Cyrus leaped through one of the belfry openings, grabbed the edge of the corner pillar, and swung round it to slide right back through the adjacent window with his heels leading. They slammed into Magus’s upraised shield, yet despite all his momentum and weight, the Imperator moved not an inch. Cyrus somersaulted, back arching to curl over a quick slash meant to cut him open at the waist. He landed lightly, springing once more off the belfry floorboards. Magus had pulled aside his shield to swing, and Cyrus thrust both his swords for that slender opening. His left hand jammed against the shield’s side, delaying its retreat for a fraction of a second as his longer blade sought the thin exposure between armor at the waist.

Magus moved with speed belying his bulky, muscular body. The thrust missed by a hair. The Imperator then clutched his elbow to his side, catching Cyrus’s sword and pinning it harmlessly against his chestplate.

“Damn fool,” he said.

Cyrus yanked with all his strength, pulling the sword free, but the delay was all Magus needed. Instead of swinging his sword, he opted for a faster hit with his elbow. Its hard gold plate smashed into Cyrus’s mask.

He screamed through gritted teeth as he pivoted in a desperate attempt to soften the blow. Blood splattered from his nose across his lips and teeth. His hood fluttered off, and the mask cracked, then broke. A diagonal portion running from his ear, underneath his left eye, and to his chin fell to the belfry floorboards. Cyrus staggered down to one knee, separating from the Imperator.

A follow-through attack could have killed him, but the paragon chose to refrain. Instead he calmly watched as Cyrus grabbed the broken piece of his mask and jammed it into his pocket.

“It’s only a matter of time until you die,” Magus said. “I confess, I expected better.”

Cyrus stood tall. His eyes shone with rage. He said nothing, for what else was there to say? This brute had murdered his parents and conquered his nation. He’d hanged dozens, just to lay a trap for him. Few alive deserved death more than the Imperator. If only Cyrus’s swords could be faster. If only his need for revenge could burn hot enough.

Magus shook his head, as if disappointed, then suddenly froze in place. He focused on the exposed portion of Cyrus’s face. On his eyes. His jaw. His brown hair.

“No,” Magus said, his smile stretching ear to ear. “It can’t be. He lives. The boy prince lives.”

Smoke billowed from the intersection below, accompanied by the screams of the injured and dying, yet high atop the bell tower, Imperator Magus of Eldrid laughed.

CHAPTER 43

STASIA

Stasia took her sister’s hand in the dark alley.