The paladins surged forward with one last, desperate attack. The Lioness bit and clawed and tore apart all foes. They were so close to breaking through, so close, but it wasn’t enough. The Anointed One put her knife to Lycaena’s breast. Cyrus broke from the soldier who held him and sprinted across the platform. He couldn’t stand and watch. He wouldn’t cower while hundreds of others bled and died to save their island, to save their goddess. He ran, extending a hand despite knowing there was nothing he could do. He was too slow. Too weak. Too late.

Just like his parents.

Lycaena lifted her head, and for the first time she addressed the roaring crowd.

“Beauty in all things.”

The knife sank into her heart. The shriek that followed rocked Cyrus to his knees. The Usurper King and Queen had their own knives, and they knew their designated role. The screams of the goddess continued. Knives plunged into her perfectly smooth midnight skin. Cut her wings. Tore apart her body. Cyrus had never been one to worship, but he felt something had been irrevocably stolen as he sobbed.

Sinshei noticed his kneeling presence as light swelled across the bleeding body of the goddess, and she lifted a startled hand.

“Get back, you fool,” she shouted.

The power within the dying body of the goddess exploded outward, as it had when Endarius fell upon the battlefield. The magistrates protected the Anointed and the usurpers with their prayers, but no such protection extended to Cyrus. Power washed over him, real and tangible like a fiery wind. Thoughts assailed his mind, visions from sparks of time beyond his understanding. He was flying, that he knew, his meager body sailing overhead the chaos. The sky and ground danced, changed places, and then he landed atop some hapless man or woman and rolled.

It was all chaos and blood, with people running every which way and imperial soldiers hacking down bodies at random. Despite his station, despite his birth, he meant nothing to the crowd surrounding him. The fight was over, and every single person fled for their lives. Legs kicked him. Feet trampled him. Heels and knees bruised and battered his body. Breathing was difficult. He couldn’t stand. He’d die there, lost amid the crowd. An ignoble death, yet deserved for one so worthless as he.

A hand grabbed his wrist. A single strong pull sent him lurching back to a stand. He looked up into the face of his protector, saw short snow white hair, and a terrible mixture of hope and fear stirred within his chest.

“I pray you stay with me this time,” Rayan said. He spread his brown cloak wide to hide Cyrus from sight. “Quickly, remove your shirt.”