It was meant to hurt him, to distract him. Instead it only tightened Cyrus’s focus. Every single agonizing second of training had brought him here. Every mission. Every kill.

“Yeah,” he said, and he grinned. Gods help him, he felt intoxicated by his own strength. “You probably should have.”

Cyrus zipped left to right, relishing the open field of battle compared to the cramped belfry. He need not limit his dodges, nor worry for his footing. His speed was greater than the paragon’s, he realized that now. Whatever weight had lain upon his limbs, it had vanished amid the hanging corpses. He pirouetted on his heels, carving hit after hit over the painted bull of the Imperator’s shield. He would scrape it raw to wear the paragon down. He parried when needed, and dodged when Magus overextended, causing the weapon to carve grooves in the dirt.

When at last he found his speed lacking, Cyrus tightened his grip and demanded the Anyx ring to obey. It had been but moments since its last use, yet perhaps Thorda misunderstood its true power. This reaction was instinctive, an understanding he could not explain if asked, but the shadows were his. They pooled beneath his feet, and he fell through them to deny the paragon his kill. After a wave of vertigo, Cyrus reemerged once more below the gallows. He laughed at the paragon’s bewildered fury, and he leaped from the stage with a flurry of swords.

With each passing second, and each hit across the paragon’s armor, Cyrus’s confidence grew. He had broken down the impenetrable wall that was Rayan and his shield. He had weathered the fury of Stasia’s ax. His mind was honed to every proper action and reaction due to Thorda’s instruction.

Magus was greater than them all, and yet still lesser. He lacked their heart. Arrogance stood in place of their desperation and righteousness. The Imperator fought with the certainty he would win. With every cut, every parry, Cyrus robbed him of that certainty. He revealed the hollowness beneath it. His blades promised a new fate, one the Imperator had never before believed possible.

“Enough, damn you!” Magus hollered. Anger was his only counter. Though he was a Paragon of Shields, he tossed the bulky slab of metal aside and clutched his sword in both hands. “You may buzz about like a bee, but your stings are equally meaningless.”

He thrust for Cyrus’s abdomen. Cyrus risked parrying it, and though the paragon’s grip was strong, it still shifted aside when pressed with both blades. The excitement of battle rushed through Cyrus. The energy he’d felt since leaving the tower refused to abate. Cyrus slashed with his off-hand, but Magus was faster than his size should allow. He lifted a shoulder, deflecting the hit off his platemail pauldron.