The crowd shifted, necks craning toward the source of the shout. A man pushed his way to the front—broad-shouldered, middle-aged, with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. I recognized him. Duncan. He ran the grain mill on the south edge of territory.

"That's bullshit!" he barked again, his face flushed red. "Pretty words don't bring Steven back. Pretty words don't explain why a damn dart hit our Luna inside her own mansion." He jabbed a finger toward me. "You want us to believe this is some ancient revenge plot? Fine. Then tell us who. Give us a name. Give us something to fight instead of standing around waiting for...