Cyrus debated if he should feel insulted at how completely ignored he was following in Arn’s shadow. He slid between the two soldiers, his swords flashing in the light of torches burning atop pillars on either side of the steps. His off-hand blade only nicked his target’s face, but the other found much better purchase. The curved end sank into the soldier’s throat, at first shallow until Cyrus pivoted all his weight on his left heel and then forced the tip deeper. Blood splashed, warm and sticky upon his hands. He ripped it free, spun, and faced the final soldier.

The panicked man shook in his boots, torn between holding his ground or fleeing for his life. Easy prey for Cyrus, but he didn’t have a chance to attack to finish him. A projectile sailed through the air to slam directly into the soldier’s chest, blasting him to the ground. Cyrus’s eyes widened in surprise. The projectile… it was the gory mess that was the first soldier’s body. Cyrus was torn between horror and hysterical laughter. He took two quick steps, flipped his swords, and put a quick end to the final soldier’s life. Afterward he carved a line across both their foreheads, for the Vagrant must have his due.

Once finished, he stepped back and flicked blood and gore off the slick edges of his swords. His gaze turned to the impromptu projectile, and then the man who threw it.

“Is this how you fight normally?” Cyrus asked incredulously. He knew the former paragon could pound a hole in a brick wall with his punches, but on their few missions together, that’s mostly all he’d done, batter his foes with his fists and elbows. Arn shrugged as if tossing men like rag dolls was no strange thing.

“Paragons are meant to inspire, to stand out in battle, not hide at the edges of a war.”

Shouts echoed from above, warning cries of people in the church no doubt hearing the commotion of their attack.

“We’re definitely not hiding,” Cyrus muttered as he turned his attention higher up the steps.

The sanctuary doors burst open, and four soldiers came rushing to the top steps. A red-robed priest trailed behind them, golden light shining about his fingers as he chanted a prayer.

“The soldiers are mine,” Arn said. “Take the priest.”

Cyrus wasn’t exactly sure how Arn expected him to do that with four soldiers standing between him and said priest, but the question was answered when the former paragon charged straight at them, bounding the stairs with the grace of a deer. It was almost amusing seeing such acrobatics upon the enormous mountain of muscle, but for his foes, it was most certainly terrifying instead.