The quiet inside the cramped room felt brittle, as if the heavy silence outside might shatter it at any moment. Helena stood paralyzed by the window, her gaze locked on the sight of four ancient figures, monsters of the martial world who could split mountains with a wave of a hand, pressing their foreheads into the dust of a filthy alleyway.
Beside her, the seven-year-old child stirred. He rubbed his eyes with a frail, bruise-marred fist, wincing slightly as he sat up on the thin mattress.
"Mother?" his small, rasping voice cut through her shock. "Is... is father coming back to punish us again?"
The fear in his young voice acted like a bucket of ice water thrown over Helena. The confusion in her mind burned away, replaced instantly by an overwhelming, protective rage. Her fingers curled into tight fists. Whatever game the Ashborns were playing, whatever trap they had laid, she would not let them touch her son again.
