The crowd had begun to amass in earnest. Imperial soldiers formed a thin line to scan arrivals, and they had anticipated people coming equally from all three directions. Thorda had worked with Commander Pilus to intermix his own fighters with large groups of civilian volunteers meant not to fight but to interfere with the imperial soldiers’ ability to do their jobs. These volunteers loudly grumbled and pushed back against any and all attempts by the soldiers to pat down arrivals for weapons. Pilus’s armed soldiers held back, waiting, as the exaggerated impatience before them grew. Once soldiers were sufficiently distracted, they pushed inward, slipping past the line unchecked.

Cyrus smiled at the efficiency. They would have dozens of armed men and women in the crowd, their swords hidden beneath their cloaks and coats. Once Cyrus arrived, they would draw their weapons and form a battle line along the west. Rayan, Arn, and Keles would charge from the south, while Stasia and Mari joined the archers along the north. The eastern road they would leave open for civilians to escape.

Starting it all would be Thorda’s whistle, but that would not be what most remembered. The real start, the one that would mark the tales, would be when the Vagrant appeared upon the stage with the power of his Anyx ring, his swords cutting the ropes and saving those who had put their faith in him.

Cyrus clenched his hands together, feeling the magic of his ring grow warm. It was ready. The shadows underneath the execution platform were more than deep enough, and they’d already confirmed the platform’s back was open, meaning he could immediately dash out and then up. He bit his lip. His thumb slowly curled the silver band back and forth. So close now. The prisoners were ready, but still no sign of Magus or Sinshei. Any moment. He only waited for…

A single, shrill whistle pierced the dull hum of conversation.

Cyrus lurched to a stand. This was it. Runners would be sprinting to Clarissa’s friends, crying out to start the fires. The initial assassins crept their way to the guards within the crowd. Cyrus stared at the platform, envisioning the darkness beneath. One step into shadows, one step out, and his arrival would begin the assault.

Except something went very deeply wrong.

He never had a chance to leap down from the tower. He never enacted his magic. There were no speeches. No priest or priestess of the Uplifted Church denounced the prisoners for their heresies. No official stood with scroll in hand to declare the multitude of crimes to the crowd. Upon hearing the whistle, the lone soldier stationed near the execution platform’s lever calmly turned, grabbed the lever, and pulled.

Up in the belfry, Cyrus did not move. He did not save anyone. He only watched.