Henry's shout was swallowed by the pounding of hooves.
Dust rose as the horse tore down the road, Leonard's figure growing smaller until it vanished between the crooked buildings of Blackworm. The cheers from earlier were gone. What remained was silence—thick, suffocating silence—and bodies scattered across the square.
Henry stood there, wrists burning against the rope, chest heaving.
"…Damn it," he whispered.
He staggered toward the fallen timber, back pressing against it as his legs finally gave out. His heart wouldn't slow. Every breath scraped his throat raw. The image of Leonard's eyes—cold, distant, unreadable—burned itself into his mind.
After several frantic twists and desperate rubbing against the jagged edge of the podium, the rope around his wrists loosened enough for him to pull free. He worked on his ankles next, fingers trembling, flinching at every sound. When the last knot gave way, he collapsed forward, palms pressed to the dirt.
He didn't stay long.
