“Far from impossible,” said her father, and there was no denying the excitement in his voice. “Shut the door so we might talk. The dead prince lives, and so lives our final chance to save the people of Thanet.”

CHAPTER 5

CYRUS

When Cyrus awoke, he discovered he had been moved from the couch he had fallen asleep on, and carried to a small but well-furnished room with a far more comfortable bed. A fresh set of clean clothes lay folded at the foot of it, and he silently dressed. He found himself moving as if in a dream. After two years of living in fearful servitude within the castle, it was surreal to be alone and free of the empire’s forces.

Once dressed, he sat on the bed and pondered his fate. Endarius, killed upon the empire’s arrival. Lycaena, executed at the Anointed One’s ceremony. With both gods slain, he saw no hope for a free nation of Thanet, nor any chance he might one day retake his throne. The regent would claim it for himself; of that much, Cyrus was certain. It had been his in all but name, anyway. Why else had they gone to such lengths to always refer to Cyrus as a prince instead of a king?

A trio of knocks brought his attention to the door.

“I pray you are awake,” said a man before opening the door. He was in his early sixties by Cyrus’s guess, his brown hair frosted with gray. His tanned skin might have been starting to wrinkle, but there was no hint of age or fading to his red eyes. They carried the fanaticism of a much younger man, and they made Cyrus want to shrink into himself and stare at the carpeted floor. The man’s clothes were expensive, and in an elegant, flowing style not native to the island. He carried a wooden tray with buttered bread and two glasses of water, sliced clementines floating in each.

“I was already awake,” Cyrus said, and he gestured to his clothes. The trousers were brown, finely pressed, and the buttoned shirt a mute but pleasant orange. They were the expensive-yet-unassuming clothes he’d expect his servants to have worn in the castle. “Thank you for these.”

The man waved the gratitude away like a bothersome fly.

“My name is Thorda Ahlai. I do not expect you to have heard of me. Since my homeland of Miquo was invaded, I have spent my time, and my considerable fortune, funding insurrections against the Everlorn Empire and teaching their soldiers how to fight against their better-equipped and better-trained foes.”

Magus and the Usurper King had often grumbled with each other over the resistance’s stubborn ability to survive, as well as its remarkable coordination. It seemed the explanation stood before Cyrus, and it amused him greatly.

“Then I have you to thank for my escape,” he said.