“She must be executed for her crimes,” someone shouted.
A man lifted me by my shirtsleeve and punched me in the stomach. I gasped for air while an old woman struck my shins with her cane. The pain consumed my lower leg, causing me to collapse. Others pressed close. A fist struck the side of my head. A hand slapped my face. On my knees, bending over, I shielded my head with my arms as more people struck me. I still struggled to breathe. I got knocked onto my side. Bitterness repressed through years of hardship had found another outlet.
“Stop,” I heard a firm voice shout. “Move aside,” he said more forcefully. “Move aside and leave her be.”
Rolling onto my back, I saw Ïdathor’s white-cloaked bodyguards materialize from the crowd, pressing people away from me with shields or the threat of
