Magus smashed the bell with his shield. It rang out, sounding weirdly dull and cut off, as the supports along the top cracked. The bell broke free of its crossbeam, flew out from the tower, and fell to the crowd, smashing both imperial soldiers and civilians alike as it rolled.

“There now, we have our space,” the Imperator said. “Not the best footing, perhaps, but sacrifices must be made for spectacle.”

Sacrifices, like the lives of forty men and women who had trusted Cyrus to save them. Those forty had refused to name him despite their imprisonment and torture. They had held faith in him. And oh, how he had failed.

Cyrus crouched for a lunge, his swords feeling electric in his hands. To engage a paragon one-on-one in cramped spaces, let alone an Imperator, was suicide. He knew he wasn’t as strong as the stories claimed. He knew he couldn’t defeat Magus without the help of Stasia or Thorda or Arn. He knew that. But he no longer cared.

“Spectacle,” he said. “Yes, Magus, I shall give the city a spectacle. They will watch as I throw your severed head from the tower. A pittance compared to the lives you have taken, but not all debts may be paid at once.”

Cyrus exploded into motion, determined to take the offensive. The belfry was small, and would limit his mobility, but so, too, did it limit Magus in his bulky plate and oversized weaponry. If he could overwhelm the Imperator with his rage, bury him in a barrage of attacks…

His blades rattled off Magus’s sword. Back and forth the Imperator weaved it, quick, sharp movements that seemed to understand Cyrus’s patterns. Cyrus scraped his off-hand blade against the golden bull emblazoned across the shield, then pressed against it to avoid an overhead chop. He rolled, head ducking underneath Magus’s arm, and came out swinging. The shield followed him, but while his off-hand carved a new groove into its surface, the other crossed above it. Magus tilted his head so his helmet took the brunt of the hit. A faint gash opened across his lower jaw.

“Think the city saw that part?” Cyrus asked.

Magus brushed blood from the wound across his gauntlet and sneered at it.

“First hits don’t matter, only the last.”