Cyrus chose that moment to lunge out of his crouch. As with all his other battles against paragons, he relied on speed over strength. He had to be faster than his lumbering foe… yet when the first of his thrusts was parried aside by Magus’s deftly shifting blade, he realized that this paragon was not like the others. His movements were quicker, his decisions made faster. Cyrus baited out another parry, then curled around while slashing with his left hand. The blade should have sliced across Magus’s eyes, but instead it bounced off the upper half of the shield, leaving not a dent.

Another clash, Cyrus’s swords never able to find purchase. Magus kept defensive, for he also knew time was on his side. When Cyrus thrust, it scraped off the shield. When he chopped an exposed leg or jabbed his short sword for the eyes, the Imperator’s own sword was there to parry the attack. Desperation growing, Cyrus attempted what he’d done against Rayan, a sudden and overwhelming barrage of strength and speed. His swords struck the shield as if he were beating a drum, then a sidestep, one thrust, two thrusts, another sidestep. Never an opening. Never a maneuver the paragon had not seen coming.

Soldiers rushed closer, increasing Cyrus’s growing worry, but it seemed he need not fear their intervention.

“Let them fight,” Sinshei ordered from her protected circle of soldiers and magistrates. The soldiers hesitated, torn between helping their Imperator and obeying the Anointed One.

Confused by it as he was, Cyrus appreciated the delay. The Imperator could not be moved. He could not be beaten. He was as indomitable as the cliffs that surrounded them. What did speed matter if his foe were as unbreakable as the tide? Panic replaced his previous confidence. No, he had to push himself even harder. He had to move even faster. This monster, this murderer, would suffer for his sins. Gordian was not enough. Let the true architect of Thanet’s invasion die in the sands.

Cyrus closed the space between them, attempting to position his body so his longer sword could thrust past Magus’s shield, but the move had been anticipated. Magus’s sword came crashing down, eager to perfectly split Cyrus down the middle from head to toe. Despite every lesson from Thorda screaming otherwise, Cyrus pulled both his swords together and attempted to block it. Their weapons connected, and the hit was like being run over by a horse. Cyrus screamed as his weapons rattled and his arms ached from the jolting impact. His knees gave out next, his body collapsing like a broken toy.

The block held, but it didn’t matter. The Imperator pulled the weapon back and raised his shield, its edge dripping water, its massive weight ready to pound Cyrus into the sand. He thought to flee, but his breath had been robbed, and his legs felt like mud. Too slow. Too foolish.