The Hunt
“Don’t touch me.” I snarl, glaring at the traitor. He looks down his nose at me, a quirked eyebrow the most subtle sign of his contempt. “If you were smart, you’d be doing the same thing.” The loud clang of the collar clicking into place punctuates his words, and he turns to the next person in line. I grit my teeth as I watch. He finishes. Then, he turns to the crowd. His hands wring behind his back, and the air around him is tense as he approaches the people. He can side with them, but that doesn’t mean he’s their equal. “Time for the Lord’s speech!” The man walks on stage, the crimson fabric writhes around his ankles as he takes his place.
