I have to find Constance, she thought, backing slowly away from the trapdoor and stumbling into a run. Emris was right: I have to make this stop.

The crowd around the castle’s gates was hundreds strong, faces twisted, mouths contorted and shouting. Some carried weapons—beaten-up longswords or workmanlike daggers, and a handful of spears. Others made do with whatever had come to hand—kitchen knives, spades, and scythes. Their fear and rage were palpable, living things buzzing in Lena’s ears.

She struggled toward the gates but kept losing her bearings—though small enough to slip through the gaps, she wasn’t tall enough to see the route ahead. She recognized a few faces here and there—the relations of the dead she’d tended to over the years, no doubt. For a split second she reached for her cowl, then immediately realized that it wasn’t there, that she didn’t need it anymore. She wasn’t a cryptling now. No one spared Lena a glance anyway, despite her birthmark: their eyes were too keenly focused on the castle looming above, wreathed in fog. A few children clutched at their parents or grandparents, crying, not understanding what was happening.

Somewhere, the hounds were yowling, their voices like lost souls drifting into the sky. The sound was a chilling reminder of those who had been condemned to death by the Justice.

The crowd cried wordlessly in return, surging toward the wrought iron portcullis. It held firm, for now, under the assault of hands and shoulders and rusty old metal, and the guards were firing arrows at those brave enough to fling themselves against its bulk. But as she worked her way forward, Lena spied a large tree trunk—a makeshift battering ram—passed by the strongest among the crowd at the back toward the gate. The assault on the castle was barely starting—the people were determined to fight their way inside. Someone threw a bottle; the glass smashed against the walls.

A chant started up toward the rear: “Justice! Justice! Justice! Justice!”

Lena followed the eyes of the chanters and thought she could see the Justice on the battlements as the storm cloud momentarily cleared, distinguishable by the gleaming buttons on his military coat, the gold epaulets. He was a lone figure off to one side, gazing out over the tumult like the captain of a sinking ship over a stormy sea. A silver glove—a gauntlet, perhaps—caught the light as he raised his arm to command another attack of arrows. Lena felt a surge of hatred so strong that bile rose in her throat. This man killed Vigo, and he nearly killed me … but I’m not here for him. Not yet anyway. She swallowed and continued to slide forward through the crowd.