Magus swung once for the both of them. His sword passed through blood and bone to halt upon the white brick. Only Cyrus’s mother’s injuries weren’t instantly lethal, for the sword cut across her arm and waist instead of cleaving her in half. Her anguished scream pierced the courtyard. Her pain ripped daggers through Cyrus’s horror-locked mind. Magus, however, twirled his sword in his fingers and shook his head with disappointment.

“Why do I bother?” he said as he cut the head from Berniss’s shoulders. “It’s always easier to rebuild from nothing.”

Cyrus couldn’t banish the sight. He couldn’t stop seeing that killing stroke. His legs weakened, limbs becoming wobbling jelly that could not support him. His whole family, gone. Slain. Bleeding upon the courtyard stones with their blood pooling into the groove Magus had carved with his shield. Crossbow bolts hammered into the men and women who had turned traitor and brought the royal family out in custody. No reward for their betrayal. Only death.

Too late, he thought. Too late, too late, he ran too late, revealed himself too late. A scream ripped out of Cyrus’s chest. No words, just a heartbroken protest against the brutality of the day and the terror sweeping through him as the ground seemed to shake at the approach of the Paragon of Shields. Too late, he had gained the attention of the monster from the boats. Too late to save his parents. Too late to mean anything but a cruel death. Cyrus prayed he would meet his father and mother on the rolling green fields of Endarius’s paradise. Face wet with tears, he stared up at Magus and slowly climbed to his feet. He would die meeting the gaze of his executioner; this he swore. Not on his knees. Not begging for his life.

The golden-armored paragon grabbed Cyrus by the throat and lifted him into the air. Instinct had Cyrus clutching at the heavy gauntlet. How easily he carried him. As if he were nothing. Just a ghost. Magus, this man, this monster, towered above the other soldiers come to join him. Cyrus stared into the man’s silver eyes and promised vengeance, even if it meant coming back as a spirit. Not even the grave would deny him his due.

“Cyrus?” Magus asked him. The necklace at his throat shimmered with pale blue light. “Prince Cyrus Lythan?”

Cyrus sucked in a shallow breath as the gauntlet loosened.

“I am,” he said. “Now do it, bastard. I’m not scared.”