They danced, Cyrus trying to close the gap while Magus sought a medium distance that favored the longer reach of his sword. Another thrust, another parry, yet it was the Imperator on the retreat. The pace of the duel was in Cyrus’s hands, and he did not relent.

Without the shield, Magus relied solely on his armor, and truthfully it was magnificent. There was no hope of penetrating its thick steel, but there were gaps along the joints, little spaces to afford the giant paragon movement. Cyrus cut across them, seeking blood in every which way he might find it. His swords raked over wrist and knee. He whirled about Magus, the sharp edge of his curved sword slashing along the waist. Nothing deep, just enough to cut through the underpadding and carve a line across vulnerable flesh. A bee, Magus had called him, and so he buzzed about, swifter, angrier. A thousand stings it might take, but he would bring this bull low.

Sweat caked Magus’s neck and pasted his hair to his face. His skin flushed red. He swung his sword with wilder and wilder abandonment, as if pure desperation would be enough to overcome his foe. Cyrus’s every movement became instinct. He ducked underneath a slash, danced left while parrying the looping counter, and smacked Magus’s chest plate twice with his sword. Mocking him. Enraging him. Magus swung wide and horizontal, and when Cyrus curled underneath it, the Imperator hopped closer, hip-checking Cyrus’s side. He rolled with it, came back up to his feet to find Magus barreling down upon him, his sword raised high above his head for a powerful double-handed chop.

Every shred of wisdom within his skull said to dodge, but Cyrus was done fearing the might of paragons. He crossed his swords before him and held his ground. His legs and arms braced. Steel hit steel like a thunderclap. Dust billowed outward. The strain pulsed through his every muscle, but his strength held.

“How?” Magus asked. “It’s not possible.”

Cyrus slid to his left. His short sword remained pinned underneath Magus’s sword, keeping it harmlessly at bay, while his free hand pulled back for a thrust. Its razor-sharp edge tore through the leather padding underneath Magus’s armpit, then sank halfway up to the hilt. A pained cry marked his efforts.

“This is for my mother,” Cyrus hissed into Magus’s ear. He slammed the sword deeper into his armpit, then twisted the steel. “This is for my father.”

Another twist, making a mess of innards and puncturing lungs. Magus’s breathing turned wet. Cyrus shifted his hips so he could jam his shorter blade into the small of the Imperator’s back. The giant man’s entire body locked, and he gasped out an unintelligible protest. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to his knees. Cyrus knelt so he might whisper his final words to the dying paragon.