The location of buildings in the town shifted month by month, moving out from beneath where the miners worked. Even still, most people-men, women, and children-wore a helm to protect them from falling bits of rock.

“Why now?” one of the braver men called. “Why make us have a local lord, when we’ve always been able to pick our own leaders before?”

“The God King needs not explain his ways to you!” Weallix yelled. Instead of a helm, he wore his publican’s cap and a rich velvet costume of violet and green.

The townspeople stilled. To disobey the God King was death. Most didn’t even dare question.

The stranger rounded the crowd’s people, passing between dangling chains with thick black iron links. Some people gave him looks, trying to peer at his face, which was lost in the cowl of his deep hood. Most dismissed him, assuming he was one of those who had come with Weallix. They got out of his way as he walked toward the center of the crowd, where the publican continued explaining his new rules for the town.

The stranger didn’t shove or push; the crowd wasn’t pressed together so tightly that he needed to. He passed one of the thick chains and hesitated, reaching out and resting his fingers on it.

Woven into that chain were ribbons of blue, remnants from the festival that had occurred here a week before. Fallen flower petals-now wilted-still lurked in some cracks and corners. Some of the buildings had even been repainted. All for the Feast of the Sacrifice, a day that came only once every two decades.

“. . . So, of course, there can be no questioning my authority,” Weallix said. He pointed toward the front of the crowd, to the man who had asked the question earlier. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes . . . yes, my lord,” the man said, shrinking down.

“Excellent,” Weallix said. “Let’s see you beaten and be on with our day, then.”

“But, my lord!” the man said. “I-”