Stasia, Thorda, and Rayan: They had been his only comparisons. Throughout his training he’d struggled and pushed himself so he might be worthy of their efforts. But he had been built up from nothing in the image of absolute masters. Year after year, day in, day out, immersed in a level of skill few might ever experience in their entire lives. It had honed him, elevated him, and forced him to be better. He had learned to anticipate unnatural speed. He had faced Stasia’s savagery, Rayan’s indomitable shield, and Thorda’s ever-perfect positioning of both foot and blade.

This officer, he knew how to swing a sword. Against Cyrus? Against the Vagrant? That wasn’t good enough.

“Bring me your armies,” he said. “Bring me your paragons. I am better than them. I am better than you.”

Enough. Prolonging the fight further was like a cat playing with a mouse. He slammed the man’s sword up and aside. The expected counter, he batted that away, too. The distance between them vanished. His knee rammed the officer’s crotch. His fist broke the man’s nose.

“I will see my island freed.”

Knees weak, the officer dropped. Cyrus pressed the edge of his reverse-gripped sword against the man’s forehead.

“All of Thanet will know my crown.”

A single, vicious yank was all it took. Blood splattered across the stage as Cyrus carved upon him the mark of the Vagrant. He flipped the hilt and reversed direction, the returning swing cutting a hole in the officer’s throat. More blood on the stage. He kicked the corpse away. It crumpled, and the faint thud on the wood could be heard throughout the deathly silent ballroom. Cyrus remained still, refusing to grant the people his attention. A flick of his wrist, and blood flung off his blade, droplets scattering toward the shocked crowd. The spell ended the moment his swords clicked into their sheaths. Murmurs erupted, along with scattered cheers and applause.

Cyrus’s already poor mood soured further. The officer deserved to die, of that Cyrus held no doubt, but why must it be in such manipulative circumstances? This was no battle, but a public execution for a party of gawkers dressed in finery. The man was the oppressor, a tiny cog in a machine built to grind Thanet into submission, yet this entire setup felt foul. Part of Cyrus rejected their approval, for it was the applause of those who knew not the sting of death, and saw warfare as only a game.

Part of him, the part at home behind the skull mask, drank it in like a fine wine.