46
The world seemed to slow as the man on the wagon looked back toward the crowd. The clinking stopped, and an arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me toward the side of a building.
“You have not been granted permission to gather,” a voice shouted.
A sea of black had closed off both ends of the main street and come up behind us to block our path back to The Downy Loft.
“Disperse at once.” A soldier stepped in front of his fellows. The golden star stitched onto the chest of his uniform glinted in the light.
“The gods have granted us freedom from you.” The man on the wagon raised his arms toward the sky. “The beast Drason is dead. Leave our home.”
“This town, all land in Ilbrea, is the property of the Guilds,” the soldier said. “You dwell here at their pleasure.”
“My family’s been on
