she was sad beneath all those smiles, but she made sure that Ravi never saw signs of it.

He had dreamed of escaping to something more exciting: sailing on a trading vessel, joining the guards that occasionally patrolled the provinces, or stealing a neighbor’s horse and riding out into the world. He had found excitement, but not in the way he had imagined.

The red-cloaked men had arrived in the dark hours far from either dusk or sun return. Ravi heard the knock on the door. He heard his father grumbling a moment later, and he listened to the creak of the door and to the mumbled exchange that followed. Probably one of the neighboring farmers, Ravi thought, come to ask help for some midnight mishap. The farm over by the marshes had been having a problem with sheep thieves. Perhaps they were organizing a chase.

“Ravi,” Mór had whispered from her cot on the other side of the room, “who is it?”

He shushed her. He had started to pull off his sheet, planning to tiptoe across the floor and listen through the crack in the door, but he got no farther than plucking the cloth between his fingertips.

A shout came from the main room, the sound of something—a chair, he thought—knocked over, the scrabble of feet on the packed-earth floor. He froze. Another shout and whispered curses and then sounds he couldn’t place for a moment and then he could: the dull thuds of fists against flesh. He swung his legs free from the bed and set them on the floor. The light shining around the door frame shifted and danced and grew brighter. He watched it, hearing Mór’s sharp inhalation of breath.