I knew muddy streets outside siphoned the clustering serfs towards the castle and mannors of Green Street. As rain battered against my scrappy wooden home, I reached for my steak; it was a beam that I sharpened to a fine point the night before. The riots will make them change. It has to.

Joining the crowd outside, my loose tunic becomes soaked from the storm. It’s tight. We pack together tightly. Through the cold rain and gob from louder men’s maws, I feel their heat. We are angry. And have felt an absence of intervention for far too long. They cannot protect the Conjurers any longer. Their practices are full of evil spirits and undertones of magic.

Torches wave in the air as we chant, “Down with the Magi, down with thine kin. Conjuerer magic is built on sin! Bring them to lead cages or bring them to the gallows. Thy sages are unhallow!”