Marius's tired eyes lingered briefly on the man's face—someone he had seen once or twice, likely, but had never spoken to—then drifted down to the knife in his hand. His grip on the crowbar instantly tightened, his knuckles growing white.

So this was it. This man was to be his death. He minded it little, even if he wished the Fates had given him a day longer to protect his beloved.

Still, he was ready, as he had always been ever since he had decided to join the barricades at Paris. Wordlessly, he took a step back, in the opposite direction of the camp. He raised his eyes to the man with a challenge in them. His shoulders tensed, ready for the attack that would come.