Hilda clutched at her eyes as searing pain ran through them. Screams of pain echoed through the room but they did not belong to her. She gritted her teeth. She knew it would be over soon. Black droplets fell from her pupils, running across her hands and splashing against the stone floor. Another scream rang out. Hilda fought to resist the urge to scream herself. She gasped and fell to her knees panting. It was over.

The pain of the dark leaving her body was replaced by an overwhelming sense of loss. The rush of life flowing through her blood was gone. A man roared in pain. Mad cackling laughter followed from the crowd of onlookers. Hilda wiped at her eyes, staining her sleeves black. She cursed, wishing she were wearing darker colors.

The gears in her mind slowly turned as they went over the past day’s events in a new light. The memories felt as if she had been watching someone else commit the deeds she wrought. She felt ill as it registered in her mind that those hands were hers. The ringing of the hammer and the screams of the girl echoed in her mind. Panic raced through her and with a thought she closed it off and once more it felt as if those hands were ones of a stranger.

A hand grabbed her by the arm and helped her to her feet. She looked up to see Marc grinning down at her, eyes still as black as the depths of night. His touch sent shivers of revulsion down her spine. The things they’d done to that child, the things he’d done to her. She yanked her arm from his grip and stumbled away from him. She backed into another man and he pushed back at her, nearly knocking her from her feet.

A spray of warm fluid fell across her hand. Hilda looked to where it came from. A young man fell to the ground, arms bound behind him. The gash in his throat leaked blood onto the stone floor. Next to him one of his comrades was crying softly, hands and feet bound. A Son grabbed him by his green cloak and dragged him to a rectangular nook in the wall, large enough for two men to lay in. Brick and mortar lay next to the wall. The Son deposited the corpse in the cubby then returned to the sobbing man, grabbing by his cloak.

The man screamed for them to kill him too. His eye shot wild looks of horror about the room, at the thirty cubbies already sealed. Muffled screams still echoed from behind a few of them. The Son deposited the man atop the corpse of his comrade, grabbing his hands and attaching the binds to a hook, preventing him from hindering the two men already laying bricks before him.

Hilda knew he would eventually escape his binds, but it would be far too late to escape his fate. The sorrow of feast was a terrible one. She wondered how long it would take him to succumb to his hunger. The thought made her shiver and she turned away.

“The roots of our past freedom were in the Seven Sorrows. If you don’t have the stomach to watch it carried out then you may leave,” Marc said.

The coldness in his tone surprised her. Her hands still shook from the shock of the darkness leaving her body. She clenched them into fists, steadying herself. Conflicting feelings of anger, nausea, and disgust washed over her as she looked into his black eyes. She wanted more than anything to hit him, but fear stayed her hand. Marc had lines he wouldn’t cross, but looking into those pits of black, she had no doubt that if she moved against him in this moment, he would seal her behind the next wall.

Her eyes drifted to the weeping despair of the Greencloak, his thrashing body disappearing behind the wall, one brick at a time. “I’ll stay,” she whispered.

Hilda watched the last dozen survivors receive similar treatment, the subtle vibrations of pounding fists sounding from behind freshly made walls as men broke free of their bonds. Marc gazed around the greatly diminished room, face dispassionate. The six Sons accompanying them waited for his next command, quiet as death. The pounding and muffled screams sent chills down Hilda’s spine.

“Let’s go,” Marc said. Without a second glance, he turned from the room and left through the heavy wooden door. Hilda followed him, the six Sons in tow. As they walked down the hall outside Hilda looked over her shoulder, watching as a Son locked the door shut. Beyond the solid oak, all was quiet. It was as if nothing had happened.

The torches flickered in what was left of their underground sanctuary. Half the tunnels leading into it had been collapsed in the attack this morning, entombing hundreds of Greencloaks. They passed a branching corridor filled with debris, a bloodied arm stuck out from under the pile of wood and stone, the only evidence it’s owner ever existed. She wondered if he were a Son or a Greencloak. Not all the collapses went as planned. For every one of their number that disappeared at least ten southerners fell, but it was still a costly enterprise. The count of the dead was near a hundred. The missing, closer to two.

A man turned a corner ahead of them, his black streaked bug eyes locked onto Marc. Marc came to a halt as Billy stopped before him. Rusty flakes of dried blood still covered the man’s steel mail. Billy cleared his throat. “A man’s here, says he’s your brother. The other men confirmed it for me.”

Marc’s eyes widened in what could have been surprise. It was hard to tell with eyes so dark. “Then I had best greet him.” He gestured for Billy to lead the way. They followed him down the twisting halls, even diminished as it was, the complex was large. It took them near five minutes to reach Marc’s room.

Billy opened the door for him and they crossed the threshold where James waited, seated at Marc’s small table. At their entrance, he rose to his feet. Hilda’s gaze was locked on James.

“Brother,” James greeted.

Marc’s eyes slithered to James. “Brother. Why have you come?”

James answered. “I’ve come to join you. I see now that you were right. This is a fight worth seeing through and it’s one we can win.”

“So, you come on the day of my victory, seeking scraps of glory?”

James bristled but held his composure. “I come to lend my advice and my arm. I expect nothing in return.”

Dark eyes considered James. Marc shrugged. “Fine.” He turned to her. “Hilda, take James and put him through the rites. We still have a few Greencloaks to spare.”

Hilda felt sick as she looked at James. She thought her shame would crush her beneath its weight. She felt herself nod and drift through the doorway into the hall. Then James was abreast her. She couldn’t find it in her to meet his eyes. They walked in silence a long moment before James came to a halt.

She felt his eyes on her and she made a careful inspection of her feet. “What did he do to you?”

Hilda winced at the question. “I never should have left.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” He kept walking.

“Why are you here James?”

He glanced at her out the corner of his eye. “Because I’m afraid. This is no act of bravery on my part. War is on the horizon and this is the only side I know to choose. There’s no stopping it now.” He let out a deep sigh and his hand brushed hers. “Lissa misses you.”

Hilda’s breath caught. “I just wanted more for her.”

“What wasn’t enough? Our home? Her friends? Me? The only thing the girl wants for now is her mother and a childhood.”

Hilda felt ill as they reached a door with a Son leaning next to it, arms crossed. He looked to Hilda, sighed then pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. They walked inside. Iron bars lined the hall, framing cells containing bloody and battered men. The reek of shit and death was overwhelming. To their right, sat neatly stacked wooden masks in the shape of a bear, a goat, a skull and a wolf. James picked up one in the shape of a wolf.

The Son grimaced at the smell of the place. “He doing the rite?”

Hilda nodded. “Any will do.”

The Son nodded and unlocked the nearest cell.

James drew a short knife at his belt and pulled the iron door open. The man inside scurried back across the floor, hands splashing through a puddle of his own making. James walked up to him and kicked the Greencloak in the face, the heel of his boot knocking teeth from the man’s mouth. The soldier fell limp to the ground.

James knelt next to the fallen man and Hilda walked up next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

James Grimaced, “At some point that’s not enough.” He slit the man’s throat, letting blood fall across the mask.