Four against one was not good odds, for a normal man. But this time he didn’t have Francis to worry about, and Henry was not the half-starved orphan he had been. He could weather a beating or, if he has to, he felt could kill these robbers without issue. Henry held his hands up in front of him, palms out. He didn't drop his dagger. Instead, he used the reflection in the polished steel to get a look at the men behind him. Both were ghosting forward, their cheap iron knives held ready.

Henry shook his head. “Please, you don’t have to do this.” They didn't really understand why he was pleading.

The robbers closed around him. Henry knew that this was the moment when he should fight, or flee. He felt his training pushing him to act, but the thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach. The moment passed. He sighed. One of the men grabbed his wrist, and tried to wrestle his knife away while another lay his heavy hand on Henry’s elbow.

Henry grimaced, refusing to release the dagger. “Please, let me go.”

“Strong little bastard in’t yeh?” The man’s breath reeked of sour wine and tooth-rot. “Gi’s yer pissing money, or we’ll cut you a new arsehole, arsehole.”

Henry looked around, trying to see a way out, but he was completely encircled. “You don’t want to do this. Please, just leave me alone.”

“Shaat up.” The man squeezed his wrist hard, and shook him violently. He put himself right in Henry’s face, and screamed at him.“PURSE!”

Henry blinked the spit from his eyes, and felt the panic rise further like a strap tightening around his chest.“I beg you.”

Hands clamped down on him from all sides, groping at his waist, trying to find his purse under his clothes. Suddenly he was back in the orphanage, surrounded by witch-hunters. The dagger clattered to the floor, and desperation surged. He saw Father William, and Francis and Maggie being held down. Everything went red. He couldn’t hear anything over the beat of his heart, see anything but blood and that moment of horror. He screamed and tore his arm free from those holding it, throwing full-grown men like dolls. Desperate, he lashed out at the sweaty face that looms in front of him with all of his frantic, blood-fuelled strength.

There was a sickening crunch, and a shock of pain that brought Henry back to the moment. The busy street was silent except for the groans of the fallen. No one dared breathe. His hand felt as if it had been dipped in hot lead. The mugger stood in front of him, his head sagging like a stocking full of broken crockery. Body rigid, he pitched backward like a falling tree and hit the ground with a wet thud.

The other robbers stayed down. Henry stooped, and plucked his dagger up from the ground with his off-hand. He looked up at the woman, their leader. She didn’t even look at him, she only stared down at the dead man lying on the filthy cobbles. The others began to shuffle away, quiet, as if to not attract his attention. As he straightened, she looked up at him, her eyes red, face blotchy.

“I begged. I begged you to stop.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was learning that while he could do many things, he couldn’t undo them, as much as he might have wanted to. He saw her face travel through shock, then denial, fear, and finally, perhaps surprisingly, on what he thought was betrayal. To her, Henry’s very existence went against the laws of God’s creation. She had been betrayed by the heavens.

“Witch,” she muttered. It was barely a whisper, but it was the loudest sound in the street. He feared everyone must have heard it.

“Witch!” she repeated, louder. There are tears running down her cheeks.

Henry ran, it was all he could do. Her screams followed him, and her gang rallied. Others started emerging from their homes and the pursuing pack of thieves became a screaming mob. Henry’s legs felt like they were driving through tar, so much of his power used in one blow leaving him feeling weak and dizzy.

He didn’t get very far before he was tackled to the ground by the burly leader of the gang. Too close now to use her kosh, the huge woman wrapped her arms around him and started squeezing. Henry struggled, but all he managed to do was worm his way around until he was looking right at her.

She screamed in his face, hot anger and a string of foul curses. Her eyes bulged, one skimmed in blood from a fresh cut on her forehead. Henry tried to bring his dagger to bear, but his arms were pinned to his sides. He could hear the mob surging up the alley like a wave.

She squeezed harder, and Henry' ribs creaked. In desperation, he burned more blood and then lashed out in a vicious head-butt, smashing her nose like an overripe fruit. She howled in pain, and blood fountained out of her, raining onto his face. He absorbed it greedily, drawing on her strength, and the pressure on his ribs faded as he channeled more power into his arms.

Every joint in his narrow frame cried out as he started to overpower her. She howled again, a keening noise drawn out by his blood focus, as time slowed to a crawl. They struggled for what felt like minutes before her strength gave out, and her body sagged against him. He pushed her off, struggling to his feet with his power almost spent. The mob was nearly on him. The woman's cry of anger had turned to sobbing, and Henry looked down at her, torn between pity and duty, between humanity and his training.

He knelt beside her, took her by the hair and hauled her head back to cut her throat. Tears burned in his eyes as he imagined her starting to choke on the bright blood spurting from her neck. Him letting some of the blood splash on his hands and face, absorbing its power before turning and running again, with the angry mob hot on his heels. But the heat of the moment was gone; he couldn't make himself do it. He let her go instead, and stumble-sprinted away.

The mob kept up until the end of the alley, but as they broke out onto wider streets their determination wavered, and they started to slow, uncertainty and fear of the yeomanry breaking their resolve.