The courtyard froze as Aerion's words landed like a thunderclap. All eyes stared at him, but slowly, with the tentativeness of the quiet before a storm, heads began to turn. They looked to their commanding officers, to the walls, to the guards posted on the tree branches of the grove. The echo of Aerion's voice faded, plunging the grove into silence.
Then, a single swordsman raised his sword, a soldier in the midst of the Ellenwinter guard. In a voice that suffocated in the tension, yet rang in every ear, he cried, "For the Crimson Dawn!"
Disbelieving eyes fastened on him, his own companions retreating as they saw, for the first time, the red thread tied around the cuff of his uniform. An Ellenwinter uniform.
But he wasn't alone. One by one, and two by two, swords rose, baring their crimson threads in allegiance. The Lords and inquisitors looked on, growing unease, the damn holding their anger weakening with every cry.
