“Were you ambushed as well?” Cyrus asked as the paladin joined them in a line.

  “I was,” he said. “They are dead now, as will be our foes.”

  Cyrus tried to remember his confidence when he’d assaulted the docks. Instead he remembered the mockery in the Heir-Incarnate’s words, the disappointment in his eyes. One blow. He’d been unable to withstand one single blow…

  “Make it quick and brutal,” he said. “We must diminish their number before the paragons arrive.”

  “There’s still time to run,” Mari said.

  Cyrus eyed the paragons that lurked behind the charging soldiers, their weapons ready and waiting for a moment of weakness.

  “I’m not dying with a blade in my back.”

  Rayan stepped forward and lifted his shield.

  “We will not die at all,” he said. “I will be the bulwark the charge breaks upon.”

  Cyrus felt the energy about the paladin’s shield before it ever materialized in the form of glowing silver light. Rayan lifted the shield higher, his eyes closed, his mouth whispering a prayer to his goddess. The soldiers neared, closer, closer, and then down came the shield. It struck the street with a deafening crack, and the silver light exploded outward in the form of spread wings. Soldiers cried out in fear as the wings smashed them aside like a charging bull. Metal cracked, swords snapped. The first two lines of attacking soldiers tripped, fell, or retreated.

  Easy prey for the Lioness. Mari leaped over Rayan, a mighty roar accompanying her descent amid the collapsed soldiers. Wings ripped and shredded armor. Screams followed. Cyrus and Stasia dashed to join her, for in that initial chaos they were at their most advantaged. He butchered frightened foes, but the moment was brief. The next wave of charging soldiers arrived, urged onward by the son of their god.

  “Bring low the foes of Everlorn!” Galvanis implored from the docks. “Carve your way to glory in the eternal lands beyond!”

  It was a heartless tactic, to throw regular soldiers into the fray, but it was an effective one. With each kill, each blow, Cyrus and his friends exhausted themselves. Cyrus hacked at soldiers, his every step a retreat. Lioness lunged place to place, never staying long, and trusting her bone armor to protect her at each assault. Stasia wielded her great-ax in both hands, swinging as if she were trying to chop down an entire forest. Should any seem vulnerable, Rayan would be there, his shield at the ready to protect them.

  The destruction the four unleashed, it was terrifying, it was brilliant, but it was against mere mortals. It was only a matter of time before the paragons arrived.

  “For Everlorn!” shouted a paragon barreling through the imperial soldiers. He wielded a great spear, the weapon held high above his head. At last, Galvanis unleashed his elite. “For the God-Incarnate!”

  The paragon leaped into the air, his spear pointed and ready to skewer. Sunlight gleamed off his pristine armor. Cyrus braced to dodge but was given no chance. A pillar of flame rose up to meet the leaping paragon. It washed over him as he fell, taking advantage of his inability to protect himself or change his trajectory. The flames shimmered with strange, rainbow light, and it charred away his flesh with such heat that when he landed his armor collapsed in a clatter. Bones and ash scattered wildly from within.

  Cyrus spun on his heels, baffled. That bafflement only grew when he saw a red-robed priest leading five similarly dressed men and women with flames surging from their palms and fingertips. The priest, it couldn’t be…

  “This fight is at its end,” Eshiel thrice-born shouted. “Run, all of you, unless you would join the dead. We shall give you the time you need.”

  Before Cyrus could ask how, the priest shifted the flames that had consumed the paragon, and his followers mimicked his gestures. The fire spread across the street, forming a blazing wall dozens of feet high to seal away the chasing army. None dared challenge its heat, not after witnessing the damage it inflicted upon the dead paragon. Cyrus sheathed his swords and dipped his head in respect.

  “If we run, you best be running with us.”

  Eshiel chuckled.

  “I had no plans on dying here today.”

  The entire group fled, a wall of flame protecting them from any chase. They zipped down quiet streets, through a city accustomed enough to slaughter and battle that its people knew to hide within their homes until the bloodshed was done. They ran until they reached the first main intersection, with the northern road leading to the castle, the east and west toward the curling outer-ringed districts carved into the Emberfall Mountains.

  “This is where we part,” Eshiel said.

  The Ahlai sisters were all too eager to keep running, and Cyrus wished to join them, but Rayan did not follow. He stood before the priest, his face perfectly calm. Cyrus could only guess at the emotions running through him.

  “It seems fate is not finished with you,” Rayan said at last.

  “Not fate,” Eshiel said. “Our goddess.”

  “Your intervention is still appreciated,” Cyrus said, attempting to break the tension. The priest turned his way. For the briefest moment, Cyrus thought the tattoos on his flesh were fully aflame, but no, it was a trick of the light. They were ink, faded and black.

  “I am no friend of yours, Vagrant. Do not consider matters settled between us.”

  “You have a strange way of showing it,” Cyrus said.

  Eshiel smirked.

  “You may not be friends, but you are enemies of the empire. Perhaps in time, we may reach an understanding. For now, let us walk our own paths. Farewell, and safe travels. May Lycaena watch over you.”

  “And she over you,” Rayan answered.

  Eshiel bowed his head and then joined his followers in sprinting away. Cyrus watched him go, the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. The events of the day weighed down on him, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not banish the memory of that single, horrible moment.

  The Heir-Incarnate’s blade crashing against his swords, pinning him, humiliating him. Revealing the lie that was his supposed godhood.

  Rayan’s hand settled on Cyrus’s shoulder.

  “Come, my friend,” he said. “There will be time to grieve when we are safe.”

  Cyrus patted his hand, and he feigned a smile behind his mask so perhaps the lie might also reach his voice.

  “Go. I will be but a moment.”

  Rayan raced after the sisters. Now alone, Cyrus turned his gaze to the distant ocean. The boats had all but sunk, and only scattered boards and floating bodies proved they had ever been.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered to those who had trusted him, to those who had prayed for vengeance as they drowned or burned. “I will answer your prayers in time. I will. I will.”

  CHAPTER 35

  SINSHEI

  Keles trained alone in a secluded corner of the castle courtyard. Despite the warmth of the sun, and how uncomfortable it must be, she wore her penitent armor. Only her helmet was missing, allowing Sinshei to see the deep concentration on her lovely face. Her sword slashed through the air, weaving a steady pattern as she’d no doubt been trained years earlier at the Heaven’s Wing.

  “Most paragons stop training after their ritual,” Sinshei said upon arriving at her side. “The divinity in their blood is sufficient to keep their muscles strong.”

  “I am not most paragons, and strength does not equate to skill.”

  “No, it does not.”

  Sinshei crossed her arms and watched the woman train. Every swing looked like she was executing an imaginary victim before her. Her frustrations were boiling over. Yesterday bothered her, but which part? The death of those she might have once called allies? Or her encounter with the Vagrant, of which Sinshei’d heard only the briefest mention when Keles returned to the castle the previous evening?

  “Twice now you’ve battled the Vagrant,” Sinshei said, deciding to address it directly. “Twice now, you’ve failed to return with his head.”

  Keles’s sword thrust straight forward, hard enough that wind snapped to either side.

  “From what I hear, he also escaped Galvanis after they fought at the docks. Am I to be condemned for failing at what even the Heir-Incarnate could not accomplish?”

  Sinshei smiled sweetly at the young woman. She was wise beyond her years, and yet painfully ignorant of the ways of Eldrid.

  “Yes,” she said. “You can, and will, be condemned for such. We do not abide by laws of fairness or reason. We walk the path of the God-Incarnate and his chosen Heir. Their beliefs are our beliefs, their truths our truths.”

  “Hardly flattering to your empire, or your god.”

  “Indeed. If only there were someone hoping to change it for the better.”

  Keles twirled her weapon twice more and then jammed it into her sheath.

  “I fought him to a standstill, but when the boats began to burn, he fled for the docks.”

  “And you let him?”

  Keles hesitated, and she looked away before answering.

  “I thought Galvanis would kill him.”

  Sinshei was convinced the Vagrant was someone close to Keles, someone she held a personal connection with, and this only confirmed it to her.

  “And you thought that would be easier,” she said. “To let my brother shed the blood instead of your own hands.”

  The young woman gave no reply, but that was answer enough. A pang of sympathy bloomed and died in Sinshei’s breast. This was hard for her, but that didn’t matter. Such attachments would only get Keles killed. Sinshei closed the space between them and placed her hands on either side of her sweat-slick face. Her fingers slid into the woman’s tight braids. She held her there, firm, forcing her to meet her gaze.

  “Your feet are already on the path,” she said. “Guilt and uncertainty are but the twin wolves nipping at your heels. Do not doubt. Do not turn back. Eyes forward, penitent. Behind you is death, only death.”

  Keles’s face was an impenetrable mask. Her voice lowered. “Is it possible for us to kill your brother if the Vagrant cannot?”

  Sinshei pulled her closer for an embrace, her soft robes wrapping about hard steel. Her lips brushed Keles’s ear, for this was a promise she would only whisper, even if Galvanis were a thousand miles away.

  “Together, we will. I have my blades, Soma his spear, and you your sword and shield. It will be enough. It must, for the millions who suffer.”

  They separated, and for a moment Sinshei believed she had reached the woman. But despite her words, her certainty, doubt yet lingered in Keles’s heart.

  “Must the Vagrant die?” she asked. “He is but a nuisance. Your brother is the true threat.”

  “The God-Incarnate sails for Thanet, and when he arrives, I will show him an island at peace, one humbled despite the chaos that preceded it, and the lives it took. The Vagrant will never give us that peace, so let him become the trophy I offer my father to take my rightful place as his heir.”

  Another impulse filled her to touch the woman’s cheek, but she held back. Too much, she showed far too much. She put a hand on Keles’s shoulder instead.

  “Faith, dear Keles. Hold faith in me, and I will reward it for six hundred years.”

  Sinshei left her there, praying that her encouragement would be enough. Keles was so strong, and in a way different from the many fanatics she encountered in conquered nations. She questioned. She doubted. She felt fear and uncertainty, and yet despite it all, she still believed. The faith within her was a small, fragile bird desperately seeking to take flight. Sinshei felt it so clearly, saw it with the gift of her father’s blood. That faith had not taken root in Dagon despite the ritual, that much she knew. There was space for another.

  For her, perhaps, when the deed was done, and Everlorn worshiped an empress. The idea warmed her insides, pleasant in more ways than one, but she reluctantly pushed the idea aside. Keles was not the only visit Sinshei had planned for the evening. Her brother’s mood had been jovial ever since the burning of the insurgent soldiers, but amid all the successes was one notable failure.

  “You have a way with words, my dear sister,” he had told her over their victory feast. “And you connect with the broken in ways most magistrates cannot. Go to Rihim. Discover the reason for his failures.”

  Sinshei’s path back to the castle had her pass a group of twenty men, shirtless and armed with shovels and pickaxes. They hacked away at the dirt, tearing open a wide crevice. Barely visible from her perspective was an unearthed door several feet below ground.

  This castle has many secrets, she thought. She tapped the wrapped cloth sealed with string and attached to her robe’s belt. One of her priests had found and delivered it to her earlier that day. But we have a few of our own, don’t we?

  Deep below the castle, in catacombs recently discovered, were prison cells hundreds of years old. The air was damp and smelled so strongly of earth it made her sick to her stomach. Sconces lit the wall opposite the cells as she walked the single hall. Every prison was empty, all but for the last at the end.

  The Humbled god, Rihim, knelt on his hands and knees. His claws scraped the cold stone. His golden eyes were closed, and his ears flattened. A quiver flitted through Sinshei’s chest. He seemed so primal there in the dim light. His scar-torn fur rippled with the motions of his breathing. Words, too faint for her to understand, slipped off his tongue.

  “I pray I am not interrupting?” she told Magistrate Castor Bouras. He was young for a magistrate, barely into his thirties, with hair red like fire and a short beard to match. His red robe was immaculate despite their dreary location. He held a prayer book in his left hand; in his right, a bladed baton.

  “We have only begun the next litany,” Castor said. “You need not wait on me, for it will be at least an hour before the Humbled finishes.”

  Sinshei entered the prison cell, and Castor stepped aside to make way. She knew little of the magistrate, for he had come with Galvanis across the Crystal Sea. Rihim was his responsibility, she knew that much. From what she had gathered from her brother, Castor had spent the better part of a decade working on the hunting god, cutting into his flesh and bathing him with prayers.

  “Yesterday was filled with excitement,” she said, addressing the Humbled with her arms crossed behind her back. “Traitor soldiers died by the hundreds in their boats, the insurrection’s heroes were publicly beaten and bloodied, and the Vagrant himself was broken before the might of the Heir-Incarnate.”

  Sinshei was hardly thrilled with that last fact. She’d have been just fine if the Vagrant chopped off her brother’s head, but Rihim need not know her personal desires. What mattered was his faith, and his incompetence. She leaned closer and hardened her voice.

  “And yet, amid all the chaos, not a soul witnessed you partake in the battle.”

  Rihim opened his eyes.

  “Speak plainly, Anointed. I care not for the way you humans circle about your desires like vultures above a kill.”

  Sinshei fought back a smile. If only she could be so blunt with the rest of Everlorn’s court.

  “So be it. You are a god of the hunt, famed for your tracking, and yet when our enemies were out in the open, you were not there. Where were you, Rihim? What games are you playing when you should be obediently serving?”

  “I faced off against the Lioness.”

  “The Lioness helped the Vagrant at the docks. Did she best you?”

  Sinshei did not like the way the Humbled looked to the ground.

  “In a way.”

  Her frown deepened. Slippery language, especially coming from a deity who moments ago bemoaned such deceit. Rihim was hiding something, but what? She knelt down, careful to wrap her long hair about her waist so it did not brush against the dirty floor, and pinched her lower lip.

  “In a way?” she asked.

  He glared at her.

  “I tried to kill her but could not. Why do you look at me so?”

  Because you’re lying, she thought. But why?

  She remembered the moment Rihim had first set foot upon Thanet. He’d said something peculiar to her, and it’d stuck in her memory. Out here upon Thanet, he insisted he smelled Miquoan gods. Given his nation’s deep connection to the neighboring Miquo, Sinshei had thought him jumping at shadows. The mental state of Humbled was notoriously fragile. But if he hadn’t imagined it, if he hadn’t invented foes for him to hunt…

  “You know her,” she said. “Don’t you?”

  The Humbled slowly rose to his feet. He towered over her, all muscle, tooth, and claw.

  “This affair does not concern you, Anointed One.”

  Sinshei tilted her head up to meet his glare. She would show no fear to this broken thing.

  “Tell me her name, Humbled. I would do what you cannot.”

  “She is my prey!” he roared. His fists rose, his claws extending. “My—”

  The runes on his manacles flared with light. No chains connected them, but they need not, for the magic in them was strong, and blessed by the God-Incarnate’s prayers. Rihim screamed as his every muscle locked tight. Faint sparks of lightning crackled along his arms. His knees buckled. His palms caught his fall, and now that they were closer to her, she heard the true punishment of the manacles.

  When Sinshei had been a young girl, she had asked to try on a similar pair of manacles to hear what it sounded like. The result had been a clear, brutal lesson that her curiosity was dangerous. The noise had sent her crumpling to the floor with her hands clutching her bleeding ears. Forming coherent thoughts had been impossible. Even now she heard it, faintly in that prison cell. For Rihim, it would be deafening. A thousand voices sang their dedication to God-Incarnate Lucavi. Three sentences, forever on a loop, and quieting only when the prisoner offered up a prayer to the one true god.

  I am humbled. I am loyal. I am free.

  “Praise be to Galvanis, my truth, my life, my way,” Rihim prayed. Immediately the glow on the runes dulled. His muscles slackened. Sinshei offered her own prayer to her father. That faith materialized into two golden blades of light shimmering through the air. They settled upon either side of Rihim’s throat. With a thought, they rose, guiding his gaze up to meet hers. He held still, refusing to even breathe lest he cut himself.