Cyrus closed his eyes and lifted his blades to the corpses above him. They seared his mind with light. They banished his doubt, replacing it with rage, determination, and something akin to fire. He didn’t need to fight for a throne and its tainted legacy. He could fight for the dead and dying. He could fight so it never happened again.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the hanged. “For your sacrifice. For your faith. I swear to honor it in blood.”

A leap, and he soared up and onto the thin front of the stage. Homes about him burned. Bodies of soldiers, rebels, and innocent bystanders littered the gore-slick streets. No sign of his friends. He prayed they’d safely escaped. Most everyone of both sides had fled, but some survivors cowered in front of doorways and crouched in alleyways, while others remained with injured or slain loved ones regardless of the flame. Amid this smoke and ruin, Cyrus lifted a sword and pointed.

“Imperator!” he screamed.

Magus spun to face him. The amusement that lit his eyes lasted but a moment. Even he could see something had changed. Standing before the rows of the sacrificed, purpose flowed through Cyrus, indescribable in the strength it lent.

“Perhaps you’re not a coward after all,” Magus shouted back. He batted his sword against the front of his shield. “Come, boy, and meet your fate.”

From the moment he climbed those bell tower steps, Magus had kept Cyrus reeling on his back foot. He’d been on the defensive, in heart, mind, and body. No longer. He vaulted off the platform, the great distance between them seemingly nothing. Magus lifted his shield, and once more blocked the kick. Cyrus crouched atop the steel, legs coiling, and then somersaulted high into the air, for now there was no tower to constrain him.

Magus kept his shield angled to cover much of his body, while his sword readied to skewer Cyrus upon landing. Cyrus read those movements while upside down, anticipated the trajectory of his fall, and twisted his arms and legs to reposition. The upward thrust passed between the crook of his arm, and though his swords could find no purchase, his heel collided with Magus’s head. The impact traveled up his leg, the hurt nothing compared to his ensuing amusement. He landed on his back and rolled, avoiding a furious stomp that would have crushed his bones.

“There,” Cyrus said as he came up bouncing to his feet. “Now both our noses are bleeding.”

Magus grabbed his bull helmet, which had been twisted askew from the kick, and ripped it off. It clattered to the dirt as he snarled and spat blood.

“I should never have spared you,” he said. “I should have cut off your head and tossed it atop the corpses of your parents.”