“Lioness has him. Go right. I’ll take left.”

The exhausted paragon lifted his sword and braced his legs.

“Try it,” he said. “You’ll all hang by this day’s end.”

Cyrus took two steps, feinted a thrust, and then dashed aside to grant Stasia her opening. Her axes battered at the paragon, blow after blow so he couldn’t dare try to counter. Cyrus weaved in the opposite direction, positioning himself toward the paragon’s back. Even then it seemed they might not possess the needed advantage. Now on the defensive, the paragon became a veritable wall of armor and steel. What he could not block, he deflected with his expertly crafted armor. His movements slowed yet again, this time with exhaustion Cyrus believed was real.

Then two foes became three, and Cyrus knew victory was theirs.

“Holy be the light of Lycaena,” Rayan called as he returned to the battle. His glowing sword cut through the golden armor, scoring a deep gash across the paragon’s side. Blood flowed, and the paragon hollered out in panicked fury. No matter his strength, no matter his training, he could not endure when assaulted on all sides by such skilled opponents. One slipup, that was all Cyrus needed, one tiny slipup.

The paragon rammed his elbow into Stasia’s chest, and when she staggered backward, he swung his two-handed sword at Rayan, convinced he had a proper opening. Rayan blocked, and as sword met shield, the paladin screamed in pain. The shield dented inward, sparks of light showering the ground. The paragon had thought it would break him, and that his sword would continue, but both paladin and shield held strong. Caught in the metal, he held no defense against Cyrus’s blades. The Lycaenan shortsword jammed up through the man’s armpit, while his other sword sliced straight down through the neck, clipped the spine, and buried to the hilt through his ribs and in his heart. The paragon gasped once, blood spewing from his lips, and then dropped lifeless.

“Are you all right?” Cyrus asked after ripping his weapons free. Stasia knelt on one knee, still trying to recover her breath, but she nodded in affirmative. Rayan looked even worse, his shield arm hanging limp at his side.

“Been better,” Rayan said. “But my heart still beats. For now, that’s good enough.”

A snarl turned their attention down the road. Mari arrived carrying Magistrate Marthalos in her mouth. Blood dripped from bitemarks across his face and neck, but the thicker trail flowed from the severed tendons in his wrists. They were cut, denying the magistrate access to the divine magic granted to him through his faith in the God-Incarnate. Mari dropped the man at Cyrus’s feet like a cat delivering a mouse.

“This won’t stand,” Marthalos said. His eyes were unfocused and his speech slurred from the loss of blood. “Thanet will… will suffer.”