The wail of "Amelia!" that had rung through the city had turned bitter to a dark, anticipant silence. The air was thick with the stench of fear and the acrider, fouler scent of wood impregnated with pitch. Ethan Ward waited in hiding, watching as the pyre was built in the square. Each log that the Council laborers placed was a ringing of the hammer on the lid of hope. They weren't just constructing an execution site; they were constructing an emblem.
The signal wasn't ambiguous: this is what happens to the ones who upset the status quo.
Ethan's knuckles were white with knots as he gripped the moldy windowsill. His journalist's mind, usually an icy calculating observer, was hot with rage and a crazed, calculated grief. He had seen the look in Amelia's eyes as they dragged her away. It had
