The fourteen-hour carriage ride to Vallessau felt interminably longer on the return trip. By the time the city was visible, and only a single mile remained between it and their carriage, the sun had started its lazy descent toward the horizon. Cyrus and Mari sat on one of the two bench seats, with Thorda facing them on the opposite. Stasia rode outside with the driver, as always. Upon seeing the city in the distance, Thorda reached into one of his pockets while snapping his fingers to gain Cyrus’s attention. He pulled out an object wrapped in gray cloth and held it a moment, that quiet reflection enough to instill Cyrus with a sense of importance and gravitas.

“It is yours now,” Thorda said. “May you embody everything it once represented.”

Cyrus accepted it and slowly unwrapped the cloth. Within was the skull mask his master had shown him years ago. He brushed the skull with his fingertips. Though it looked like bone, it was actually carved of wood and painted by an absolute master of the craft. How else did the skull manage that faint illusion of a smile? How else did it possess so many grinning teeth?

“Thank you,” Cyrus said. “I will do my best.”

“Of course you will!” Mari chirped. “That’s all you’ve done ever since I met you, Cyrus, give us your best. And my father might not convey it well, but I’m sure he’s proud of what you’ve accomplished. Isn’t that true?” Thorda’s gaze locked on the countryside beyond the window. “I said isn’t that true?”

“Perhaps,” he muttered through his hand. “We would not be returning to Vallessau otherwise.”

Mari winked at Cyrus, and he laughed to show his appreciation. Compliments from Thorda were rare, but by the gods, she’d dragged one out of him. That amusement slowly faded as their carriage crossed the final mile to Vallessau. The gated entrance approached, and he fought against his growing tension. Imperial soldiers inspected all arrivals, slowing entrance to a crawl. His chest tightened, and he glanced between Thorda and Mari to see if they shared any of his worry. They did not.

“Calm yourself,” Thorda said. Though his eyes never left the window, it seemed he could sense Cyrus’s unease. “I am well known to the Everlorn Empire. As for yourself, we were fortunate to rescue you when we did. I doubt we even needed to grow out your hair. Nearly three years vanished during your most formative years will do much to disguise your appearance, and that is if they even think to compare. The whole island believes you dead.”