With arms crossed over their muscular chests, biceps bulging, the women created a barrier between the maelstrom in the benches and Brenimyn. Jahara watched in helpless horror as four of them surrounded the man, who only an hour ago had been wrapped in her arms. Now he was wrapped in chains. Though he hadn’t tried to resist, two of the guards held weapons at the ready. He said nothing, simply lifting his head in Bresilee’s direction. The woman who had commanded the attention of all, now cowered in her seat and Jahara wondered if he had threatened her telepathically. She hoped it had been something scathing and vicious. But knowing Brenimyn, it was probably nothing more than the steely glare of his ice blue eyes that had the director recoiling. Jahara was bumped and jostled from all sides as women fought to move out of the gallery. She couldn’t be sure whether the commotion came from the disbelief that a woman had been raped or that their hero was being martyred. Some part of her brain knew Nazaret and Attika were talking to her, but she only had eyes for the man disappearing—perhaps forever—through the side door of the hall.
