Head down, he walked faster, jaw clenched and mind awhirl. His wandering took him to an old bell tower at a wide intersection used for temporary markets and festivals. A need to escape somewhere high up overlooking the city claimed him. The door was locked, but that would be no bother. The walls were uneven stone bricks, and it was child’s play to climb through one of the windows. Cyrus slipped inside, feet setting down upon the winding steps leading to the belfry. He gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, then carefully climbed one stair at a time. The darkness eased as he neared the top, until he stepped out into starlight shining down atop the bell tower. He reached up to touch the brass bell. Faint impressions of both Lycaena and Endarius were carved into its sides. Had the Uplifted Church missed it during their sweeping purges of Vallessau? Or did they consider the bell so distant from the citizens that it didn’t matter?

Cyrus turned from the bell to the waist-high wall that formed a protective barrier along the tower’s edge. He sat atop it and, from that perch, took in the wondrous view of the city. His city, if Thorda were to be believed. He was their rightful king, born to rule by his royal blood.

“My city,” he whispered into the night. He waited for it to mean something. He stared at sprawling rooftops and scattered windows lit with lanterns and candles. He drank in a hundred dark wisps of smoke from chimney fires.

“My city.”

No thrill. No heavy sense of responsibility. But wasn’t it his city? Those words, they were true. They were the beating heart of his entire quest for vengeance.

Except they weren’t. His father’s body collapsing in twain. His mother’s pained, dying shriek. That spurred him on. This city, this crowded collection of homes and buildings squeezed together about the massive docks… it could not compare to those memories. He felt no attachment. No connection. No kinship. What was Vallessau to him but a strange land he had known only fleeting glimpses of in his childhood? To call himself their king felt like a sick joke. It felt like calling a woman his dearest wife despite having never seen her face.

Time passed, and he could not bring himself to leave. Perhaps he would stay there forever, a monster in the belfry. Not a prince. Not a hero. Just a shy, weird creature trained to kill.

Despite how soft her footsteps, Cyrus still heard Mari’s approach up the staircase to join him atop the tower. She’d changed from her earlier gown to a much thicker, warmer cotton dress dyed a faint blue, and she’d covered her neck with a checkered scarf.

“How’d you get up here?” he asked.