That was it. Kaia knew his entire persona was a creation of Thorda Ahlai, a foreigner come to Thanet in the aftermath of the Everlorn invasion. Anyone could be behind the mask, and the man behind the mask could be replaced with another.

“Your lord trusts me,” he said.

“He does,” Kaia said coolly, and sipped her drink.

The irony was killing Cyrus. He was the heir to Thanet’s throne, yet suffering an accusation of being a foreign pawn come from Gadir. There was a solution to the problem, though, one simple and direct enough Cyrus trusted even his lacking skills to pull it off. He just had to be crazy enough to do it.

“If you will excuse me a moment,” he said. Clarissa shot him a worried look, and he winked at her in return. Even if his own nerves were alight, he could pretend at confidence before others. That’s all he did, it seemed, pretend at things he was not. Perhaps it was finally time to stop pretending.

Cyrus marched to the enormous window he’d first arrived at. He made no ceremony, and shouted no speeches. All eyes would be on him either way. Standing above them, wrapped in the shadow of the outer night, he turned to face the crowd.

Could he do it? Had Thorda anticipated this course of action? His cryptic words, and their double meanings. Hold faith, Thorda had said. The time has come. Cyrus’s hands trembled. His master absolutely knew this was a possibility, and had given Cyrus his blessing. Months of rumors and stories, come at last to their culmination. Bind one name to another. Prove to Kaia, and the crowd, that Thanet’s salvation would come at the hands of her own children.

Cyrus removed his mask. He stood tall and proud, shoulders back, and let the crowd look upon his true face. The bravado was all false. His innards squirmed, the hairs on his neck and arms stood on end, and he wanted nothing more than to replace the mask and flee. Yet the Vagrant was a cold-blooded murderer, righteous in his fury, steadfast in his determination. Cyrus tilted his chin and held his head high.

It had been years since his last public appearance at Lycaena’s execution, but many of these wealthy elite had been regulars to the castle. They had watched him grow from a young boy. They had heard his name resurfaced, fed by rumors Clarissa and Rayan carefully spread. Cyrus focused his attention on Kaia Makris. He let her see his face, his true face, of a boy believed dead now returned. Recognition swept over her, her spine straightening, her eyes widening. She opened her mouth to speak. Cyrus waited for his name to grace their lips. It never did. He had a new name.

“The Vagrant Prince,” Kaia whispered. “It cannot be.”