Cyrus ripped off his violet shirt and dropped it. When done, Rayan grabbed dirt from the trampled earth and smeared some across Cyrus’s face and chest. Next he took off his cloak and wrapped it about Cyrus’s naked shoulders. Out came a knife. Without a word he hacked off portions of Cyrus’s dark hair, leaving it disheveled and uneven.

“This will have to do,” the paladin said. “Keep your head down and your cloak up.”

“Thank you,” Cyrus said. His mind was numb, his senses overloaded by the screams and the memories of a jagged knife plunging into the breast of the goddess.

“Thank me when we are safe and sound,” Rayan said. He put an arm around Cyrus’s shoulders. “Now run, and never stop to look back.”

CHAPTER 4

STASIA

I didn’t think you’d come,” Clarissa said. A smile lit up the woman’s small, round face. “It isn’t safe, but I should have known that wouldn’t stop you.”

The Underhill Tavern was Stasia’s and Clarissa’s favorite spot to unwind at after a long day. It was dimly lit and sparsely attended, the exact reasons they loved it. Their table was an uneven rectangular slab of wood shoved into a corner, and Stasia sat on the bench beside Clarissa, close enough that their thighs touched. Normally the little red-haired woman would have sunk into Stasia’s arms, but affection was dangerous, especially given the three imperial soldiers by the bar. The soldiers laughed and hollered with one another at such volume, it seemed they wanted the entire tavern to hear their crass jokes.

“After today, the last thing I want is to sulk alone at home,” Stasia said, risking a kiss on Clarissa’s dimpled cheek after checking that no one was watching. The other woman’s smile faded.

“It’s all anyone can talk about. Was it as bad as I’ve heard?”

That singular moment when the knife plunged into Lycaena’s breast flashed through Stasia’s mind. Despite the blood she had shed with her axes, she and her fellow members of the resistance could not breach the line of soldiers. They could not save the goddess from the knives of the empire.

“Worse,” she said.

“Did Mari, did she at least—”

“Yes,” Stasia interrupted. “She’s fine. I’d probably have been captured, too, if not for her. She carried me on her back like a damn horse… cat… thing.”

She was frustrated and incoherent. The bartender thankfully arrived carrying food and drink despite never having been asked, a welcome enough excuse for Stasia to shut her mouth. Both women were regulars, and the kindly man with a curled mustache and eye patch knew exactly what they’d want. He carried two metal cups of ale along with a wooden plate stacked with cheese and bread.