Together they stepped out into the streets of Vallessau. Stasia veered right at the first turn, while Cyrus continued on ahead. A crowd of a hundred people or so formed a wall around a painted carriage. From his distance Cyrus could not see much of it, nor the soldiers standing guard, but he could see Magistrate Marthalos atop a little wooden dais attached to the back. The elderly man was rambling something about the duties of the faithful and the great power of the Uplifted Church. Lies of the God-Incarnate’s beneficial deeds for the island of Thanet slid easily from his tongue.

“We among the Uplifted are not deaf to your fears!” the magistrate shouted to the crowd. “We know that peace has not yet settled like a blanket upon your weary bodies. But it is not the church preventing this peace! Far too many of Thanet cling to dead gods and forgotten rituals. Far too many seek absolution from heretical beings that can grant no forgiveness. Listen to our words. Look upon the might and glory of the Everlorn Empire! Is it not obvious, is it not clear, who are the righteous and who are the fools?”

Three barrels were stacked side by side along the edge of the next home, just out of sight of the magistrate. Cyrus withdrew his sword belt and looped it about his waist. He fumbled once with the buckle despite attempting to don it in a smooth, practiced motion. Nerves were making his hands jitter. This was it. No turning back.

Last he retrieved his mask, the same mask of the Skull-Amid-the-Trees, only with one key change. The skull was now nailed to a silver crown, and Cyrus slid that crown over his forehead to secure it upon his face. Once settled, he pulled his cloak’s hood up and over his head, hiding every bit of his pale skin and dark hair. Only his eyes were visible, and in them his foes would see their doom. They would see rage, and fury, and the retribution of a dozen nations conquered and a pantheon of beloved gods slain.

“I’ll make you proud,” he whispered to the memory of his mother and father.

He drew his weapons, taking comfort from their hilts, both the roaring lion and the folded butterfly. His boots thudded upon the cobbles. Seeing his approach, a planted resistance member put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The crowd parted, and through the sudden gap Cyrus dashed, swords already pulled back for a thrust. His weapons crossed the throat of the nearest baffled soldier. Cyrus kicked his chest, tumbling him into the carriage’s side. The screech of metal and the rustling of the tarp were deafening in the temporary silence.