“Fight? I’m not here to fight. I’m here to dance. Care to be my partner, paragon?”

Weapon matched weapon, blow matched blow, until Cyrus’s sweat-soaked hair clung to the outside of his mask and the paragon’s armor rattled with his every labored breath. At no point did he try to block, a tactic Thorda had drilled into Cyrus’s head by having him spar with Stasia and her great-ax. The strength of a paragon was unmatched, which meant constantly parrying thrusts and swings. Use the momentum and weight of his enormous weapon against him. Take advantage of smaller size and speed. His foe was a lumbering giant, and Cyrus would frustrate him, exhaust him, until even his expert training faltered. Paragons were meant to dominate entire battlefields. They weren’t meant to fight singular, elusive prey.

“What in god’s name are you?” the paragon asked after yet another thrust failed to find its mark.

“No names, not for us,” Cyrus said. He grinned, the challenge thrilling him beyond anything he could have anticipated. After two years of captivity, and another two and a half of isolated training, finally releasing his rage behind a mask felt divine. “If you must address your better, call me Vagrant.”

The paragon launched into another offensive. Swing echoed swing, each one strong enough to cleave a man in half, and each movement faster than should have been possible with such a heavy weapon. Cyrus remained the faster. He ducked underneath slashes, sidestepped thrusts, even leaped over them if need be. His swords rattled off the paragon’s golden armor, not once drawing blood. It didn’t matter. His foe was exerting himself to a staggering degree despite his inhuman strength. His frustrations led to even clumsier swings. Cyrus found himself predicting them with ease, his grin growing, his confidence total.

And then the paragon revealed it for a lie. Cyrus drifted inward, thinking he had the measure of the man and his next move. Instead he found the paragon’s movements suddenly faster, and instead of a thrust, he punched with his off-hand. The fist connected with Cyrus’s chest, and it felt like being kicked by a horse. His footing slipped. His breath faltered in his lungs. Savage glee sparkled in the paragon’s eyes as he lifted his sword in the other hand and sent it whistling through the air.

Too cocky, Cyrus thought. Cost you your damn life.

Stasia crashed in before the sword could claim Cyrus’s head. Her two axes hooked the sword with their lower edges and drove it to the ground. The sword carved a groove through the cobblestones, but it was low enough that Cyrus could leap over it, then dance several steps away to gather himself. The paragon wrenched his sword free, then swung a fist in Stasia’s direction. She retreated to join Cyrus as together they faced their foe.

“Thanks, Ax,” he said, his voice hoarse. “The magistrate?”