There was no argument Cyrus could make that the Imperator could not refute, but it did not matter. In his heart, he clung to a simple belief, and he spoke it amid the growing cloud of smoke.

“Whatever we are now, it is better than what you would have us become. I deny you to my final breath, Imperator.”

Magus pulled back his hand. He unsheathed his sword.

“Then draw that final breath, prince. One way or another, your people will confess their faith to the God-Incarnate.”

The time for discussion was at its end. Cyrus knew the tight confines of the belfry were too favorable for the well-armored paragon. He needed open spaces to dodge and weave, which meant changing the arena. He tucked his arms to his chest and dropped into the small square opening in the center of the belfry meant for the ropes that had once been tied to the support beam above the broken bell. Down into its shadows he fell. He needed somewhere dark and hidden to reappear, and despite its morbidity, Cyrus could think of only one.

The ring on his finger burned. Again he felt a deep vertigo and a sensation of movement. His feet struck dirt instantly. The smell of smoke was overpowering, and the air burned hot. He crouched in the hollow space beneath the gallows. With the lever pulled, the bodies dangled around him. Men and women, necks snapped and throats crushed, for daring to hold faith in a free Thanet. For their faith in him.

Did it matter if what Magus said was true? He spoke of crimes in the past. He laid guilt upon Cyrus’s shoulders for deeds committed long before his grandparents walked the island. Amid these sacrifices, Cyrus breathed in the choking smoke. People were dying, perhaps hundreds, and they had trusted him to deliver victory. How did he weigh one atrocity against another? If these sins were passed down from generation to generation, how did one make amends? Or was the sin in the denial and refusal to let the truth be known?

“Vagrant!” Magus screamed. Through cracks in the gallows side boards, Cyrus watched him land from a direct leap atop the belfry to the square. He prowled about the intersection, a frustrated hunter unable to track his prey amid the chaos of smoke, fire, and corpses. “Come out, Vagrant, you coward! Will you flee me yet again?”

The Everlorn Empire murdered innocents. It executed priests and priestesses. It sacrificed gods in a jealous need for faith. No matter their justification, it was wrong. Cyrus had to believe that. There was no evil in the Thanese tongue that must be replaced by their imperial language. There was no blasphemy in the gods they worshiped instead of bending the knee to the God-Incarnate in distant Eldrid. There was no sin in the marriages and lives that the Joining Laws would eradicate. This forced melding, this erasure, was worse.