Cyrus paused to give his master a chance to defend himself. He clutched to some faint hope of an explanation, one that did not leave the man a monster in Cyrus’s eyes. Once his master spoke, it was clear none was coming.

“You need not voice the accusation,” Thorda said. “I see it plain in your eye, and you have the right of it. I sent the Imperator communiqués under the guise of a resistance traitor. I engineered the obtaining of prisoners. I ensured he knew of the signal, and your prepared ambush from within the bell tower.”

“But why?” Cyrus asked. Again and again, he saw the platform bottom out. He saw the bodies drop, the ropes snap tight, necks snapping with them. They weren’t even given hoods to cover their faces, so their tongues bulged outside their mouths and their eyes popped loose from their sockets. “Why would you do something so hideous to the people who trusted you?”

“You already know the answer,” his master said. “Or you would, if you viewed your battle with Magus with open eyes. There is nothing special about the paragon ritual you interrupted weeks hence. Gods are but manifestations of belief and faith, for there is power in both. Ancient power, older than the world itself. To die for that belief? To sacrifice oneself for another? Nothing compares. They may not have been Seeds, but the men and women who died today, they died believing in you. They knew your face, and your name, but they kept it hidden in their hearts. They gave their lives, convinced it would mean something, that you would mean something.”

Thorda slowly stood, mask in one hand, sword in the other.

“Did you not feel it?” his mentor asked. “The power flowing into you as the men and women breathed their last? As you moved through shadows? As you matched a paragon’s inhuman strength blow for blow?”

The entire house collapsed around Cyrus. He remembered Thorda’s insistence that his every action magnify an otherworldly appearance. How he wasn’t allowed to ever lose a battle. How his face must be hidden, his bloody crown spread across Vallessau, and his name spoken in whispers. Soft, prayerful whispers.

“This was always your goal,” Cyrus said. “You knew Magus would challenge me. You wanted us to battle while the city watched.”