“And you didn’t tell us you’d try to kill Regent Goldleaf. Consider it fair trade. Now prove you have the spine to do what must be done.”

Cyrus glared at the bound prisoner. There was no turning back from this, not without causing significant damage to the reputation Thorda was building for him. This was a test, it had to be, hence its secrecy. For years, his master had trained him in swordplay, but some things could not be taught.

He easily hopped up to the stage, and he paced before the imperial officer. The man glared up at him despite his condition. Cyrus’s distaste grew. He had killed soldiers before. His entire life was sworn to eradicating the Everlorn Empire from his homeland. So why should the slaughter of one officer bother him so? Why would he hesitate at a justified execution?

Little Uriah’s face flashed in Cyrus’s mind, and he felt shame and guilt for his hesitation. Could he afford such principles if he was to become the killer Thorda painstakingly crafted? Perhaps not, but there had to be some sort of line he could walk. There must be a way to fight for freedom yet not become the monsters they fought. But where was that thin, blood-soaked line?

For the first time that night, he addressed the crowd. The voice that came from behind his mask surprised him with the depth of its anger. It was deeper, too, though he never meant to disguise it in any way. It merely felt natural. It felt like the persona the wide-eyed crowd expected.

“Give him a weapon.”

Murmurs rumbled through the crowd. Cyrus ignored them, his attention locked upon the officer. The man was bent over on his knees, but he tilted his head up and locked eyes with him. The man’s spirit was unbroken. That made it better, somehow. Fairer. Stasia disappeared into the crowd, then returned holding a golden-hilted sword offered from some merchant or nobleman. A family heirloom, no doubt, and rarely used, given the smoothness of the leather and the perfection of the steel, without a single chip or nick. Stasia tossed it to the stage, where it landed with a clatter of metal.

Cyrus drew his swords. He first cut the prisoner’s wrist bindings, then sliced the gag in half alongside his cheek, which also drew a faint line of blood. The murmurs of the crowd deepened. Cyrus sensed their bloodlust. It seemed he could even see it in the air, like a red fog. The officer grabbed the sword before him and sawed at the rope tying his ankles.

“What is this shit?” the man asked once he could stand. His short brown hair fell across his forehead, matted with sweat. He retreated several steps and held the blade out with both hands clutching its golden hilt. “Hoping to give your friends a little show before I’m executed?”

“Not a show,” Cyrus said. “A lesson.”