"Thank you, Melantha," Cyril said. He took a step back, and nodded to her escort.

One of the Warriors stepped from her side and turned to face her. With his eyes carefully avoiding hers, he reached his hands up and got an almost gentle grip around her throat.

And began to squeeze.

Reflexively, she tried to twist out of his grip, her hands darting up of their own accord to grab at his wrists. But he'd been prepared for the reaction, and his adult Warrior's strength was far beyond that of a twelve-year-old girl. The blood roared in her ears, drowning out all other sounds, but in her mind she could feel the anguished calls coming from the Greens over what had to be done, even from those like Cyril who had persuaded them that it was the only way. Lancing through it all like lightning through storm clouds was the last call from her parents, a vibration of fear and pain and hopelessness.

She could feel her strength ebbing away now, her arms falling loosely to her sides, her knees starting to buckle. Vaguely, she sensed the second Warrior gripping her under her arms, supporting her so that the first could finish the job. White spots were dancing in front of her eyes, and the distant streetlight reflected on his face seemed to be fading away. Did that mean the end was near? Feeling like a dying flower wilting in his grip, she closed her eyes.

Even through the closed lids she saw the brilliant burst of light. The grip on her throat abruptly eased, and she had a vague sense of the anguish swirling around her suddenly replaced with surprise and consternation. There was a distant-sounding shout—the word Betrayal!—

The clutching hands were suddenly torn away from her throat, and she heard a gasp as something threw the Warrior to the ground. Even as she fought to suck air into her lungs, the hands that had been supporting her let go, and she felt herself collapsing toward the grass.