His left hand blocked the hit, he grimaced against the jarring pain, and then he slid to his right. Her sword followed, pushing him, and he used that to his own gain. His feet left the ground, his aim the nearby pole of the lamppost. The second his heels touched, he kicked off, soaring overhead. To his annoyance, her shield was already up and blocking, so his slash for her helmet instead bounced off the painted black metal.

  Cyrus was retreating before his feet touched ground. Every act, every hit or parry, had to remain fluid. He wanted her to attack again, to take the offensive while his back was to her. This would be his trap, for growing hot in his chest was a desire to unleash his savage fury upon this dark-armored stranger.

  Her sword thrust for his spine. It pierced the air near his arm as he turned, his Lycaena blade deflecting off her pauldron. The ringing metal was like an alarm sounding through the empty street. She swung for his waist; he blocked and then repaid her with a kick to the chest that sent her stumbling backward. As if insulted, she slashed back into him, sword crashing down with all her strength. His weapons crossed, stopping her. The impact traveled down his arms to inflame his elbows.

  Behind his mask, he laughed. To think, he once feared to meet a paragon strength against strength. As much as he might despise Thorda’s plan, or the lack of a choice given to him in partaking, Cyrus could not deny its effectiveness. Pride swelled in his chest as he shoved his foe away. Had the empire ever faced such a foe as he?

  Of course they had. Thorda’s beloved, the Skull-Amid-the-Trees. That man had hung from the city gates, and so could Cyrus, if he was not careful. He mentally refocused, his legs properly setting to keep himself sturdy, but the expected attack did not come. His foe lingered, and though he could not see her face, he could feel the anger rolling off her.

  “It’s just a game to you, isn’t it?” she said.

  Even braced, he was not ready for the overwhelming nature of her sudden offensive. She tore into him, always seeking to close the distance between them. Their main-hand swords danced, steel striking steel as they took turns countering. Sweat dripped down his forehead and neck as she pushed closer to him, her shield another weapon to batter his body and hamper the intricate weaving of his swords as he attempted to shift between stances. There was no denying the truth, and he felt it anew when he tried to block another blow with only his off-hand held at an improper angle. The whole fight, she had been holding back.

  No longer.

  The Butterfly sword flew from his grip and clattered to the cobblestones. The woman’s sword continued unimpeded, its aim for his neck. He dropped his right knee, instinct taking over. His head tilted; his shoulder dipped. A tug on his hood alerted him to how close to death he had been. The sword barely clipped the fabric.

  Cyrus swung wild, hoping the blow would earn him a reprieve. Instead her shield smashed both his sword and his chest. Sharp pain flooded his ribs, and then he was flying backward.

  At least I got my reprieve, he thought as he rolled twice and then bounced back to his feet. He’d be sporting a few bruises after this fight, that was certain. Assuming he lived. Even knowing the danger, he had underestimated this new opponent, and it almost cost him dearly. Though it might be a trick of the moon, he swore he saw faint light rising off her armor, dark and blue as the ocean.

  “Games?” he said, the Endarius blade held in both hands. His training in the two-handed fighting style was meager, but currently this strange paragon stood between him and his Lycaena short sword. “I play no games, stranger. I do only what must be done.”

  “And how many suffer for it?”

  “If you cared for our suffering, you never would have boarded a boat to our shores.”

  She shook her head. Dark plate rattled as she set her shield into position for a charge.

  “A damn fool, even to the last.”

  With the nearby lamps snuffed and the sky clouded, there were so many shadows available to Cyrus. He took a single step back, waited for his foe to charge, and then dove into the alley behind him. His fist clenched. The Anyx ring burned hot, granting doorways available only to him. He reappeared from the awning directly before the magistrate’s home, his body already diving for his discarded sword.

  In the half second of disorientation upon emerging from the shadows, Cyrus came to the awful realization that his foe had anticipated the maneuver. Instead of following him into the alley she had immediately turned to where his other sword lay. His eyes widened.

  Oh fuck me sideways.

  Her shield blasted him in the forehead. Dizziness and pain followed. His momentum came to a spine-wrenching halt, plopping him onto his stomach with an ungentle landing. He brought his sword up to block an anticipated thrust only to instead receive a swift kick to the side. It was the same injured spot on his ribs, and he groaned as pain turned his vision momentarily white.

  Desperation guided his movements now. He swung for her ankles. A ringing of metal confirmed her block. His sword looped for the other side to try again, only for him to gasp as his foe proved her ruthlessness. Her foot pressed his chest, pinning him, her heel grinding down on that same tender spot. He coughed, felt something wet spray across his lips and the interior of his mask.

  Blood?

  Down came her sword, the fight at its end. The tip touched the edge of his throat, and it hovered there in the grip of an unsteady hand. No further. The woman hesitated. Cyrus lay there, unmoving. There was something happening here he failed to understand, and the blue light shimmering from underneath her dark armor, floating like mist from a lake, convinced him she was no normal paragon of Everlorn. She could kill him but hadn’t. More was at play, and he would not force her hand needlessly.

  “Your mask,” she said. “Give it to me.”

  Her voice was rough behind the metal, but there was no hiding the overwhelming rage lacing her every syllable. Cyrus stared at that helmet, trying to see through the thin slits across the eyes.

  “Why do you hate me so?” he asked.

  The paragon stiffened, but she was never given the chance to answer.

  Arn’s fist slammed her shield. She rocked backward, her heels scraping along the cobblestones as she held firm. Two more punches followed, each aimed for her face. Her shield absorbed the blows, but the barrage had her retreating, and Heretic laughed as he chased.

  “Falling to a single paragon?” he called over his shoulder. “You’re getting sloppy, Vagrant.”

  She was ready for his next punch, her sword parrying his gauntlet at the wrist as if it were another blade. His aim shifted, and she stepped into his exposed interior with her shield leading. It connected with his other arm as he brought it up to block the hit. He grunted on impact, then flung her away with a wide swing of his arm.

  That was exactly what she wanted. She flew through the air several feet and then landed lightly, her feet kicking to continue her momentum as she retreated. Cyrus couldn’t blame her. Their duel had been a close one, and with Heretic’s arrival, the odds were distinctly against her.

  Arn didn’t bother chasing. Instead he clacked his gauntlets together, then turned and offered Cyrus a hand.

  “Congratulations,” he said. “You went and made yourself yet another new and interesting enemy.”

  Cyrus accepted the offered hand and bounced to his feet.

  “You recognize that paragon?” he asked, gingerly rubbing his aching chest.

  Arn stared at the shadowed road the assailant had fled down. A momentary darkness passed over his jovial demeanor. “Not exactly. It’s his armor that makes him unique. That’s the black armor of a penitent. Those who wear it are marked for their sins against the empire and are vowed to atone for it to their dying breath.”

  “Her,” Cyrus said. He retrieved his other sword, relieved to have it back in his grasp. “I heard her speak, and she’s far smaller than any paragon we’ve met, besides.”

  Arn scoffed at him.

  “There are no women paragons. Never been in my lifetime, anyway.”

  “I know what I heard.”

  Though Cyrus was frustrated, Arn just laughed and smacked him across the back. His grin spread ear to ear beneath his mask. It made Cyrus feel jealous. If only his own cheer could be so infectious.

  “Chin up, Vagrant. Consider this an omen. Thanet continues to be an island of firsts! We keep on fighting, and we might accomplish a few more firsts, like slaying the God-Incarnate and tumbling down an entire damn empire!”

  CHAPTER 30

  RAYAN

  Nervous excitement filled the air. Several days of work, put at last into motion. Rayan stood with his back to the wall in the grand study of Thorda’s new home, a portrait of a juniper tree beside him. As always, he could see the door, and be ready to act should a crisis occur. The rest of the elite were scattered throughout the room, listening to Thorda describe the plan in totality.

  “With Lord Agrito dead, and Lord Mosau pledged for us in Ierida, the imperial hold on the island is severely weakened,” the old man said. He looked dashing in a vibrant crimson robe tied with a black sash. Rayan suspected he had dressed up for the occasion. “Which means it is time we turn our attention to the jewel of the island, and the empire’s strongest foothold. If we are to wrest Vallessau from their grasp, we will need an army. Assaulting the walls with a siege is beyond our resources, but sneaking soldiers in through the docks is another matter entirely.”

  Rayan had assumed as much given their recent targets. Thorda had ordered them to place the many pots of oil for the planned fires all along Vallessau’s upper ring. It was there the prosperous lived, and where any attack would be met with heavy resistance. It was also as far from the docks as one could be while still within the circle of mountains that surrounded the city.

  “What of Tannin?” Stasia asked. She and Clarissa sat beside each other on a long couch, wineglasses in hand. It was unusual for Clarissa to attend these meetings, but he suspected her role would continue to grow given her closeness to Stasia. “We burned Fort Lionfang instead of taking it, and the whole area is now leaderless. Surely there’s more we could do there.”

  “Which is why Commander Pilus remains there with a significant number of his soldiers, sowing chaos and picking at isolated soldiers within their cities,” Thorda said. “We’ve severed a finger of the fist holding our island. Our efforts here in Vallessau, coupled with Lycaena’s resurrection in the north, distracted Galvanis for a time, but he must respond. When he does, it will involve moving significant forces out of the city, leaving the capital vulnerable. This is why we are smuggling an army into Vallessau, to take advantage of that opening. I will arrange a signal to—”

  Thorda halted as the door opened. Tension immediately replaced any excitement. Cyrus straightened in his seat. Stasia leaned away from Clarissa, muscles tightening across her back and arms. Rayan’s own hand dropped for his sword, but he did not draw it.

  “I pray I am not interrupting,” Keles said, halting in the doorway. “Nor that I am unwelcome?”

  Rayan hurried to greet her by the door, and he wished the air wasn’t so thick with tension.

  “You are always welcome,” he said, taking her hands. She wore a thick coat over her dress, and despite the warmth within the house, she kept it on as she accepted his greeting. “I’ve kept you in my prayers, and it is good to see you well.”

  “So I have your prayers to thank?” she asked, her faint smile disguising the gentle sarcasm. Others nodded or waved, except for Cyrus, who seemed reluctant to even look her way. Thorda waited for her to be seated, then resumed his plan.

  “Six boats, two from Lord Mosau, four from Pilus, will approach the harbor near midday,” he said. “Their weapons and armor shall be packed into crates, and the soldiers themselves disguised as passengers or crewmen.”

  “None of which would pass close inspection,” Cyrus said. Rayan caught him stealing a glance at Keles. “Hence the fires?”

  “The fires, the assassinations, and every other bit of chaos we unleash,” Thorda said. “What few soldiers remain at the docks to inspect will be easily dispatched. From there, we smuggle everyone to safe houses Clarissa has carefully prepared for us over the past month.”

  The tiny woman blushed at the sudden attention.

  “You make it sound harder than it was,” she said. “And it will be exceptionally cramped. I pray you do not make them wait long.”

  “Their wait will depend on Galvanis taking the bait and marching west,” Thorda said. “The audacity of our combined assault should be enough. He cannot afford to appear like he is losing control of the island. Hope is our greatest weapon, and his most dangerous foe. He will try to stamp it out, I am sure of it.”

  A large table sat in the middle of the room, and Thorda unfurled a map of Vallessau across its surface. Rayan had seen it before, a detailed layout inked on cloth that Clarissa had swiped from the city offices. Thorda began pointing out positions while the group gathered closer. One by one he placed little colored stones to represent his elite. While many members of the resistance would light the pots of oil already scattered throughout the city, Thorda’s group would hit several more high-profile, and therefore more dangerous, targets to ensure a reaction from the local troops.

  “Cyrus, your assassination attempt will be here, at the magistrate’s home,” their leader began. Next came Rayan’s target, the largest of the mansions they planned to burn. Mari was meant to use her speed to her advantage, finding where reinforcements were at their weakest and attacking on their way to the various fires. Last were Stasia and Arn, together to attack a repurposed inn that now housed soldiers along the southwest ring.

  “Show up, crush some skulls, and make sure everyone’s good and scared so they summon imperial soldiers,” Arn said, scratching at his chin. “I think I can do that. How about you, Paladin? You good for a bit of chaos?”

  “I suspect I will spend most of it in your shadow, Heretic, so yes.”

  Thorda stepped back, and he crossed his arms while clearing his throat. The older man had never been good with expressing emotion, and Rayan knew what followed would be the closest thing to a heartfelt confession he could give.

  “These past years have been ones of building,” Thorda said. “Building resistance camps across the island, small and mobile, that the empire cannot hunt down. Building rumors of the Vagrant, and a hero to save the populace. Building a core group of elite, you all in this room, to carry out the work of entire armies.”

  Building a god to slay paragons, thought Rayan, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Thorda clasped his hands together, and he looked to the ground.

  “The time for building comes to a close,” he said. “Now we strike. Stasia gave us but a taste in Tannin. Cyrus hinted at the future to come when he slew Imperator Magus. Now we reclaim. Now we set free. And it is because of you six we have reached this point. Despite my failings, despite my… willingness to go where others may not have gone, you have stayed with me. Trusted me. I pray that in these coming days you will see that trust repaid ten thousandfold. I thank you, my elite. My friends. My family.”

  “Family,” Cyrus said. He stepped away from the map, and the coldness of his voice ruined whatever sentiment the older man had tried to foster. “If you say so, Master Ahlai.”

  Every word was layered with bitterness. Rayan saw the gulf between them, and he wondered if it would ever be bridged. Thorda did not acknowledge it, nor did he try to argue.

  “Eat and sleep well,” he said. “Boats come to dock, and this time, they will bring freedom instead of the praying hands of the empire.”

  “Eat well?” Stasia said, and she took Clarissa’s hand. “If you insist. There’s a cookhouse near the piers that makes some divine oysters, and I could use a proper feast. Their beer is pretty good, too.”

  “I’ll make sure she doesn’t overdo it,” Clarissa said. She’d kept mostly quiet during the meeting, and Rayan sensed she still felt like an outsider to the group. Still, she’d made an effort ever since the pair returned from Fort Lionfang. Whatever had happened there changed her in some small, unseen way. “Stasia has never been the greatest at self-control.”

  “Drunk Stasia is the worst Stasia,” Cyrus chipped in, earning himself a laugh. “Actually, no, hungover Stasia is the worst Stasia. The foul language she’d mutter on our morning runs would make sailors gasp.”

  Stasia purposefully put her back to them, and she waved her hands in what Rayan assumed was a rude gesture from Miquo. The tension eased. It hadn’t taken long for it to feel like old times. They were a group, they had their mission, and they had all the confidence in the world.

  “Well, those two can run off to the pier, but I’ve got plans of my own,” Mari said, and she hopped up from the couch. “Servants delivered carrots all the way from Gallos Bay. I didn’t even know carrots grew on Thanet! Now I can finally make some proper Miquoan soup for everyone. Arn, come with me. You have muscles, and I plan on using them. You can start with cutting the onions.”

  The big man tilted his head.

  “Do I get a say in this?”

  Mari patted his arm as she passed. “Nope.”

  Arn reluctantly followed, his deep voice grumbling complaints even as he vanished into the kitchen.

  “Ask Cyrus, he’s the fancy blade master. Why do I have to chop the damn onions…”

  Rayan watched with a smile, but his smile faded when Cyrus approached Keles. He pretended not to pay attention, nor to be listening.

  “Hey,” Cyrus said, addressing her for the first time since her arrival. The first time since they parted in the Cliffwoods after the false Lycaena’s death. “I… so it’s, I just wanted to say it’s good to see you. Again. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  Keles returned his greeting with an icy smile.