He sheathed his sword, grabbed Uriah by the scruff of his neck, and flung him toward the door. A horrified wail escaped the boy’s throat as he rolled. Within seconds the door burst open. Cyrus expected imperial soldiers, but instead Gordian himself stepped onto the balcony, dressed in the loose, crimson silks he slept in. His bare feet skidded to a halt upon the cold stone. His son’s name died on his throat as he realized his predicament. He bore no weapon, no armor, no protection of any kind.

Cyrus grinned behind his skull mask.

“Greetings, Usurper King,” he said. “The Vagrant has come to say hello.”

He sprinted for Gordian, his arms extended, his twin thrusts eager for blood. They should have impaled the man in the gut, but a hand reached from outside the doorway to grab the regent’s shoulder. A single tug and he fell backward. Magus of Eldrid took his place, his enormous shield filling up the entire doorway. Cyrus’s thrusts struck the metal and scraped harmlessly aside.

“You’ve also come to die, Vagrant,” the Imperator growled from behind his shield.

Cyrus quickly danced away from the paragon. At such a close distance and narrow space, overcoming the advantage of his shield would be impossible. Worse, Gordian was safely off the balcony, no doubt in the arms of more soldiers frantically approaching due to the shouts of intruders. Whatever hope he had of successfully assassinating him died. All that mattered now was escape. Cyrus spun as he retreated, disguising his movements with a flourish of his cloak. His movements ended with his curved sword pressed against Uriah’s neck.

“Easy now,” Cyrus said as he circled toward the balcony edge, careful to keep the weapon close while not drawing blood. He twisted the sword so the flat edge lined Uriah’s throat, guiding him so the two could approach the balustrade. “I came for the king, not the brat.”

“Touch either and I will break every damn bone in your body,” said Magus.

Cold stone bumped against the backs of Cyrus’s legs. He grinned behind his mask, preferring amusement over the feeling of panic threatening to overtake him.

“You’d have to catch me first.”

Directly beneath them was a second balcony, and he’d sometimes wondered if, given the way several of the gargoyles hung from the balustrade’s edges, he could use them to safely descend from one to the other. It seemed his childish curiosity was about to be confirmed. Cyrus jammed both his swords into their sheaths and then leaped off the balcony. Surprised shouts followed him as he dropped. His right hand caught the foot of the nearest gargoyle, and he used it to swing closer toward the castle, aiming for the balcony below while also peeling away a bit of his momentum.