“I am the Vagrant Prince, and I will have my crown.”

He ripped both weapons free in a glorious spray of blood, then curled around, facing the dying Imperator. The Endarius blade cut him temple to temple, for the Vagrant must have his due. Magus crumpled to a heap of clattering armor. Cyrus stared at the body, his pulse pounding in his ears, and waited for the relief he thought would come. He remembered the screams of his mother, the rage and horror of watching this bastard paragon cut them down, and waited for this vengeful murder to soothe his hurt. He waited for the world to change, now this monster was dead.

But the world did not change. The homes still burned. The bodies remained hanging from their nooses, legs swaying in the smoke-filled wind. Magus was dead, but the words he spoke lived on. The fate of the Orani. The legacy of his family. Thanet was an island of dead gods, and there were so very many to share the blame.

“Damn you for all you’ve done,” Cyrus said. He clenched his fist, felt heat on his finger from the ring. The whole world was dark with smoke. He fell into that darkness, now a doorway, and fled for home.

CHAPTER 46

MAGUS

Fingers to the dirt tightened, pulled, dragged Magus’s body along the ground, leaving a crimson smear to mark his agonizingly slow progress. Fire and smoke filled what vision was not blocked by the blood from the Vagrant’s “crown” stinging his eyes, but he swore to survive it. The foolish prince had not finished him off. Like many throughout the history of the Everlorn Empire, Cyrus had underestimated the strength and willpower of an imperial paragon.

“Almost…” he groaned as his healthy arm outstretched. Fingers flexed, the tips clawing the beaten road. The other arm dragged behind him, limp and bleeding. “Almost there.”

Citizens, soldiers, and rebels alike had all fled the burning intersection. From what shouts he could hear, bucket brigades were setting up along the outer ring of the flames, preparing to halt the fire’s spread from claiming the rest of the city. If he could only reach them. They would summon the surgeons. The divine nature of his body would allow it to heal, should he be given proper care. That meant not dying amid the smoke, his battered flesh burning away in unchecked fires.

The metal of his armor scraped along the ground. More blood leaked despite keeping his injured arm clutched tightly to his body to seal the wound. A mortal would have fallen. Blood would have pooled within their pierced lung, and they’d have choked to death on dry land. Magus would die in no such manner. He forced air into both his lungs despite the dreadful pain. He demanded his body move despite the dizziness in his head and the weakness that kept his legs limp.