With a single slice of a sword, he could sever vital arteries. With a push of his boot, he could send the child tumbling to the ground below. If there were justice in the world, the little boy’s body would bounce and roll until it came to a stop within the bloody executioner’s crack Magus of Eldrid had pounded into the stone. All the pain, all the torment heaped upon him since he was fourteen years old, Cyrus could inflict back in return. So simple, this act. So easy to take the life of a child, if one could bear it.

Cyrus’s hands finally shook. He observed the way Uriah peered at the city bathed in twilight. Did he know of the actions of his father? Of course not. He was six years old, not even halfway to seven. This was a world beyond him, far more than it’d been beyond Cyrus when he watched his fleet burn and the imperial ships disembark their troops. But how many thousands had died by his parents’ hands? How many lives had been snuffed out for resisting the Everlorn Empire’s insatiable desire for more nations, more worshipers, more exultant voices to sing the praises of the Uplifted Church and their God-Incarnate?

In time, Uriah would grow up to be like his father. He’d serve the Everlorn Empire faithfully. There was no difference in killing him, Cyrus told himself. It didn’t matter his age, or that the boy had always been kind to him during Cyrus’s years of imprisonment. The Usurper King had taken everything from him, everything. Was it truly so wrong to take a single life in return? Cyrus had pledged his entire existence to revenge and rebellion. Did one little boy’s life matter when compared to that?

A soft, smothered cry pulled him from his thoughts. Uriah had buried his face against the pillar. His eyes were closed as he sobbed.

“Please don’t kill me,” he said, his words muffled by the stone. “Please, please, I’m sorry, don’t—don’t—don’t kill me.”

Cyrus looked to the swords in his hands. Saw the tremble of their blades.

What price is too high for your vengeance, or their freedom? Thorda had asked that first night spent in his mansion. Cyrus returned his attention to the young boy, and the black ring upon his finger.

Perhaps his hate and anger were not so vast as he believed, for there were some prices he was still unwilling to pay.