Brawl

Henry wasn’t supposed to be here. At least, not in the way the others were. He didn’t carry a sign, nor did he shout or chant. He walked alongside the marchers, blending into the edges, his eyes flicking between faces and hands, trying to pick out anything that didn’t belong.

The street was alive with anger, the kind that surged through bodies and spread like wildfire, charging the air until it was impossible to breathe without feeling it. Men and women moved together, their voices rising in unison, shaking the cobblestones beneath their feet.

"To hell with your king!" one man shouted, spittle flying as he leaned into the face of an enforcer.

Henry flinched, though he doubted anyone noticed. The enforcer didn’t move, his face carved from stone, but the lines around his eyes tightened. It wouldn’t take much to ignite him. Henry kept walking, his steps measured, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his coat. His heart raced.