Magus’s rule as Imperator-Regent was one of bloodshed and misery. The number of Dead Flags rivaled those of the earliest purges at the start of Thanet’s invasion. By the end of his first week, he ended the unwritten rule that no children would be hung from them. Businesses were being confiscated left and right. Soldiers searched homes at random. No reasons needed, nor given. It was as if the fear and chaos were justification enough. Whenever the bells sounded for mandatory service, the streets emptied, not a soul daring to show their face lest they be confronted by soldiers as to the reason for their absence.

Thorda insisted he had a plan, a raid on a church to kill a magistrate. Three days wasn’t that long. The calls for patience might be wise, but they burned in Cyrus’s gut nonetheless.

“Is this what you hoped for?” Cyrus whispered unheard to the soldier he stalked along the rooftops. The man marched down the midnight street, clueless to how close death followed. “Was this everything you wanted when you boarded a boat for our island?”

Was it the pay? The bloodshed? Or was it merely a job to him, and the people of Thanet meant absolutely nothing? Cyrus didn’t know, nor did he particularly care. The soldier was foolishly alone, and in the poorest parts of Vallessau, having sneaked out for a visit to the brothel at the end of the lane. Cyrus drew his swords and grinned behind his mask. It would be the last fun the man had. The noise of his footsteps upon the rooftops was the man’s only warning, and his reaction was far too slow to defend himself as Cyrus descended with swords ready.

The downward curved blade of his longer weapon sank into the soldier’s chest. He screamed, but the cry was weak, with one of his lungs already torn. Cyrus easily shoved him toward the nearby alley. No reason to risk remaining in plain sight. The soldier rolled across the ground, leaving a bloody trail to shine slick black in the moonlight. He tried to rise to his feet, his sword gripped in one hand. Cyrus trapped him in that little alley, and he closed in on his foe without hesitation. It was so much easier now, killing these soldiers. But wouldn’t it be, given his experience? After battling against the divine strength of paragons, what threat did a mere soldier present?

An upward slash, a kick, and the soldier dropped to his back. Cyrus’s off-hand plunged into the man’s throat, ending him. He ripped it free, wiped it clean on the soldier’s gray tunic, and then sheathed it. He wasn’t done with the other blade, though. Slowly, carefully, he cut a crown across the soldier’s forehead. There was no denying Cyrus’s satisfaction in carving this singular message, repeated upon every kill, to both the empire and the people of Thanet.