The officer licked his lips, and he glanced at the wealthy men and women in attendance.

“Traitors, all of you. You’ll hang from the flags.”

“No they won’t. Attack me. I have a lesson to teach.”

Cyrus’s confidence was unnerving the man far more than the skull and crown ever could. This officer would be no pushover. He appeared in his forties, and he commanded soldiers of an imperial invasion force. Of course he was comfortable with a blade. Perhaps he had trained his fair share of grunts, too.

“I don’t know what you are,” the man said. “You can come in dressed like it’s a martyr’s festival, but it won’t matter. I’ve seen more battles then you have years in your life, yet even I am nothing compared to our paragons. Whatever you’re doing here, it is a pathetic charade.”

Cyrus tilted his head to one side.

“You’re not attacking.”

Faint titters of laughter from the crowd. The officer’s neck flushed red.

“Fine,” he said. “I don’t care if you cut me down afterward. I’ll die knowing I had the pleasure of humiliating you in front of your traitorous ilk.”

The officer lashed out, a strong blow but one Cyrus easily blocked. The same went for the next few that followed. At no point did Cyrus attempt to retaliate. In grim amusement, he realized he was doing what Rayan had done in their very first duel. Every single attack, he beat down and ended with ease, then stepped back and prepared for the next. With each passing second, it became that more obvious the disparity of their skill. The officer’s attacks turned desperate. He swung harder, wider, not caring if it left him vulnerable. What did it matter if Cyrus never countered?

Cyrus shifted tactics, now engaging the officer in a dance. Was this not a display? Was this not a game for the crowd to watch and cheer? He parried a thrust, batted the steel twice, then swung for the man’s neck. Not fast. Not hard. Just enough to force the defense. Their blades weaved between one another, but while the officer was covered with sweat, Cyrus remained relaxed. Whatever effort he did exude, he easily hid it behind his skull mask and flowing cloak.

“Our armies will crush you,” the man said, but it was clear he was starting to panic. Twice more he thrust, expert jabs with every movement and muscle extended to maximize their strength. Cyrus danced around them, knowing the destinations and readying parries before the thrusts even extended. With every passing second it seemed the fight grew slower. His heart calmed. The stress of the party eased into a welcome understanding.