Yet it wasn’t Stasia who began the proceedings, but a handsome man in his forties, his coat crimson and his red hair powdered white. He clapped his hands above his head to gather everyone’s attention as he stood atop the minstrel stage, having banished the four-piece band playing there with a wave of his hand.

“Who is that?” Cyrus asked.

“The owner of this fine mansion, Ludwig Ariti,” Pilus explained. “A good friend of mine, and loyal to Thanet all the way down to his bones.”

“Greetings, friends,” Ludwig said once all were silent. “We risk much in gathering, and so I would thank you for your trust. Though we talk freely here, I remind you to keep your lips sealed once we leave our grand party, for the empire has ears everywhere, and not all native hearts upon our island are resistant to bribes or whips.”

Solemn heads bobbed up and down in agreement.

“Now enough of my speech, for we have a special guest. To mark this momentous occasion, I present to you the Ax of Lahareed.”

Stasia climbed atop the platform as Ludwig descended, and she addressed the crowd with a powerful charisma that Cyrus only wished he could match.

“The Coin promised entertainment, and he didn’t mean music and dance,” she shouted. “To the squeamish, I warn you to leave now. This won’t be pretty.”

A pit of dread grew in Cyrus’s stomach. Stasia vanished into an offstage room hidden behind curtains, then returned dragging a prisoner. His mouth was gagged, his feet tied, and his hands bound behind his back. By his uniform, Cyrus marked him as an officer in the imperial army. Stasia flung him to the center of the stage. He rolled twice, then settled on his knees. His face was freshly battered and bruised. How long ago had they captured him? Had it been during yesterday’s attack? Tonight? And why had no one told him?

“Come, Vagrant,” Stasia called. “Show the people your work.”

Cyrus’s feet remained firmly planted in place. His skin itched as if it were on fire. So many eyes were upon on him. Held breaths. Cravings for vengeance. These people had maintained power even after the original resistance was crushed. No doubt pragmatism had led to surrenders and concessions otherwise hated. This execution, it would be revenge by proxy. It was both theater and a promise. Stasia hopped down from the stage, and she swaggered toward Cyrus as if this were part of the theatrics.

“What sick joke is this?” he hissed once she was close enough that he could whisper. He was furious such a morbid act would be forced upon him, with neither choice nor warning given.

“Did you think you would save Thanet without dirtying your hands?” Stasia whispered back.

“You didn’t tell me I would need to kill for their entertainment.”