“Perhaps indirectly,” Thorda said. “Rayan deserves all of the credit. The only credit I deserve is failing to ascertain the number of paragons the empire would prepare for today’s ceremony. It is a mistake that cost Thanet the life of a goddess, and a shame I will carry with me to my grave.”

The reference to that awful ceremony sent an unwelcome shiver through Cyrus’s body. He shook his head, trying to banish the unpleasant memories.

“Will anyone come looking for me?” he asked.

“Unlikely,” Thorda said. “Regent Goldleaf has sent criers shouting throughout the city declaring your death. Trampled during the aftermath of Lycaena’s execution, I believe is the stated method. More so, he has pinned all responsibility on the rebels who attempted to disrupt the ceremony.”

“That sounds like him,” Cyrus grumbled.

“With Lycaena’s death and my resistance’s utter defeat, your worth as a political prisoner lost much of its value. I suspect the regent would have soon ordered your execution or exile. Consider yourself lucky Rayan was able to rescue you and bring you to me.”

“Lucky,” Cyrus said, his stomach so sick he wanted to grab the nearby plate and throw it at a wall. “You would call me lucky after everything that has happened?”

“I would,” Thorda said. “Shall I drag you to the Dead Flags and show you the fates of those I consider unlucky?”

Cyrus bowed his head as heat rose in his cheeks. As cruel as his life may be, he knew it foolish to complain when the Everlorn Empire had killed hundreds, if not thousands, of Thanese citizens in its campaign to eradicate all semblance of Thanet’s prior order.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful.”

“I don’t want you grateful,” Thorda said. “I want you motivated, so spare me your apologies. It is good to see disgust and anger yet remain after two years of imprisonment. My fear was that they had beaten the spine out of you and left behind the gutless putty of a prince.”

They had tried, Cyrus thought, god and goddess help him, they had tried. Any errant word could lead to a beating on his thighs, ribs, or other places that would show no bruises when he was occasionally trotted out on display to prove to the island he still lived. The slightest hint of protest could cost him weeks of isolation in his bedroom. No meal was ever guaranteed. Throughout it all, overheard complaints about the resistance, Thorda’s resistance, had allowed him to endure. So long as others fought for his kingdom’s freedom, he had promised himself to lurk, and listen, and pray for a chance to escape.

Now it seemed his prayers had been answered. Before him was the architect, and so Cyrus pulled back his shoulders and stood as tall and proud as he was capable of.