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yet no matter how hard he tried, he could not budge, the ropes digging into his wrists and ankles. He was forced to watch as his father knelt there, eyes filled with tears, looking to him for help.
    “Aidan!” his father called, reaching a hand out for him.
    “Father!” Aidan called back.
    The blades came down, and a moment later, Aidan’s face was splattered in blood as they chopped off his father’s head.
    “NO!” Aidan shrieked, feeling his own life collapse within him, feeling himself sinking into a black hole.
    Aidan woke with a start, gasping, covered in a cold sweat. He sat up in the darkness, struggling to realize where he was.
    “Father!” Aidan yelled, still half asleep, looking for him, still feeling an urgency to save him.
    He looked all around, felt something in his face and hair, all over his body, and realized it was hard to breathe. He reached out, pulled something light and long off his face, and he realized he was lying in a pile of hay, nearly buried in it. He quickly brushed it all off as he sat up.
    It was dark in here, only the faint flicker of a torch appearing through slats, and he soon realized he was lying in the back of a wagon. Beside him came a rustling, and he looked over and saw with relief that it was White. The huge dog jumped up in the wagon beside him and licked his face, while Aidan hugged him back.
    Aidan breathed hard, still overwhelmed by the dream. It had seemed too real. Had his father really been killed? He tried to think back to when he had last seen him, in the royal courtyard, ambushed, surrounded. He recalled trying to help, and then being whisked away by Motley in the thick of night. He recalled Motley putting him on this wagon, their riding through the backstreets of Andros to get away.
    That explained the wagon. But where had they gone? Where had Motley taken him?
    A door opened, and a sliver of torchlight lit up the dark room. Aidan was finally able to see where he was: a small stone room, the ceiling low and arched, looking like a small cottage or tavern. He looked up to see Motley standing in the doorway, framed in the torchlight.
    “Keep yelling like that and the Pandesians will find us,” Motley warned.
    Motley turned and walked out, returning to the well-lit room in the distance, and Aidan quickly hopped down from the wagon and followed, White at his side. As Aidan entered the bright room, Motley quickly closed the thick oak door behind him and bolted it several times.
    Aidan looked out, eyes adjusting to the light, and recognized familiar faces: Motley’s friends. The actors. All those entertainers from the road. They were all here, all hiding away, boarded up in this windowless, stone pub. All the faces, once so festive, were now grim, somber.
    “Pandesians are everywhere,” Motley said to Aidan. “Keep your voice down.”
    Aidan, embarrassed, hadn’t even realized he was shouting.
    “Sorry,” he said. “I had a nightmare.”
    “We all have nightmares,” Motley replied.
    “We’re living in one,” added another actor, his face glum.
    “Where are we?” Aidan asked, looking around, puzzled.
    “A tavern,” Motley replied, “at the farthest corner of Andros. We are still in the capital, hiding out. The Pandesians patrol outside. They’ve walked by several times, but they haven’t come in—and they won’t, as long as you keep quiet. We’re safe here.”
    “For now,” called out one of his friends, skeptical.
    Aidan, feeling an urgency to help his father, tried to remember.
    “My father,” he said. “Is he…dead?”
    Motley shook his head.
    “I don’t know. He was taken. That was the last I saw him.”
    Aidan felt a flush of resentment.
    “You took me away!” he said angrily. “You shouldn’t have. I would have helped him!”
    Motley rubbed his chin.
    “And how would you have managed that?”
    Aidan shrugged, wracking his brain.
    “I don’t know,” he replied. “Somehow.”
    Motley nodded.
    “You would have tried,” he