Cyrus wants out. Trained to be an assassin in order to oust the invading empire from his kingdom, Cyrus is now worried the price of his vengeance is too high. His old master has been keeping too many secrets to be trusted. And the mask he wears to hide his true identity and to become the legendary “Vagrant” has started whispering to him in the dark. But the fight isn’t over, and the empire has sent its full force to bear upon Cyrus’s floundering revolution. He’ll have to decide once and for all whether to become the thing he fears or lose the country he loves.

PROLOGUE

Keles stood in the center of the empty tent, her arms crossed and her hands bound behind her back. The rope dug into her skin as she slowly twisted her wrists. The rational part of her mind said she should be afraid, but oddly enough, she felt no fear. She had suffered imprisonment at the hands of the Everlorn Empire. What threat did loyal followers of the slain Lycaena present to her?

Of course, they might not be truly loyal to the Butterfly goddess. Based on their claims, they might even be insane…

The tent flaps opened behind her. She tilted her chin and turned, determined to present herself as calm and honorable as possible despite her current predicament.

“I am Keles Lyon, faithful servant of Thanet, and I demand that you remove my bindings,” she told the new arrival. Her intended authoritative tone wilted into surprise at seeing the man towering a good foot taller than her.

His head and face were clean-shaven, and twin butterfly wings tattooed in black ink rose from his eyebrows to curl across his bald pate. His face was thin and bony, as if he were a few harsh days shy of starvation, and his nose crooked from being broken and not allowed a proper chance to heal. He wore a red robe tied with a rope sash. A silver dagger was tucked into it. His arms crossed over his chest, and the loose sleeves of the robe fell back to expose his bare arms. Where there weren’t tattoos on his pale skin, there were scars, deep and winding ones that seemed more fitting to a man of war than a priest.

“No,” he said. His light brown eyes studied her as he paced a circle around her. “I don’t think I will.”

“Why not?” she asked. “Surely you do not think me a threat?”

He continued circling her, his right hand gently stroking his chin. His voice was deeper than the sea and smoother than any wine.

“There’s not much left in you of the little girl that I once saw,” he said. “But war tends to strip away the vestiges of childhood. I know your face, and I remember your name, but it was not the one you used when we last met.”