The young man dropped his head, and the worship, the whispered words that sounded so akin to prayer, made Cyrus’s skin crawl. He sheathed his sword, and he offered no further words. Into the street he ran, then to the rooftops, until he could flee home.

It seemed his midnight excursion would not go unnoticed. Cyrus halted in the hallway when he heard his name called, and he reluctantly stepped into the living room to find Thorda sitting before the fire, carefully manipulating its coals with the iron poker.

“Do you grow impatient with my planning?” his master asked. Cyrus removed his mask and ran a hand through his sweaty face and hair.

“Do you mean, do I feel an urge to ‘do something’?” he asked, and grinned in spite of his unease. “No, Thorda, I do not question you. I was careful, and it was a single soldier. Consider it keeping my skills sharp while I await your next orders.”

“That is good to hear.” The older man glanced over his shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ve confirmed the movements of the magistrate at the church. You will execute him tomorrow evening, and I would prefer it be done with you on a full night’s rest.”

“A full night’s rest,” Cyrus said, and he chuckled as if such a thing were as mythical and rare as any of Thanet’s slain gods. He started for his bedroom but then paused. He could not shake the image of the young man bowing before him, nor the worship in his eyes as he pressed the bloody blade across his forehead. Mind changed, he instead joined Thorda in the living room, and he took a seat by the newly warmed fire.

For a long moment he sat in silence, slowly rotating the skull mask in his hands. He thought of the legacy he was building, and the stories he first heard when Thorda began training him years ago. Thorda, meanwhile, stayed on the carpet, legs crossed underneath him, as he soaked in the warmth of the fire.

“Who was he?” Cyrus asked. “The Skull-Amid-the-Trees. What was he like?”

Thorda shifted in his seat so he might directly face Cyrus. Years seemed to have been added onto a face already sporting its fair share of wrinkles.

“My husband was a proud man, confident and deadly. There was no advantage he would not take for his own, no trick he would not employ to even the unbalanced scales.”

Thorda reached out his hand, and Cyrus gave him the skull. His master held it tenderly, his fingers brushing the carved and painted wood.

“You would have liked Rhodes, if you met him. Though skillful in murder, he was kind at heart. His dedication was matched only by his compassion. I did not deserve him, even if he never believed that himself.”

Cyrus shifted uncomfortably. This was such a tender subject, but for his own sanity, he had to know.

“Where did he err?” he asked quietly. “How… how did he die?”