Cyrus sat in the farthest, darkest corner he could find in the tavern. He’d never been much of a drinker, not that he’d had the chance to become one over the past years. Tonight, he was going to give it his best go. An enormous tankard sat before him. He’d drained it once already, and was halfway through the second round. Cyrus kept his hood up, his head low, and his eyes on the table. He trusted time, the poor lighting, and his drawn hood to protect his identity. No one would suspect the down-on-his-luck young drunkard in the corner of being a long-dead prince. Cyrus hardly believed it himself. Thorda’s words echoed in his mind, mocking him and his plight for solace.

Godhood cannot be so easily cast aside…

“You weren’t there!” a man shouted from the nearest table.

“I was!” a burly, bearded man hollered back. His left eye was scarred over, but he pointed to his right eye with the hand that wasn’t busy holding his drink. “Saw it all with my one good peeper. I was in the crowd when it started, and I couldn’t get out even if I tried, what with the fires. Found myself watching the fight, and what a fight! I’m telling you, I’m gods-damned telling you, the Vagrant killed Imperator Magus, straight-up gutted him and bled him dry.”

Cyrus wished the man would shut his mouth. This was the second tavern he’d visited. He’d left the first after a few minutes. All talk had focused on the execution, and Magus’s death. He thought here, on the other side of Vallessau and the farthest he could possibly get from the scene of the battle, he might find some peace. He was wrong.

“You’re full of horseshit, Justin,” someone shouted from a table positioned before the enormous hearth blazing along the wall. “Endarius died to the empire’s paragons, and he was a god. You saying this Vagrant took down their leader, just like that, all by himself?”

“Yeah, I am,” the man apparently named Justin said. “His swords, they danced, man, they danced!”

Cyrus put his hands to his ears and bit his tongue. He stayed like that, wondering if there was relief to be found anywhere in the city from the inescapable rumors, until the son of the tavern keeper came over holding a heavy pitcher in both hands.

“A hard day?” he asked.

“The hardest,” Cyrus said, surprised by the gravel in his voice.

In response, the young man filled Cyrus’s tankard, and he waved away the attempt to pay.

“On us,” he said. “It’s a day to celebrate. Sorry you’re alone. Come on up by the bar if you’d like a friendly ear.”