Pol took a step backward, and Harren couldn't blame him. The burning blade lit the square like a second sun, throwing their shadows long and sharp against the gatehouse doors behind them. Every instinct in Harren's body screamed at him to throw the bar and get out of the way.
But behind those instincts, deeper and more visceral, lived the memory of Percivus's acolytes being dragged through Market Square. The memory of their ruined eyes, dark and glistening, streaming blood like crimson tears down their broken faces. The memory of their voices, hoarse from screaming, begging for a mercy that never came.
Owain had done that. Owain had done that to men who served the Inquisition, men who wore the crimson and gold of the Holy Lord of Light, and he'd done it because they had displeased him. If Harren opened these gates for an armed force on the night of his lord's wedding, what Owain would do to him would make the acolytes' fate look gentle.
