“I gave you your choice, and an open door to flee through should you lack the strength. You stayed. You knew, deep down, that I would craft you into something greater than human. You knew others would die so you might live, and fight, and free your people. Does it matter if they died in battle, or hanging from a rope, so long as it advances the cause? Close your eyes, Cyrus, and listen to the prayers that flow through Vallessau. They pray to the Vagrant. They pray to you. Do not deny them! Do not let their sacrifice be in vain!”

“You would put this on my head?” Cyrus asked. “You would murder innocents, then demand I show them honor?”

His movements were of their own. His swords were in his hands, and they attacked. Steel rang against steel as Cyrus slashed and cut, each blow expertly blocked. Thorda, his teacher, his master, would die for his betrayal. It was inevitable as the rising of the sun. The rage within him, it allowed no other possibility.

Son.

So many times they had dueled in the past, and during each clash his master had seemed unbeatable. His understanding of positioning had been second to none, and his sword weaved through the air with a blinding speed. Now Cyrus followed it with ease. He hammered it thrice, always predicting its defenses accurately. It was as if the older man’s movements had slowed, but no, that was wrong. Thorda wasn’t moving slower. Cyrus was moving faster. His swords weighed air. Their hilts were his own flesh. Thorda blocked a downward strike at the last possible moment, his sword held horizontal above his head. Cyrus pressed down with his own, challenging the older man’s strength, defying him, breaking him. Thorda’s knees buckled. His breathing turned labored.

“I would be no god!” Cyrus screamed as his legs tensed and the muscles in his arms bulged.

“Yet Thanet’s gods are dead!” Thorda thundered back. Even on his knees, he revealed no fear. “Let a new one take their place. The people must believe in something, lest their faith rot. Turn that faith into a weapon, Cyrus. Wield it as a blade to cut the empire’s throat.”

“I would rather cut your own.”

Their swords pressed tighter together, the edge of Cyrus’s sliding closer and closer to Thorda’s exposed neck. The metal rattled as his master struggled to hold back the killing strike.

“I knew your rage was fire the moment I met you, boy. I am not afraid of being burned.”

The door opened behind them. Cyrus spared a glance over his shoulder to see Stasia standing in the doorway. Her hands rested on the handles of her axes, but she had not yet removed them from her belt. Her face was passive, but her glare more intense than a hurricane.

“What nonsense is this?” she asked coldly.