An explosion of wood and smoke stole his attention. An enormous man leaped out from one of the burning buildings overlooking the hanging corpses, soaring overhead in mockery of gravity. He landed with a rattle of armor and flourish of his red cloak. Rayan stood proud before his newly come foe. It was one of the few remaining paragons on Thanet, a pale-skinned man with coppery red hair and a long scar sealing his left eye shut. A scorpion marked the front of his gold plate, and so, too, did a yellow one flutter from the center of his cloak. He wielded an enormous ax, the wood haft of it carved along the bottom to resemble a stinger.

“I thought we butchered every last paladin of the Butterfly bitch,” the paragon rumbled. His hoisted his ax up and onto his shoulder. “Did you not hear? Your goddess is dead. Our priests carved her up like a pig.”

“My goddess yet lives,” Rayan said. “And she is greater than any god you serve, imperial.”

The paragon took the ax into both hands and smashed it to the ground.

“Let us see, paladin. I haven’t fought one of your kind since we first slaughtered Endarius. Try not to die immediately. I’ve been lacking entertainment.”

What few rebels scattered through the crowd could never hope to harm a paragon. It was only Rayan, and so he held his blade before him. The power of his faith made manifest across the steel, a faint white glow that left a trail of red-and-orange light when he swung it through the air. He took strength in its glow. His goddess watched. Even in death, she bestowed her blessing, and with every attack they had launched against the empire over the past months, it had grown stronger.

The paragon charged, his ax dragging along the ground to carve a groove. He belted out a mindless cry, and it reached a crescendo upon ripping his weapon free to strike. Dirt and stone pelted Rayan’s armor. Up came the ax, and so he met it with his shield. A prayer whispered through his mind.

By your strength, not mine.

The shock wave rolled through Rayan’s body. His armor should have crumpled. His bones should have shattered. Buildings would quiver from such a blow. Rayan screamed, but though the pain was intense, he held firm. The ax-head grinded against his shield, denting the gray surface inward an inch. His arm quivered, and his legs shook. Yet he held. By the goddess, he held.

“Stubborn as ever,” the paragon muttered. His words belied the hint of doubt Rayan saw growing in his eyes.

“You have no idea.”