The moment Keles recovered, Cyrus halted his retreat and dashed inward. The pair struck in unison, too perfectly synchronized for Galvanis to block them both. He let Keles’s sword through, and though it pierced through his armpit, it reflected off unseen armor. It drew no blood.

  “Is this all you would offer me?” Galvanis asked, and his disappointment sounded honest. “This is the supposed might that would free an island from our grasp?”

  He alternated his attention with each swing of his greatsword, Keles to Cyrus, with might capable of felling trees. His speed was unreal, greater even than during their previous battle at the docks. Cyrus forfeited all thought of going on the offensive. He rolled below a swing, bunched his legs, and then vaulted up and over the following one. His swords crossed before him, and the third hit square across their combined metal. The shock of it knocked him flying across the vault, and paintings tore as he landed amid their haphazard pile.

  Keles thrust her sword for the spine, drawing Galvanis’s attention and likely sparing Cyrus’s life. The Heir-Incarnate shot his elbow backward, batting the thrust wide, and then spun with the greatsword held with one hand. Keles met it with her shield, and she gasped at the impact. Rainbow light sparked across its surface, the goddess’s magic the only reason her bones did not shatter.

  The two torches held by the gods of the altar cast many shadows. A clench of his fist, and Cyrus fell into the stone as if it were water. He emerged leaping from the space directly beside the altar, his swords flashing with speed. They struck Galvanis across the back, ripping into his armor to reach the flesh beneath. Twin grooves opened, shallow and bloodless. It was as if his foe’s skin were a second armor, and harder than marble.

  Galvanis’s fist blasted him in the face, but there was no nose to break, no lips to burst. Cyrus rolled with it as best he could to spare the strain on his neck, scored a cut across Galvanis’s wrist in retribution, and then danced away to recover his bearings. Keles managed a hit across the Heir-Incarnate’s shoulder, buying time. Cyrus dug his heels in, shook his head to clear his vision, and lifted his blades.

  In that brief moment, cold words whispered to him in his own voice. He felt them like fingers upon his throat.

  Your humanity betrays you.

  Keles blocked twice with her shield, screaming in pain each time. The goddess might be with her, and her body blessed by the paragon ritual, but it was still flesh and bone. It had its limits, limits surpassed by the abominable hybrid of humanity and divinity that was the Heir-Incarnate. It was a combination Cyrus knew far too well. He dashed into the fight, diverting his foe’s attention to spare Keles a third strike. Their weapons crossed, the impact traveled up to his elbows, and he choked down a pained cry. Had to keep the offensive. Had to keep swinging, to keep beating against this mountain of steel and muscle.

  He won’t tire, the dark voice spoke. He won’t surrender. You must be greater.

  Galvanis parried two hits with a wide sweep of his sword, then punched with his free hand. Cyrus retreated out of reach, but it was what Galvanis wanted. His greatsword swept out and wide, a blur of Ahlai-made steel. Too quick to dodge. Too strong to block with his swords.

  A flare of light marked its halt before it might cut him in twain. Keles and her shield stood between them, her legs braced, her entire body shaking from the effort. Her cloak had vanished. Wings the color of fire spread out of her back, translucent and billowing like hung cloth on a springtime wind. She was beautiful, she was strong, and she was shouting Cyrus’s name.

  His real name.

  “With me, Vagrant! Cut him down!”

  He dashed past her, past the greatsword still pressed to her stubborn shield. His off-hand flipped in his grasp, the two weapons held long and plunging tip-first into the Heir-Incarnate’s abdomen. They should have skewered innards, but still the flesh held strong. The weapons scraped to either side, cutting a thin groove, but it was like carving into stone. No blood. Not yet. Gordian Goldleaf had not bled in those early moments of their battle at the Solemn Sands, either, yet he had still fallen in time.

  Galvanis howled, his fury grimly satisfying to Cyrus’s ears. The behemoth pulled his greatsword back, lifted it high, and then sent it crashing back down, directly challenging Keles to block it a second time.

  A challenge she met. Her wings spread wide, wall to wall, floor to ceiling, crimson, green, and gold. This was the power of the Butterfly goddess in the fullness of its blessing, and it would not be broken. The wings washed over Cyrus as he charged through. At their touch his mind filled with visions of other times, of other places. He saw worship on open fields, heard songs of spring sung while children ran in circles with flowers in their hair. And then the sight vanished, replaced with the marble flesh and bloodshot eyes of the savage Heir-Incarnate.

  His swords tore apart armor. Metal fell free, exposing muscled flesh, inhuman in its ripples. More cuts, shallow, bloodless grooves along the chest and abdomen. Galvanis withdrew, even as it galled his pride and had him shouting wordless cries of rage. Cyrus did not relent until the hilt of Galvanis’s sword struck him across the shoulder, causing him to stumble. An elbow smacked Cyrus’s forehead, and then the Heir-Incarnate swung. Cyrus put both swords in the way, but it was a pitiful defense. The impact sent him flying halfway across the vault.

  He landed, tumbled twice, and then rolled up to his knees despite his dizziness, which had the floor pitching and turning beneath him. Cold darkness wrapped heavier and heavier across his mind. It spoke eagerly. Determined. Certain. It demanded everything of Cyrus and offered everything in return.

  You are not flesh.

  Energy crackled through Cyrus. He felt the prayers of the island, the whispers and the sobs of those mourning the lost and the dead. He felt their rage, their need, and their hope, that the empire would one day be forced away. It hardened the bone of his face. It sharpened the points of his crown.

  Lycaena. The Vagrant. The old gods and the new, together. It had to be enough. They would get no second chance. If only the ground would stop moving beneath him. If only his vision would straighten.

  You are not blood.

  “We will not live in your gray world!” Keles screamed as she slashed at the Heir-Incarnate. He blocked each and every one, unwilling to risk the damage the glowing blade might do to his divinely blessed flesh. “You will not rip the beauty from our land! You will not steal the sun from our sky!”

  You are a god.

  At last, Galvanis had suffered enough. He smashed aside her sword, forced her to block with her shield, and then stepped close. His free hand latched about her throat. Her wings faded. Her sword flailed, deflecting off his rib cage.

  “We offer you wretches salvation,” he roared, and then flung her against the wall. The sound of metal bending was horrifyingly loud. Her head snapped, and blood splattered from where it hit stone. Keles dropped to her knees and then crumpled. The cold voice screamed inside Cyrus’s mind as he feared for her life.

  Take your crown.

  All his rage, all his desperation, came together in one last barrage. The space between them vanished. Cyrus’s swords were blurs even to his own eyes. Galvanis’s greatsword shifted and parried, back and forth with the thick edge at the handle, but it wasn’t enough. The sound of steel on steel sang a deafening chorus, and in it, Cyrus heard victory. Attack, attack, his swords shimmering with divine power. They did not glow with light like a paladin’s, but instead seethed with darkness. It curled along the blades. It lined its edges. A strength, a fury, of a faith that sought only death.

  Cyrus’s off-hand blade lashed out, the tip striking the Heir-Incarnate’s temple. With a savage cry he ripped it across the forehead, temple to temple, and then danced away. Galvanis shrieked so loud the walls shook and the silver in the chests rattled. With a shaking hand he wiped at his forehead.

  The skin had peeled back to expose bone. Blood, thick and scarlet, flowed down his pale face and stained his probing fingertips. His blue eyes widened, and in them Cyrus saw doubt for the very first time. He saw fear. Poison, to a god. Death, to a man not yet a god.

  “You are mortal,” Cyrus said. He lifted his sword so his foe saw the fresh blood upon it. “And you are abandoned. I am the only god who will watch you die.”

  Cyrus thought Galvanis would launch into one final attack, a protest against the possibility of defeat. This would be the greatest moment of danger, when the Heir-Incarnate put every last shred of his strength into a counteroffensive. Cyrus’s lungs burned in his chest, and aches filled his every limb, yet he stood tall, determined to see this battle to its rightful end.

  He gave the Heir-Incarnate too much credit. The man turned and fled for the vault doors, a coward’s heart beneath his perfect veneer. He made it only three steps before skidding to a halt, stunned to find the passage blocked.

  Sinshei vin Lucavi stood with her arms spread wide and her fingers curled. Twin swords of golden light settled upon either side of Galvanis’s throat. He froze, his head tilting slightly to pull away from the shimmering edges that kissed his skin. Blood trickled down his cheeks from the cut Cyrus gave him, and it sizzled into smoke upon touching those faith-born blades.

  “I have dreamed of this for years,” Sinshei said softly.

  “Are you so great a fool?” Galvanis asked her. “You wield weapons manifested by faith in the God-Incarnate. They cannot strike me down. I am his son. I am his heir.”

  The Anointed One smiled.

  “My faith is absolute,” she said. “For I will be the next God-Incarnate.”

  Her hands curled into fists. The swords crossed, passing through flesh and bone, and then exploded out the other side. Galvanis staggered on uneven feet. His sword dropped from limp fingers, and then he collapsed in a pool of his own blood. His head rolled several feet before coming to a halt. The skin hardened and cracked until it resembled aged plaster.

  The floating swords vanished into dust and light. Sinshei shivered with pleasure.

  “That felt better than I ever imagined.”

  Cyrus watched golden light arc across Sinshei’s body, remaining bright despite the disappearance of the swords. Her black hair shimmered in the glow of the candles. For a brief moment, Cyrus saw her as she must see herself, majestic and beautiful, the power of life and death held firmly in her hands. Her hands, and no one else’s. What god would she become? And could he, in his grinning mask promising death, dare judge her for it?

  The image faded, the golden light receded, and the room became dark. Cyrus risked turning away. Keles, was she…?

  The paladin stood on her own two feet, albeit unevenly. Blood matted her hair, and he did not like the dazed look in her eye. Blows to the head were dangerous, and could linger, but he could not deny his relief in seeing her standing. He rushed to her side, and it didn’t matter that Sinshei was watching. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. After a moment, she returned the embrace, careful not to press her cheek against his.

  Careful not to touch the grinning skull.

  “I feared the worst,” he whispered.

  “Then you should have been faster,” she said, and when he pulled away, she was grinning lopsidedly at him. She wiped at the blood on her neck, then grimaced at the amount that covered her hand. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Head wounds always bleed worse than they truly are. We have bigger concerns.”

  It seemed they did. Sinshei’s paragon bodyguard had joined her from the tunnel, and the satisfaction on his face rivaled Sinshei’s. His spear thankfully remained clipped to his back. Cyrus and Keles stood shoulder to shoulder, a united front before Sinshei and Soma. It was largely a bluff, for both had been pushed beyond their limits in the battle against Galvanis. To then take on a paragon and the Anointed One?

  No, whatever Sinshei wanted, they would hear it out, if only in hopes of avoiding a battle they could not win.

  “I see your loyalties have shifted,” Sinshei said to Keles. Her brother’s blood dripped down her face and neck. “I suppose I should have anticipated as much. Do not consider me bitter. There is much to celebrate about tonight’s outcome.” She turned her attention to Cyrus. “It is you that gives me pause.”

  “It breaks my heart to know I am such an annoyance.”

  “Beyond measure. I do not understand you, and I cannot predict you. I did not think you one to reason with, yet I discover you are the long-dead prince. I made a promise to Keles, with her as the rightful queen. Will you challenge that, Cyrus? Or will you show us both a measure of trust and honor the deal?”

  “You ask for trust after ordering Keles to take my life?” Cyrus asked.

  “My brother lies dead before me, and the title of Heir-Incarnate is now mine by right. Let this be the end of our hostilities. No more assassinations. Let me sleep without fear of the Vagrant killing my loyal magistrates. Let the inheritance ritual progress unimpeded. Give Thanet peace.”

  “And in return?”

  “I thought it obvious? At my command, the Everlorn Empire will retreat from your island. I will give you back your rule, for you two to divide as you see fit. Make peace with me, be my ally, and I shall give you the freedom you so desperately fight for.”

  “We seek to be no puppet state,” Keles warned.

  “And you will not be one. You will be completely free, with a promise written into law that we shall forever respect your independence in repayment for the sacrifices you have made.”

  Cyrus caught Soma smirking, and it set doubt to squirming inside his belly.

  “You could be lying,” he said.

  “Be reasonable, Vagrant. I offer you a tiny, inconsequential island, and in return I become goddess of an empire. Why would I lie for so little, when I have so much to gain?”

  Cyrus didn’t know, but neither did he trust her. He glanced at Keles, seeking her own opinion on the matter. She lowered her head and voice.

  “We cannot win a war against the full might of the empire,” she said. “Sinshei is the one person who can give us our freedom.”

  Freedom, granted by the conquerors. Cyrus loathed it with every fiber of his being… but what other choice did they have?

  “I shall set aside my blades, for now,” he said. “I want an end to this bloodshed, I want our gods returned, and I want you departed from our island. If you can deliver us all three, then consider us temporary allies.”

  Sinshei clasped her hands together and bowed low, a sign of respect he’d never seen her deliver before to anyone other than her brother.

  “Turbulent times are not yet finished, but my ascension approaches. I am a woman of my word, and under my care, the Everlorn Empire shall become better than it ever was. Farewell, to the both of you. I have much to do if I am to clean up my brother’s mess.”

  Soma lingered behind after she left. His eyes swept the vault, then settled on the broken altar. His amused expression faded into unexpected solemnity.

  “There are lessons here,” he said. “If you are willing to heed them.”

  The paragon exited into the dark corridor. Cyrus breathed out a sigh of relief. The skull faded from his face, becoming flesh in an instant. He pretended not to notice how empty it left him feeling, how naked and weak. Instead he gave Keles a tired smile.

  “We did it,” he said.

  Keles looked past him, to the empty armor of her uncle.

  “We did.”

  Heavy footsteps from down the hall, coupled with familiar shouts, brought a smile to Cyrus face.

  “Here!” he shouted, his voice carrying. The footsteps neared. Arn was the first to find them, Stasia at his heels. They entered the vault with their eyes wide at the sight of wealth and spilled blood.

  “Are you well?” the big man asked, huffing and puffing from the run.

  “As can be,” Cyrus said, and he accepted a quick embrace. “The Heir-Incarnate is dead.”

  “Dead?” Stasia asked, slowing from a jog. “Are you certain?”

  Cyrus pointed at the head, earning massive cheers from the both of them.

  “Pretty certain.”

  Mari arrived moments later, her excited grumbles translated by her word-lace.

  “Thank every god and goddess you’re safe!” she said, flinging her paws onto either side of Cyrus’s shoulders. He hugged her back, and scratched at her head as if she were just an oversized kitten. Mari nipped at his fingers, but she was laughing, and he needed no word-lace to know that.

  “So are things… are they good now?” Arn asked, pointedly glancing at Keles, who had remained silent and separate from the others. Cyrus smiled at her. He saw her eyes twinkle, a bit of her own smile hidden behind the fire-colored crystal of her mask.

  “I think they might be,” he said, and explained to the others what had happened within the vault, and how Sinshei had slain the Heir-Incarnate when he attempted to flee. When finished, he returned to the vault and lifted Galvanis’s head by the hair. Now that it was perfectly still from death, it looked disturbingly similar to some of the statues that filled the vault.

  He forced back a shiver. A plan was forming in his mind, one that felt just right the moment it occurred to him.

  “I’ve an idea,” he said, and turned to Mari. “We’ll need to act fast, and I’ll need your help in particular.”

  “For what?” she asked.

  Cyrus glanced at the head, and then to Keles.

  “To put things as they always should have been.”

  CHAPTER 50

  ESHIEL

  Eshiel stood with his nine most faithful, gathered together in a circle and wearing matching brown robes. They blocked much of the slender road leading toward the northernmost portion of the harbor, not that there was much traffic to block. The city was crackling with tension, and most people with good sense were staying home.

  And then there were those like Eshiel and his faithful, with an aim to cause mischief.

  “I trust you nine with my life,” he told them. They were young men and women brimming with faith and laden with emotional scars from seeing their beloved Lycaena slain. Unlike the others of his faithful that Eshiel ordered to stay hidden and locked in prayer, these nine were born and raised in Vallessau. They had not seen Eshiel’s failed attempts at resurrecting the Butterfly goddess, nor her subsequent death. In a way, they were pure, exactly as he needed them to be.