Her mind spun wildly, like the needle of a broken compass trying to find north. How did he get out? What happened to the guards at his door?

A few whimpers filled the air as the congregation cringed away from the drawn blades, falling quickly into stunned silence as the Justice’s men took control, ordering everyone to their knees. Lord Veredith collapsed onto a chair, his face deathly pale.

But Constance stood up slowly, a curious calm taking hold of her underneath her confusion. Xander was immediately in front of her, his green eyes bright with determination. She felt her heart soar—and quickly sink as she realized what was about to happen. I can’t let him die for me. “Xander,” she started, trying to pull him aside, but he shrugged off her touch.

The Justice thundered up the aisle, his footsteps echoing on the flagstones, sword outstretched. Upon his left hand the silver gauntlet gleamed.

“Step no further, traitor!” Xander cried, holding up his fists as the Justice reached the semicircle of chairs. But six or seven of the Justice’s men had already surrounded him. Xander landed a few blows, quick and clean, but was swiftly overpowered and wrestled to the floor. Constance pressed a hand over her mouth to stop herself from crying out—she knew it would not help him. She couldn’t move. She felt like she’d turned to stone.

“Stop this! Stop!” Winton was shouting, attempting to pull one of the men away from the Swordmaster. But he was pushed back, restrained. His cloak tore as somebody stepped on its hem.

The men kicked Xander viciously, the scarlet silken scarves falling around him, mingling with his blood. He curled up, and the kicks landed on his spine instead. Constance felt her insides twist painfully, as if she were the one receiving the blows. Winton continued to struggle against his restraints, to cry out against the violence, until the Justice raised his gauntleted fist and smacked him around the face, once, almost casually. And then everything was quiet except for the sound of boots crashing into Xander’s flesh.

It was all over so quickly.

The Justice sheathed his sword and reached for Constance’s neck with his silver-gloved hand, but her instincts finally kicked in. Fight, godsdamnit. She raised her hand and a flash of bright purple lit up the hall—without her cane, she was weaker, but not defenseless. The Justice was thrown back, landing on his side a few feet to her right.

She lifted her heavy robes and ran from the dais, past the Justice, and down the aisle toward the door. Nobody tried to stop her. She was hardly thinking. Her whole mind was filled with the desperate impulse to escape, to live another day.

At the end of everything, what else was there but the will to survive?