Veynar tried to draw back, to hiss out a denial, but the words were small against Meical's motion. The blows pushed him through the flowerbeds,tearing blooms from stems.
Servants spilled into windows and onto porches, their faces blanching as a man they'd long respected was driven past the gate and into the public street.
Meical did not slow down. He pressed the assault outward until the old man stumbled onto the cobbles. People in the street stopped what they were doing to watch.
This was deliberate, the fall of a patriarch made spectacle and Meical ensured the spectacle was visible to all who might be tempted to take another man.
When Veynar collapsed to his knees, drenched in soil and doubt, Meical bent close until their faces were inches apart. He whispered with a voice made of winter wind.
