“It’s because they are more important,” Thorda said. He crossed his arms and inspected Cyrus. “Satisfactory. Keles, Coin, please wait for Cyrus outside.”

The other two exited through the door of the parlor in which they prepared. Though Cyrus’s knowledge of the city had expanded greatly since launching their campaign, he only vaguely recognized what felt like one of dozens of mansions built along the upper tier of Vallessau, like a wealthy crown carved into the mountains over the port capital. A faint hint of music from the ballroom echoed through the hall, entertaining dozens of guests come for their glimpse of the mysterious Vagrant.

“You seem obsessed with winning over the wealthy,” Cyrus said once the others were gone. “Yet revolutions are won by the masses overthrowing the tyrants.”

“I see you read through the historical section of my library,” Thorda said. The older man pulled a small wooden box from his pocket. “That groundswell of rage takes time, and often requires decades of abuse and punishment. I would rather not wait for either. Instead, I would fund an army, and such campaigns involve coin I cannot smuggle to Thanet without attracting notice. This means cozying up to the wealthy and telling them how important and precious they are. Swollen egos become fatter, true, but if it leads to blood in the streets, then I consider it a worthwhile investment.”

Cyrus appreciated that his mask hid most of his emotions, but he knew it would not hide the eye roll he dearly wanted to make in response, so instead he gestured to the little box Thorda held.

“I get it, even if I don’t like it. So what is that? A pin or ribbon for me to wear while I prance about your wealthy friends?”

Thorda’s hand grabbed Cyrus’s shirt before he saw the man react. A fierce tug, and Cyrus leaned close so that their faces were mere inches away. A calm but intense fire burned in the Miquoan’s red eyes.

“Have you forgotten what I said I would make you?” he asked. His gaze held Cyrus prisoner. “You are to be a legend, a god among mortals, yet you whine and prattle like a spoiled princeling. Be better. Am I understood?”

Cyrus’s initial reaction was to protest, but he recognized it for the immature thought that it was. Instead he softly bobbed his head up and down to his master and said nothing.

“Very well.” Thorda released his shirt. “I come bearing you a tremendous gift, and one close to my heart. Do not insult me or the memories attached.”

He opened the box to reveal a silver ring resting upon a small white cloth. Faint runes were carved along the side in a language Cyrus could not read. Set into the ring was an oval gemstone unfamiliar to Cyrus, smooth and round and glittering the darkest shade of black.

“It’s beautiful,” he said softly.