“And Lycaena is dead!” The plate rattled as she slammed her cup, splitting a thin crack along one of its sides. “I was there, Rayan, same as you. I watched the blood spill as the knives tore apart her flesh. I heard her final scream. I gave Thanet’s resistance everything I had, but our goddess is gone. It doesn’t matter who sits on Vallessau’s throne, be it Cyrus or Magus or some appointed regent. Our gods are dead, and our past with them.”

Rayan slowly stood. He wished he knew better words than his own. He wished Keles had been with him in Alliya’s house, and witnessed the flurry of moths.

“She is not dead,” he said. “She is not gone. Our prayers are heard. She mourns our burdens. She weeps over our tribulations. Hold faith, my dear Keles, even in this darkest hour. Lycaena will return to us from the shadows she currently resides. Her wings shall fly over our city once more.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” his niece said. “Though I doubt it. I wish all of you fighting Thorda’s war the best of luck, but I’d rather not hang from the Dead Flags because I won’t relinquish a dead goddess’s memory.”

Tea leaked from the crack in her cup, and she sighed and pushed both cup and plate away.

“I came to ensure your safety, but I regretfully have work to do. Thank you for the drink and the conversation. Stay safe, Uncle.”

She left. The door shut behind her, and in the ensuing silence, Rayan’s heart plummeted. There was a time when he had considered Keles’s faith the strongest of any student he had ever known. A curse in disguise, for it meant the breaking of that faith had resulted in untold damage far beyond his capabilities to heal. If it ever healed.

“Would that I had better words,” he said as a moth fluttered in through the open window. He offered it his hand, but it circled twice in the air before retreating outside. Rayan smiled, taking no offense. He prayed that it might fly far to the north, to land on the slowly swaying body of a nine-year-old boy with emerald-colored eyes, to guide the soul within to the flower-strewn fields of the eternal lands beyond.

CHAPTER 32

CYRUS

It had been three days since Thorda last sent Cyrus on a mission, and the delay was enough to ruin his already fitful sleep and send him pacing the halls of their mansion. And so when night fell, and all others slept, the Vagrant donned his mask and cloak, buckled his swords, and slipped out into the night.

Just a quick kill, he thought as he stalked the rooftops. A reminder to the city I’m here, and watching.