The throne hall of Ravenclave was a cavern of polished marble and cold splendor. Columns rose high as ancient oaks, carved with dragons in twisting relief, their wings stretched toward the vaulted ceiling where chandeliers burned with a hundred golden flames. Red banners hung limp in the still air, heavy with the dust of ceremony rather than the breath of life.

King Augustus reclined on his throne as though it were a chair in his garden, one leg slung lazily over the other, fingers idly drumming the gilded armrest. His crown glinted in the light, an unnecessary weight perched upon thinning hair. Around him, courtiers in silks and perfumes clustered like brightly colored birds, murmuring, laughing, and waiting for entertainment.

And today, entertainment had arrived.

The great doors creaked open, and the guards marched in a man who seemed to carry the dirt of the streets upon him like a second skin. His boots squelched on the marble, leaving small flecks of mud in his wake. His trousers were patched so many times they resembled a quilt of mismatched cloth. His tunic sagged over a frame lanky as a scarecrow, and his hair—wild, wiry, and thick as brambles—jutted from his head in every direction as though he’d been struck by lightning.

The courtiers tittered. A hand shot up to cover a jeweled mouth. Someone muttered, “What is that smell?”

The man bowed—or rather collapsed forward in what he must have thought a bow, arms flopping like a broken marionette. When he raised his head again, his eyes shone bright beneath their shaggy brows, fierce and unafraid despite the mockery around him.

“My name is Bramble Grisk,” he said in a voice rough as gravel, “an’ I come from the worker’s quarter at the city’s edge.”

Laughter rippled through the hall at his accent, at the boldness of his stance. But Augustus, who thrived on such spectacles, lifted a hand, and silence fell. He leaned forward, feigning interest.

“Well then, Bramble Grisk,” the King said, his lips curling into something that might have been a smile, “what complaint drags you from your mud-hole into my hall?”

Bramble swallowed. He wrung his cap—little more than a lump of wool, chewed through by moths—in his calloused hands. His voice cracked at first but grew steadier with each word.

“Sire, I come speakin’ not for meself but for my neighbors, my kin, an’ all them what breaks their backs in your fields. The outlanders, they’ve been pushin’ closer. They steal our sheep, raid our carts, burn our huts when we don’t hand over grain. We can’t keep livin’ like this. We beg for soldiers, for walls, for—”

A snicker cut him off. One of the courtiers leaned to whisper in another’s ear: “Walls? Around pigsties?” Both laughed behind jeweled hands.

Bramble’s face flushed crimson, but he went on stubbornly. “We pay our taxes, same as the highborn. We break our bones till the marrow runs dry, an’ what do we get? Empty bellies, burnt fields, widows left cryin’. We need your help, Your Majesty. Else the outlanders will swallow us whole.”

His voice echoed through the chamber, raw and trembling with fury. For a moment, the court quieted. Even the laughter faltered at the naked desperation that cracked through his words.

King Augustus tapped his fingers against the throne. “Outlanders,” he mused as though tasting the word. “Vermin on the edges of our realm. You claim they burn and steal? And yet you bring me no proof—no captured raider, no stolen sheep dragged through my gates. Only mud on your boots and whining in your throat.”

A chuckle rolled through the courtiers, louder this time.

Bramble straightened, shoulders jerking. His wild hair caught the firelight like a halo gone wrong. “Proof? Look at me hands!” He thrust them forward—scarred, blistered, dirt ingrained so deep it would never wash out. “Look at me boots, worn to nubs marchin’ here on foot just to beg for mercy! Ain’t that proof enough?”

“Proof of poverty,” Augustus said lightly, waving a jeweled ring in the air. “Not proof of encroachment.” He leaned back, eyes glinting with amusement. “And yet, because I am merciful, I shall address your… predicament.”

The hall grew still. Bramble’s eyes lit with a spark of hope.

“You say the outlanders encroach because you are weak,” Augustus went on, his tone suddenly stern, practiced. “Therefore, strength must be given you. But strength costs coin. Coin for soldiers, coin for walls, coin for weapons. And where shall this coin come from?”

A murmur of approval stirred among the nobles. They knew the answer before it was spoken.

“From you, of course,” the King finished with a satisfied smile. “From your quarter. From your kin. A modest increase in tax will be levied upon the worker’s district. Consider it an investment in your own safety. Pay more, and in time, perhaps, you shall see soldiers patrolling your hovels.”

Bramble froze. His jaw worked soundlessly, like a fish gasping on a dock. Then the color drained from his face, replaced by a flush of rage so hot it seemed to set his tangled hair aflame.

“More?” he croaked. “We’ve got nothin’ left to give! We already starve in our homes, sellin’ what little we got to pay your damn collectors. You’ll bleed us dry!”

A sharp hiss of disapproval swept through the nobles. One woman clutched her pearls. Another muttered, “Insolence.”

Augustus rose slightly from his throne, his bulk shifting against the gold-trimmed seat. His smile had vanished. “Careful, peasant. Gratitude is wiser than insolence when standing before your King.”

Bramble’s knees trembled, but he did not bow his head. His eyes burned bright, fierce as any knight’s. “Gratitude?” he spat. “Gratitude for what? For more chains? For watchin’ our children waste away so you can fatten your lizards an’ polish your crown? If this is your mercy, then may the gods help us all.”

The guards shifted, hands on hilts. The court buzzed like hornets disturbed. But Augustus only sneered, lowering himself back into the throne.

“Take him away,” the King said, flicking his hand as though brushing a fly from his wine.

The guards seized Bramble by the arms. He struggled, twisting, but his voice carried loud and clear across the marble hall as they dragged him toward the doors.

“You’ll hear from us again!” he roared. His cap fell, trampled underfoot. His wild hair streamed like a banner of defiance. “You’ll hear from Bramble Grisk an’ every soul you’ve crushed under your taxes! We won’t be silenced!”

The doors slammed behind him. The echo lingered.

In the sudden quiet, King Augustus smoothed his robes, reclaiming his smile. “Well,” he said with a chuckle, “that was amusing.”

The courtiers laughed, relieved, their jeweled voices rising to fill the hall once more. But somewhere beyond those polished walls, in the mud and hunger of the worker’s quarter, Bramble Grisk’s words had already taken root.

And roots, once buried deep, had a way of breaking stone.