The sound of rain drummed steadily on the windowpanes of the Grimshaw estate, a soft patter that barely cut through the laughter and clinking glasses inside. Alaric stood by the fireplace, his reflection faintly visible in the polished marble mantle as he stared into the flames. It was an ordinary evening by most standards—a gathering of London's finest, held in honor of some minor philanthropic endeavor organized by Lady Davenport. A charity for the poor, they called it. A gesture to assuage their collective guilt, Alaric thought bitterly.
He fingered the cufflinks on his sleeves, each one stamped with the Grimshaw family crest—a symbol that had come to feel more like a shackle than a badge of honor. His father, Lord Grimshaw, stood a few feet away, laughing boisterously with a group of wealthy businessmen, each of them fat with privilege and blind to the suffering their wealth had bred.
Alaric had been to countless such gatherings over the years, but tonight felt different. His mind, usually dulled by the banality of these events, was sharp with unease. Images of Charter Row flashed before his eyes—the soot-stained buildings, the coughing children, the hollow eyes of men and women working themselves to death in the factories. He had been there, walked among them, and now he was here again, standing among those who profited from their misery.
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Alaric, my boy!" boomed his father, Lord Grimshaw, as he slapped a heavy hand on his son's shoulder. "Lost in thought, are we? Come, meet Sir Montrose. He's just expanded his textile factories—remarkable growth, wouldn't you say?"
Alaric turned, his gaze settling on Sir Montrose—a rotund man with a crimson face and beady eyes that twinkled with self-satisfaction. He extended a hand, which Alaric shook automatically, feeling the slickness of the man's palm.
"Ah, the younger Grimshaw," Montrose said, his voice oily and loud. "Your father tells me you've taken an interest in politics. Good to see the young blood getting involved. We need more of you to keep the wheels of industry turning smoothly."
Alaric forced a smile, though the words stuck in his throat. His father beamed, pleased with the exchange.
"Indeed, Sir Montrose," Lord Grimshaw said, nodding approvingly. "Alaric has always had a fine head for business, haven't you, son? He's been helping me with some... delicate matters in Charter Row."
At the mention of Charter Row, Alaric's stomach twisted. He bit back the words that rose to his lips, the urge to scream that they were ruining lives with their "industry" choking him. Instead, he nodded politely, maintaining the veneer expected of him.
"Yes," Alaric said, his voice calm. "I've been... observing the conditions there."
"Ah, conditions," Montrose said, waving a hand dismissively. "A temporary inconvenience, I assure you. We've had some difficulty with the unions, but nothing a firm hand won't solve. The workers need to be reminded of their place. After all, who feeds them, clothes them, if not us?"
The man's words made Alaric's blood run cold. This was the reality of the world he had grown up in—a world where men like Montrose and his father viewed the poor as little more than tools to be used, broken, and discarded.
"Of course," Alaric said, forcing himself to remain composed. "Though I've noticed the workers are... struggling. The conditions are harsher than they were last year. Perhaps more should be done to... improve them?"
His father's hand tightened on his shoulder, a subtle warning. "Alaric, there's no need to burden Sir Montrose with such matters. He's a man of business, not charity."
"Ah, yes," Montrose said with a chuckle, though his eyes gleamed with interest. "But I must say, young Grimshaw, I admire your compassion. It's rare to see that in our world. Just be careful—you don't want to be mistaken for a bleeding heart. The workers need a firm hand, not coddling."
Alaric smiled thinly. "Of course. A firm hand."
As the conversation drifted toward other matters—stocks, investments, and the latest political maneuverings—Alaric felt his mind detach. He drifted through the rest of the evening like a ghost, exchanging pleasantries, nodding where expected, but his thoughts were miles away, back in the crowded streets of Charter Row.
---
Later that night, after the last of the guests had left and the house had fallen into silence, Alaric stood by his bedroom window, staring out into the rain-soaked streets of London. His reflection in the glass was dark and indistinct, a shadow of the man he had once been.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small slip of paper Evelyn had given him. It was a list of names—workers who had been dismissed from the factories after speaking out against the appalling conditions. Men and women who had risked everything to demand basic rights, only to be cast aside.
Evelyn had told him about their plight in one of their brief, stolen conversations. She had been cautious, guarded, but her eyes had burned with a fierce determination that Alaric found both inspiring and troubling. He had seen that same fire in the workers he had met—their hope and their anger, the simmering resentment that threatened to boil over at any moment.
He knew he was standing on a precipice. If he continued down this path, there would be no turning back. He would be risking everything—his family's fortune, his reputation, his future. But the alternative was unthinkable. To stand by and do nothing, to allow the suffering to continue, was something he could no longer live with.
The rain pattered softly against the window, a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the beat of his heart. Alaric clenched his fists, feeling the smooth paper crumple in his grip.
The world he had known was crumbling around him, and there was no escape. All he could do was step forward and face whatever lay ahead.
---
The next day, Alaric found himself standing outside the gates of an opulent mansion in Kensington. It belonged to Lord Davenport, one of his father's closest associates and the host of yet another charity event. This one was billed as a fundraiser for the "relief of the working poor," but Alaric knew better than to expect any real help for those in need. These events were nothing more than an opportunity for the elite to flaunt their wealth and pretend to care about the less fortunate.
As he entered the grand ballroom, Alaric was greeted by a dazzling display of wealth and excess. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting a warm glow on the gilded walls and the expensive gowns and suits worn by the guests. A string quartet played softly in the background, and waiters moved gracefully through the crowd, offering champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres.
The hypocrisy of it all made Alaric's skin crawl.
He drifted through the room, exchanging pleasantries with people he had known all his life but now felt utterly disconnected from. Everywhere he turned, he heard snippets of conversation that made his stomach churn.
"The poor are simply lazy," one woman said, fanning herself as she sipped her champagne. "If they worked harder, they wouldn't be in such dire straits."
"Indeed," her companion agreed, nodding sagely. "Charity is all well and good, but we must be careful not to spoil them with too much generosity. They need to learn self-reliance."
Alaric turned away, unable to stomach any more.
As he moved through the crowd, he caught sight of Lord Davenport, holding court in the center of the room. The man was in his sixties, with a full head of silver hair and a carefully cultivated air of benevolence. He was smiling warmly, his eyes twinkling as he regaled his audience with tales of his philanthropic endeavors.
"And of course," Davenport was saying, "we must always remember that our true responsibility is to guide the less fortunate. They look to us for leadership, for wisdom. It is our duty to provide that."
Alaric's jaw clenched. He had heard enough.
He moved to the edge of the room, finding a quiet corner where he could observe the proceedings without being noticed. His mind raced with frustration and anger, but beneath that, there was a growing determination. He couldn't keep living like this—caught between two worlds, pretending to belong to one while his heart belonged to the other.
---
Hours later, the event began to wind down, and Alaric slipped out of the mansion unnoticed. The night was cold and clear, the rain having finally ceased, leaving the streets slick and shiny beneath the gas lamps.
He walked quickly, his thoughts tumbling over one another as he made his way back to Charter Row. He needed to see Evelyn, needed to speak with her about what he had heard and what he had witnessed. There was something about her—her quiet strength, her unwavering resolve—that grounded him in ways he hadn't expected. She didn't flinch in the face of hardship, didn't waver when confronted with injustice. She faced the world head-on, no matter how cruel it was.
Alaric found Evelyn in the workhouse, hunched over a pile of fabric in the dimly lit room where she toiled as a seamstress. The air was thick with dust and the heavy scent of damp wool, and the rhythmic clatter of sewing machines filled the room. Around her, other women worked silently, their faces etched with exhaustion, their fingers moving deftly through the endless yards of cloth.
Evelyn didn't notice him at first. She was focused on her work, her brow furrowed in concentration as she stitched a seam with meticulous care. Her fingers were red and calloused from the hours she spent bent over her sewing machine each day, but her movements were precise, almost graceful, despite the grueling nature of the task.
Alaric hesitated for a moment, standing just inside the doorway, watching her. There was something about her that always seemed out of place in the grim surroundings of the workhouse. She was like a bright, untouchable spark in the middle of a cold and indifferent world.
Finally, he stepped forward, clearing his throat softly to announce his presence. Evelyn looked up, startled, and for a brief moment, her eyes widened in surprise. Then, as recognition dawned, she offered him a small, tired smile.
"Alaric," she said, her voice low, though the warmth in it was unmistakable. "I didn't expect to see you here at this hour."
"I had to come," he said, moving closer. "I needed to speak with you."
Evelyn set down her sewing, motioning for one of the other women to cover her station. They exchanged brief words, then Evelyn led Alaric out of the workroom and into a narrow hallway at the back of the building. It was quieter here, away from the oppressive atmosphere of the sewing machines, though the air still carried a faint mustiness.
"What's wrong?" Evelyn asked, turning to face him.
Alaric hesitated, struggling to find the right words. He had rehearsed this moment in his head countless times, imagining how he might convey the turmoil inside him, the deep sense of betrayal he felt toward his family, his world. But now, standing here with Evelyn, those words felt inadequate.
"I went to Lord Davenport's charity event tonight," he began slowly. "Another one of those endless gatherings where the rich pat themselves on the back for doing the bare minimum for people like... well, for people like you."
Evelyn raised an eyebrow but said nothing, waiting for him to continue.
"They talk about the poor like they're a problem to be managed," Alaric said, his frustration bleeding into his voice. "Like your suffering is just an inconvenience. And my father... he's part of it. I've known that for a long time, but hearing it again tonight—hearing them talk about controlling the workers, keeping them in line—it was too much. I can't stand it anymore."
Evelyn's expression softened, her eyes searching his face for the truth behind his words. She had always sensed there was more to Alaric than the privileged young man he appeared to be, but it was still hard for her to believe he was truly ready to walk away from everything he had known.
"What are you going to do?" she asked quietly.
"I don't know," Alaric admitted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "But I can't keep pretending that things will change if I just stand by and wait. I've seen what the factories are doing to people—what they've done to you. I can't unsee it. I can't be part of it anymore."
There was a long silence between them, the weight of Alaric's words hanging in the air. Evelyn's face was thoughtful, her sharp blue eyes focused intently on him.
"You have choices, Alaric," she said finally. "You could walk away from all of this. You could live a comfortable life and never have to think about the people suffering in the factories again. But you're here, in the middle of all of it. That tells me something."
Alaric met her gaze, feeling a strange mix of relief and apprehension at her words.
"What does it tell you?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper.
"That you care," Evelyn replied, her voice firm. "That you're not like the others."
Alaric swallowed hard, the truth of her words settling in his chest like a heavy stone. He had always known, deep down, that he was different from the men like Sir Montrose and his father, men who saw the world through a lens of profit and control. But admitting that difference out loud, acknowledging it to someone like Evelyn, made it real in a way that felt terrifying.
"I want to help," he said finally, his voice steady. "I don't know how yet, but I need to do something."
Evelyn smiled then, a small, tired smile that spoke of both hope and exhaustion.
"Then we'll figure it out together," she said softly. "You're not alone in this."
For the first time in a long while, Alaric felt a glimmer of hope. He wasn't sure what lay ahead, but with Evelyn by his side, he knew he wasn't facing it alone.
---
Over the next few weeks, Alaric and Evelyn began to meet more regularly, slipping away from their respective lives to discuss their plans in secret. Alaric spent his days attending to the duties expected of him as a Grimshaw—meetings with factory overseers, dinners with influential businessmen, and the occasional appearance at charity events. But his heart was no longer in it.
Every night, after the sun had set and the streets of London were quiet, he made his way to the outskirts of Charter Row, where he and Evelyn would meet in the small, dimly lit attic of an old boarding house. There, they shared information, planned strategies, and quietly plotted a course of action.
Evelyn had connections within the labor movement—men and women who were working tirelessly to organize strikes and protests, demanding better wages and safer working conditions. Through her, Alaric was introduced to people who were on the front lines of the fight for workers' rights—union leaders, activists, and ordinary factory workers who had grown tired of being treated as disposable.
It was during one of these meetings that Alaric was introduced to a man named Marcus Hale—a seasoned union organizer with a sharp mind and a no-nonsense attitude. Hale was a towering figure, both in stature and presence, with broad shoulders and a deep, gravelly voice that commanded attention.
"You're Lord Grimshaw's son, aren't you?" Hale said when Alaric was first introduced to him. His tone wasn't accusatory, but there was a hint of skepticism in his eyes.
"I am," Alaric admitted, feeling a familiar knot of discomfort form in his chest.
Hale studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "And you're here to help the workers?"
"I am," Alaric repeated, more firmly this time. "I don't agree with what my father is doing. I want to see things change."
Hale let out a low hum, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed Alaric.
"We'll see," he said finally, his tone neutral. "Talk is cheap. Actions are what matter."
Alaric nodded, understanding the man's hesitation. He knew that gaining the trust of the workers wouldn't be easy. They had every reason to distrust him—he was, after all, part of the very system that had oppressed them for so long. But he was determined to prove himself, not with words, but with actions.
---
As the weeks passed, Alaric threw himself into the movement, working tirelessly to support the workers' efforts. He used his connections within high society to gather information about factory owners and their plans, feeding that information back to the unions. He attended secret meetings in dimly lit basements, strategizing with union leaders about upcoming strikes and protests.
Through it all, Evelyn remained by his side, offering her guidance and support. She had become his confidante, his partner in this quiet rebellion. Together, they formed a bond that went beyond mere friendship—a bond forged in the fires of shared purpose and mutual respect.
But as their plans grew bolder, so too did the dangers they faced. The factory owners were growing increasingly suspicious of the workers' organizing efforts, and rumors of strikes and unrest were beginning to spread throughout the city. The tension in the air was palpable, and Alaric knew that it was only a matter of time before things came to a head.
One evening, as Alaric and Evelyn sat in their usual meeting spot, poring over a map of the city's factories, Evelyn looked up at him, her expression serious.
"Alaric, we're getting close," she said quietly. "The workers are ready to strike, but the factory owners won't let it happen without a fight. We need to be prepared for what's coming."
Alaric nodded, his jaw set with determination. "I know," he said. "And I'm ready."
Evelyn reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "Are you sure? This won't just be a battle of words anymore. People will get hurt."
Alaric met her gaze, his eyes filled with a quiet resolve. "I'm sure," he said. "I can't turn back now."
Evelyn held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded, her grip tightening slightly on his arm.
"Then we'll face it together," she said softly.
---
The night of the strike came quickly, faster than Alaric had anticipated. The workers had chosen the largest factory in Charter Row as the site of their protest—a sprawling complex that employed hundreds of men, women, and children, all of whom were fed up with the abysmal conditions they endured day after day. The plan was simple but dangerous: the workers would block the factory entrances, refusing to allow anyone inside until their demands were met—better wages, safer working conditions, and an end to the relentless exploitation.
Alaric stood among them, his heart pounding in his chest as he looked out over the growing crowd. Workers from all over Charter Row had gathered, their faces set in grim determination. Many of them carried makeshift signs, hastily scrawled with slogans demanding justice and dignity. Others had brought tools or heavy pieces of wood, ready to defend themselves if the factory owners decided to call in the authorities.
Evelyn stood at his side, her face calm but tense. She had helped organize this strike, rallying the workers with quiet but unwavering conviction. Now, as the crowd swelled around them, she looked every bit the leader that Alaric had come to know her as—a beacon of hope in a sea of uncertainty.
"This is it," she said softly, her voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.
Alaric nodded, his eyes scanning the factory's looming façade. "I know."
The first few hours passed in relative calm. The workers held their ground, chanting and waving their signs as the factory owners and overseers looked on from behind the factory gates. Alaric could see the tension building in the faces of the overseers, their mouths set in tight, angry lines. He knew that it was only a matter of time before they made their move.
And then, as the sun began to set, the factory gates opened.
A line of constables, armed with batons and shields, marched out from the factory yard, their faces impassive as they moved toward the workers. Alaric felt a chill run down his spine. This was exactly what they had feared—a show of force meant to intimidate and break the will of the strikers.
The crowd shifted uneasily, and for a moment, Alaric thought the workers might scatter. But then Evelyn stepped forward, raising her voice above the rising din.
"Stand your ground!" she called out, her voice strong and clear. "They can't take our dignity if we don't give it to them!"
Her words rippled through the crowd, and slowly, the workers rallied. They tightened their ranks, linking arms and standing firm as the constables approached.
Alaric's heart raced as he watched the two sides draw closer. This was the moment of truth—the moment that would decide whether the workers' fight for justice would succeed or be crushed under the weight of authority.
The first blow came swiftly.
A constable swung his baton at one of the workers at the front of the line, striking him hard across the shoulder. The man stumbled but didn't fall, his face contorted in pain as he fought to stay upright. And then, like a spark igniting a powder keg, the violence erupted.
The constables surged forward, swinging their batons with ruthless efficiency, while the workers fought back with whatever they could find—sticks, stones, their bare fists. The air was filled with the sounds of shouting, the thud of blows, and the crash of bodies colliding.
Alaric found himself caught in the chaos, struggling to keep his footing as the crowd pushed and pulled around him. He ducked as a constable swung a baton at his head, barely avoiding the blow. His heart was pounding in his ears, adrenaline coursing through his veins as he fought to stay on his feet.
Beside him, Evelyn was a blur of motion, dodging strikes and helping fallen workers to their feet. She moved with a grace and determination that left Alaric in awe, even in the midst of the chaos.
But the constables were relentless, and soon the tide began to turn against the workers. Alaric could see it happening—their lines were breaking, their numbers thinning as more and more of them were beaten back by the constables' brutal assault.
He had to do something.
Without thinking, Alaric surged forward, pushing through the throng of bodies toward the factory gates. His eyes locked onto the overseer who stood at the entrance, barking orders to the constables like a general commanding his troops.
"You!" Alaric shouted, his voice hoarse with anger. "Stop this! You don't have to do this!"
The overseer turned to him, his face twisting into a sneer. "This is what happens when the rabble get ideas above their station," he said coldly. "You should know that better than anyone, Lord Grimshaw."
Alaric felt a surge of fury at the man's words. How could he be so callous? How could he look at the suffering of the workers and feel nothing but contempt?
"You're wrong," Alaric said, his voice shaking with emotion. "These people aren't rabble. They're human beings, and they deserve to be treated with dignity."
The overseer laughed, a harsh, mocking sound. "Dignity? In Charter Row? You're a fool, boy. This is how the world works. The strong survive, and the weak are crushed. It's always been that way, and it always will be."
Alaric clenched his fists, his entire body trembling with rage. He wanted to hit the overseer, to wipe that smug expression off his face. But he knew that violence wouldn't solve anything—it would only make things worse.
Instead, he took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.
"You're wrong," he said again, his voice steady this time. "Things can change. And they will."
The overseer's sneer faltered for a moment, but before he could respond, a loud whistle cut through the air.
Alaric turned to see a group of factory owners, led by none other than Sir Montrose, marching toward the gates. Their faces were grim, and Alaric could see the fury in his father's eyes.
"Alaric!" Sir Montrose barked, his voice sharp with anger. "What are you doing here?"
Alaric swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. This was it—the moment he had been dreading. But he wasn't going to back down. Not now.
"I'm standing with the workers," he said, his voice clear and unwavering. "I'm standing for what's right."
Sir Montrose's face darkened, his eyes narrowing in fury. "You're a Grimshaw," he spat. "You don't stand with the likes of them."
"I'm not like you, Father," Alaric said, his voice steady despite the fear gnawing at his insides. "I never have been."
There was a long, tense silence. The constables had paused in their assault, and the workers were watching the exchange with bated breath.
Finally, Sir Montrose let out a harsh, bitter laugh.
"You're a fool, Alaric," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think you can change the world? You think you can save these people? You'll only destroy yourself."
Alaric's pulse quickened as his father's eyes bore into him—cold, unyielding, the same way they had always been. He had expected this confrontation for weeks, maybe even longer. Deep down, he knew his father would never understand, that the chasm between their worldviews was too wide to cross. Yet standing there, with the weight of his family's legacy pressing down on his shoulders, Alaric's resolve began to waver.
*What am I doing?* The thought flashed through his mind like a warning, tightening his chest. His entire life had been shaped by this man—by his father's expectations, by the wealth and privilege that came with the Grimshaw name. And now, he was about to throw it all away.
He clenched his fists, trying to suppress the gnawing fear creeping up his spine. The logical part of him screamed that he was being reckless. His father's words, sharp and biting, cut through his thoughts like knives.
"You're making a fool of yourself, boy. Do you even understand what you're risking? Everything we've built—everything *I've* built—means nothing to you, does it?"
Alaric swallowed hard, feeling the sting of those words. It was true. He didn't know what would come next. If he followed through, if he turned his back on his family, there would be no going back. His future, once certain, would become a blank canvas—a frightening, unknown void.
His father's voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. "Do you think you can fix the world, Alaric? Do you think you can save them?"
Alaric's jaw tightened. He had no illusions about saving the world. He wasn't even sure if he could save himself from the abyss he was about to plunge into. But the faces of the workers, worn and hollow, flashed before his eyes. Evelyn's voice echoed in his mind, steady and resolute, and he remembered why he had chosen this path.
"It's not about saving anyone," Alaric said, his voice trembling, but steady enough to cut through the tension. "It's about doing what's right."
For a moment, his father stared at him, unblinking. Then, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he turned his back on his son, the finality of the gesture stinging more than any words. "You've always been a disappointment."
The words hung in the air like a noose, tightening around Alaric's throat. He stood rooted to the spot, fear and doubt warring within him. But then, from somewhere deep inside, came a flicker of something stronger—something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Courage
---
Outside, the air was thick with anticipation. The workers had gathered, a sea of tired, anxious faces, their worn hands clutching at whatever tools they could find—shovels, wrenches, hammers. Their breath misted in the cold air, a visible testament to the life still struggling within them. But beneath the surface, the fear was palpable. Alaric could see it in their eyes, in the way they huddled together, whispering in low, nervous tones.
Evelyn stood at the center of the group, her back straight, her eyes scanning the crowd with a calm that belied the tension crackling in the air. Alaric joined her, feeling the weight of the moment settle on his shoulders.
"They're scared," she said quietly, her voice carrying only to him. "They know what's coming."
He nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the row of constables lining the street, their truncheons hanging menacingly at their sides. The confrontation was inevitable. Alaric could feel the storm brewing, the oppressive silence before the first crack of thunder.
"They have every right to be scared," he said. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he should call the whole thing off. The workers, after all, were only armed with their desperation. Against the might of the constables, what chance did they stand?
But Evelyn's voice cut through his hesitation, as sharp as a blade. "Fear has kept them in chains for too long. It's time they learn they have a right to fight back."
Alaric's eyes flicked to her. In that moment, she looked taller, more determined than ever before. She, too, was afraid—he could see it in the tightness of her jaw, the stiffness in her shoulders—but she stood her ground. And if she could, so could he.
The first shout rang out, breaking the tense quiet like glass shattering. Alaric turned just in time to see a scuffle break out at the front of the crowd. A constable had pushed a worker—a boy, no more than sixteen—and the boy had stumbled, hitting the ground hard. The workers surged forward in response, their pent-up anger and frustration boiling over in a single, terrifying moment.
The constables moved as one, their batons swinging, crashing down on heads and backs. Alaric's pulse spiked, his mind struggling to process the chaos unfolding before him. He watched as the workers fought back, some wielding their tools like makeshift weapons, others simply pushing and shoving, desperate to hold their ground.
Beside him, Evelyn's voice rose above the din. "Hold the line! Don't give them an inch!"
But it was clear the situation was spiraling out of control. Alaric's hands clenched into fists as he watched a man fall to the ground, blood streaming from a gash on his forehead. Another was struck down moments later, the sickening thud of a baton against flesh making Alaric's stomach turn.
"This is it" he thought, a sickening realization settling over him. There's no going back.
As the violence surged, Alaric found himself pushed into the fray. He raised his hands, trying to shield himself from the blows, but his mind was elsewhere—on his father's words, on the decision he had made. The doubt still gnawed at him, but beneath it, a new resolve had taken root.
His father was wrong. This wasn't foolishness. It wasn't recklessness. It was necessary.
The workers had been pushed to the brink, living on the edge of survival for too long. Alaric could see it now—this wasn't just a fight for fair wages or better conditions. It was a fight for dignity, for the right to be seen as human.
And he was a part of it, whether he liked it or not.
Evelyn's voice rang out again, drawing his attention. She was still standing strong, defiant in the face of the violence surrounding her. Alaric felt a surge of admiration—and something more. In that moment, he realized they weren't just fighting for the workers. They were fighting for themselves, for the right to shape their own futures.
And no matter what happened next, he wouldn't turn back. The battle for Charter Row had only just begun.