The Bladed Faith

Book 1: Vagrant Gods

by David Dalglish, Imani Parks

Genres: Dark Fantasy

Synopsis

A usurped prince prepares to take up the mantle of a deadly assassin and reclaim his kingdom, his people, and his slain gods in this epic fantasy from a USA Today bestselling author.

Cyrus was only twelve years old when his gods were slain, his country invaded, and his parents—the king and queen—beheaded in front of him. Held prisoner in the invader's court for years, Cyrus is suddenly given a chance to escape and claim his revenge when a mysterious group of revolutionaries comes looking for a figurehead. They need a hero to strike fear into the hearts of the imperial and to inspire and unite the people. They need someone to take up the skull mask and swords and to become the legendary "Vagrant"—an unparalleled hero and assassin of otherworldly skill. 

But all is not as it seems. Creating the illusion of a hero is the work of many, and Cyrus will soon discover the true price of his vengeance.

Release date: April 5, 2022

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 520

Sample

All his life, Cyrus Lythan had been told his parents’ armada was the greatest in the world, unmatched by any fleet from the mainland continent of Gadir. It was the pride of his family, the jewel of the island kingdom of Thanet. Standing at the edge of the castle balcony, his hands white-knuckling the balustrade, Cyrus watched their ships burn and knew it for a lie.

“Their surprise will only gain them so much,” said Rayan. The older man and dearest family friend stood beside Cyrus as the fires spread across the docks. “Hold faith. Our gods will protect us.”

Smoke blotted out the harbor, but along the edges of the billowing black he saw the empire’s ships firing flaming spears from ballistae mounted to their decks. Thanet’s boats could not counter such power with their meager archers, not even if they had fought on equal numbers. Those numbers, however, were far from equal. Thanet’s vaunted armada had counted fifty ships in total, though only thirty had been in the vicinity of Vallessau when two hundred imperial ships emerged from the morning fog, their hulls painted black and their gray sails marked with two red hands clenched in prayer.

“Shouldn’t you be down there with the rest of the paladins?” Cyrus asked. “Or are you too old for battle?”

The man’s white plate rattled as he crossed his arms. He was a paladin of Lycaena, a holy warrior who’d dedicated his life to one of Thanet’s two gods. It was she and Endarius whom the island now relied upon to withstand the coming invasion. The castle was set upon the tallest hill in the city of Vallessau, protected by a wide outer wall that circled the base of its foundational hill. Thanet’s soldiers massed along the outer wall, their padded leather armor seeming woefully inadequate. Paladins of the two gods gathered in the courtyard between the outer wall and the castle itself. Despite there being less than sixty, the sight of them gave Cyrus hope. The finely polished weapons of those men and women shone brightly, and the morning light reflected off their armor, be it the gilded chain of Endarius’s paladins or the white plate of Lycaena’s. As for the god and goddess, they both waited inside the castle.

“You are brave to call me old when you yourself are not yet a man,” Rayan said. His skin was as dark as his hair was white, and when he smiled, it stretched his smartly trimmed beard. That smile was both heartfelt and fleeting. “His Highness ordered me to protect you.”

Cyrus tried to remain optimistic. He tried to hold faith in the divine beings pledged to protect Thanet. A seemingly endless tide of soldiers disembarking from the ships and marching the main thoroughfare toward the outer castle walls broke that faith.

“Tell me, Rayan, if the walls fall and our gods die, how will you protect me?”

Rayan looked to the distant congregation of his fellow paladins of Lycaena at the outer gate, and his thoughts clearly echoed Cyrus’s.

“Poorly,” he said. “Stay here, and pray for us all. We will need every bit of help this cruel world can muster.”

The paladin exited the balcony. The heavy thud of the shutting door quickened Cyrus’s pulse, and he swallowed down his lingering fear. A cowardly part of him shouted to find somewhere in the castle to bury his head and hide. Stubborn pride kept his feet firmly in place. He was the fourteen-year-old Prince of Thanet, and he would bear witness to the fate of his kingdom.

The assault began with the arrival of the ladders, dozens of thick planks of wood with metal hooks bolted onto their tops so they could lock tightly onto the walls. The defenders rushed to shove them off, but the empire’s crossbowmen punished them with volley after volley. Swords clashed, and though the empire’s losses were heavy, nothing slowed the ascent of the invaders. What started as a few scattered soldiers fighting atop the walls became a mile-long battlefield. It did not take long before the gray tunics overwhelmed the blue tabards of Vallessau.

Next came the battering ram. How the enemy had built it in such short a time baffled Cyrus, but there was no denying its steady hammering on the opposite side of the outer gate. Even the intervals were maddeningly consistent. Every four seconds, the gate would rattle, the wood would crack, and the imperial army grew that much closer to flooding into the courtyard.

“It doesn’t matter,” Cyrus whispered to himself. “The gods protect us. The gods will save us.”

The fight along the walls was growing thicker, with more ladders managing to stay upright with every passing moment. Cyrus could spare no glance in their direction, for with one last shuddering blast, the battering ram knocked open the outer gate. The invading army flooded through, and should have easily overrun the vastly outnumbered defenders, but at long last, the castle doors opened and Thanet’s divine made their presence known.

The goddess Lycaena fluttered above an accompaniment of her priests. Her skin was black as midnight, her eyes brilliant rainbows of ever-shifting color. Long, flowing silk cascaded down from her arms and waist, its hue a brilliant orange that transitioned to yellow, green, and blue depending on the ruffle of the fabric. The dress billowed outward in all directions, and no matter how hard Cyrus looked, he couldn’t tell where the fabric ended and the goddess’s enormous wings began. She held a rod topped with an enormous ruby in her left hand; in the right, a golden harp whose strings shimmered all colors of the visible spectrum. Cyrus’s heart ached at the sight of her. He’d witnessed Lycaena’s physical form only a few times in his life, and each left him breathless and in awe.

“Be gone, locusts of a foreign land,” Lycaena decreed. She did not shout, nor raise her voice, but all the city heard her words. “We will not break before a wave of hate and steel.”

Fire lashed from the ruby atop her rod in a conical torrent that filled the broken gateway. The screams of the dying combined into a singular wail. The other god of Thanet, Endarius the Lion, charged into the ashen heap left in her attack’s wake. His fur was gold, his claws obsidian, his mane a brilliant collection of feathers that ran the full gamut of the rainbow. Wings stretched from his back, the feathers there several feet long and shifting from a crimson red along the base to pale white at the tip. Those wings beat with his every stride, adding to his speed and power.

Endarius’s paladins joined him in his charge. They did not wield swords and shields like their Lycaenan counterparts, nor did they share their long cloaks of interlocking colors resembling stained glass. Instead their gilded armor bore necklaces of fangs across their arms, and they wielded twin jagged swords to better support their ferocity. They bellowed as they ran, their version of a prayer, and they tore into the ranks of the invaders, the spray of blood and breaking of bones their worship.

In those first few minutes, Cyrus truly believed victory would be theirs. Thanet had never been conquered in all her history. Lycaena and Endarius protected their beloved people. The two divine beings rewarded their faithful subjects with safety and guidance. And as the imperial soldiers rushed through the gate with their swords and spears, the gods filled the courtyard with fire and blood. From such a height, Cyrus could only guess at the identities of the individual defenders, but he swore he saw Rayan fighting alongside his goddess, his sword lit with holy light as he kept his beloved deity safe with his rainbow shield.

You burned our fleets, Cyrus thought, and a vengeful thrill shot through him. But we’ll crush your armies. You’ll never return, never, not after this defeat.

The arrival of the twelve tempered his joy. The men appeared remarkably similar to Thanet’s paladins, bearing thick golden platemail and wielding much larger weapons adorned with decorative hilts and handles. Unlike the rest of the imperial army, they did not wear gray tabards but instead colorful tunics and cloaks bearing differing animals. The twelve pushed through the blasted gate, flanked on either side by a contingent of soldiers. They showed no fear of the two divine beings leading the slaughter. They charged into the thick of things without hesitation, their shields held high and their weapons gleaming.

Cyrus knew little of the Everlorn Empire. Journey to the mainland took several months by boat, and its ruling emperor, arrogantly named the God-Incarnate, had issued an embargo upon Thanet lasting centuries. The empire worshiped and acknowledged no gods but their emperor, and claimed faith in him allowed humanity to transcend mortal limits. Seeing those twelve fight, Cyrus understood that belief for the first time in his life. Those twelve… they couldn’t be human. Whatever they were, it was monstrous, it was impossible, and it was beyond even what Thanet’s paladins could withstand.

God and invader clashed, and somehow these horrifying twelve endured the wrath of the immortal beings. Their armor held against fire and claw. Their weapons punched through armor as if it were glass. Soldiers and paladins from both sides attempted to intervene, but they were flies buzzing about fighting bulls. Each movement, each strike of an invader’s sword or swipe of Endarius’s paw, claimed the lives of foes with almost incidental ease. The battlefield ascended beyond the mortal, and these elite, these invading monsters, defied all reason as they stood their ground against Thanet’s gods.

“No,” Cyrus whispered. “It’s not possible.”

Endarius clenched his teeth about the long blade of one of the invaders, yet could not crunch through the metal. His foe ripped it free, and a crossbow brigade unleashed dozens of bolts to pelt the Lion as he danced away. The arrowheads couldn’t find purchase, but they marked little black welts akin to bruises and frayed the edges of Endarius’s increasingly ragged wings.

“This isn’t right,” Cyrus said. The battle had started so grand, yet now the defenders were scattered, the walls overrun, and the paladins struggling to maintain their attacks against wave after wave of soldiers coming through the broken gate. In the center of it all raged gods and the inhuman elite, and the world shook from their wrath. Thanet’s troops attempted to seal off the wall entrance and isolate the battle against the gods. It briefly worked, at least until the men and women in red robes took to the front of enemy lines. Their lack of weapons and armor confused Cyrus at first, but then they lifted their hands in prayer. Golden weapons blistering with light burst into existence, hovering in the air and wielded by invisible hands. The weapons tore through the soldiers’ ranks, the defense faltered, and Cyrus’s last hope withered. What horrid power did these invaders command?

Time lost meaning. Blood flowed, bodies fell, the armies meeting and striking and dying with seemingly nihilistic determination. A spear-wielding member of those elite twelve leaped into the air, a single lunge of his legs carrying him dozens of feet heavenward. Lycaena was not prepared, and when the spear lodged deep into her side, her scream echoed for miles. It was right then, hearing that scream, that Cyrus knew his kingdom was lost.

“How dare you!” Endarius roared. Though one invader smashed a hammer into the Lion’s side, and another knocked loose a fang from his jaw, the god cared only for the wound suffered by the Butterfly goddess. Two mighty beats of his wings carried him into the air, where his teeth closed about the elite still clinging to the embedded spear. All three crashed to the ground, but it was the invader who suffered most. Endarius crushed him in his jaws, punching through the man’s armor, smashing bones, and spilling blood upon a silver tongue.

A casual flick of Endarius’s neck tossed the body aside, but that was merely one of twelve. Eleven more remained, and they closed the space with calm, steady precision. No soldiers attempted to fill the gap, for what battles remained were scattered and chaotic. There was too much blood, too much death, and above it all, like a sick backdrop in the world’s cruelest painting, rose the billowing smoke of Thanet’s burning fleet.

“Flee from here!” Endarius bellowed as a bleeding Lycaena fluttered higher into the air.

“Only if you come with me,” the goddess urged, but the Lion would not be moved. He prepared to pounce and bared his obsidian teeth.

“For the lives of the faithful,” Endarius roared. His wings spread wide, unbridled power crackling like lightning across the feathers.

Cyrus dropped to his knees and clutched the side of the balustrade. He could feel it on his skin. He could smell it in the air. The overwhelming danger. The growing fury of a god who could never imagine defeat.

“Strike me with your blades,” the Lion mocked the remaining eleven. “Come die as the vermin you are.”

They were happy to oblige. The eleven clashed with the god in a coordinated effort, their swords, axes, and spears tearing into his golden flesh. The god could not avoid them, could not win, only buy time for Lycaena’s escape. No matter how badly Cyrus pleaded under his breath for the Lion to flee, he would not. Endarius had been, above all, a stubborn god.

A blue-armored elite was the one to strike the killing blow. A spear pierced through Endarius’s eye and sank to the hilt. His fur rumbled, his dying roar shook the land, and then the Lion’s body split in half. A maelstrom of stars tore free of his body like floodwaters released from a dam. Whatever otherworldly essence comprised the existence of a god burned through the eleven like a swirling, rainbow fire before rolling outward in a great flare of blinding light. Cyrus crouched down and screamed. The death of something so beautiful, so noble and inseparably linked to Thanet’s identity, shook him in a way he could not fathom.

At last the noise and light faded from the suddenly quiet battlefield. Two of the eleven elites died from the eruption of divine energy, their armor melted to their bodies as they lay upon the cobblestone path leading from the main gate to the castle entrance. Nothing remained of Endarius’s body, for it had dissolved into light and crystal and floated away like scattered dust. Lycaena was long gone, having taken to the skies during the divine explosion. The paladins and priests of both gods likewise fled. A few entered the castle before it locked its gates, while the rest took to the distant portions of the outer wall not yet besieged by the invaders, seeking stairs and ladders that might allow them to escape out into Vallessau.

The soldiers of the Everlorn Empire filled the courtyard to face what was left of Thanet’s defenses. Cyrus guessed maybe a dozen archers, and twice that in armed soldiers, remained inside the castle. Opposing thoughts rattled inside his head. What to do. Where to go. None of it seemed to matter. His mind couldn’t process the shock. Last night he’d gone to bed having heard only rumors of imperial ships sailing the area. No one had known it was a full-scale invasion. No one had known Thanet’s navy would fall in a single afternoon, and the capital along with it.

The nine remaining imperial elites gathered, joined by the men and women in red robes who Cyrus assumed to be some manner of priest. One of the nine trudged to the front and stood before the locked gateway. He showed no fear of an archer’s arrow, which wasn’t surprising given the enormous gray slab of steel he carried as his shield. His face was hidden underneath a gigantic bull helmet with horns that stretched a full foot to either side of his head. He said something in his imperial tongue, and then one of the priests came forward holding a blue medallion. The gigantic man took it, slipped it over his neck, and then addressed the castle.

“I am Imperator Magus of Eldrid!” the man shouted, and though his lips moved wrong, there was no doubt that he somehow spoke the native Thanese language. “Paragon of Shields, servant of the Uplifted Church, and faithful child of the God-Incarnate. I command this conquest. My word is law, and so shall it be until this island bends its knee and accepts the wisdom of the Everlorn Empire. I say this not out of pride, but so you may understand that none challenge my word. Should I make a promise, I shall keep it, even unto the breaking of the world.”

Magus drew a sword from his waist and lifted it high above him. He spoke again, the blue medallion flaring with light at his every word.

“I make you one offer, and it shall not be amended nor changed. Bring me the royal family who call this castle home. Cast them to the dirt at my feet, and I shall spare the lives of every single man, woman, and child within your walls. But if you will not…”

The Imperator lowered his blade.

“Then I shall execute every last one of you, so that only vermin remain to walk your halls.”

And with that, silence followed, but that silence was like the held breath between seeing a flash of lightning and feeling its thunder rumble against your bones. Shouts soon erupted within the castle, scattered at first, then numerous. Screams. Steel striking steel.

Mother! Father! Cyrus’s parents were both on a lower floor, watching the battle unfold from the castle windows. That their servants and soldiers would so easily turn upon them seemed unthinkable, but the sounds of battle were undeniable. Cyrus turned to the door to the balcony, still slightly ajar from when Rayan left.

“Oh no,” he whispered, and then broke into a sprint. The door wasn’t lockable, not from the outside, but if he could wedge it closed with something, even brace it with his weight…

The door opened right as he arrived, the wood ramming hard enough into him that he feared it might break his shoulder. Cyrus fell and rolled across the white stone, biting down a cry as his elbow and knees bruised. When he staggered to his feet, he found one of his guard captains, a woman named Nessa, blocking the doorway with her sword and shield drawn.

“I’m sorry, Cyrus,” the woman said. “Maybe they’ll spare you like they promised.”

“You’re a traitor.”

“You saw it, prince. Endarius is dead. They’re killing gods. What hope do we have? Now stand up. I will drag you if I must.”

Nessa suddenly jerked forward, her jaw opening and closing in a noiseless death scream. When she collapsed, Rayan stood over her body. Blood soaked his white armor and stained his flowing cloak. His hand outstretched for Cyrus to take.

“Come,” Rayan said. “We have little time.”

They ran through the hall to the stairs. Cyrus pretended not to see the bodies strewn across the blue carpet. Some were soldiers. Some were servants. The king and queen still lived, yet the people of Thanet were already tearing one another apart. Was this how quickly their nation would fall?

Once at the bottom of the stairs, Rayan guided him through rooms and ducked along slender servant corridors hidden behind curtains. During their flight, treacherous Thanet soldiers ordered them to halt twice, and twice Rayan cut them down with an expert swing of his sword. Cyrus stepped over their bodies without truly seeing them. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. The entire world seemed unreal, a cruel dream no amount of biting his tongue allowed him to awake from.

Within minutes they were running down a lengthy corridor that connected a portion of the western wall to the castle proper. The corridor ran parallel to the courtyard, and at the first door they passed, Cyrus spotted the enormous gathering of soldiers surrounding Magus of Eldrid.

“I had feared the worst,” Magus shouted as Cyrus continued. “Come before me, and kneel. I would hear your names.”

Cyrus skidded to a halt at the next doorway. He pressed his chest against the cold stone and peered around the edge. It couldn’t be. His parents, they were meant to escape like him. They had their own royal guard. Their own protectors. Yet there they stood before the Imperator, flanked on either side by blood-soaked traitors. His father was the first to bow his head and address their conqueror. With each proclamation, the empire’s soldiers cheered and clattered their swords against their shields.

“Cleon Lythan,” said his father. “King of Thanet.”

“Berniss Lythan,” said his mother. “Queen of Thanet.”

Cyrus’s stomach twisted into acidic knots. How could the world turn so dark and cruel within the span of a single day? Magus lifted his shield and slammed it back down hard enough to crack a full foot-deep groove into the stone and wedge his shield permanently upright. With only his sword swinging in his relaxed grip, he approached the pair.

“Cleon and Berniss,” he said. “We are not ignorant of your kingdom and its history. Where is your son? The young man by the name of Cyrus?”

“I suspect he fled,” Cleon said. The courtyard had grown deathly quiet. “Please, it was not by our order. We don’t know where Cyrus has gone.”

The Imperator removed his bull helmet. Cyrus had expected more of a monster, but Magus seemed remarkably human, with deeply tanned skin, silver eyes, and a magnificent smile. His long black hair cascaded down either side of his face as he spoke.

“I requested the entire royal line. Was I not clear? Did my word-lace mistranslate?”

“No,” Berniss said. “Please, we looked, we did.”

The man shook his head.

“Lies, and more lies,” he said. “Do you stall for his safety? Feign at ignorance, as if your boy stands a chance of survival once this castle falls?”

Cyrus took a step, one single step out the doorway toward his parents, before Rayan grabbed him by his neck.

“We must escape while there is still time,” the paladin whispered. Cyrus resisted his pull to safety. He would watch this. He must.

“I gave my word,” Magus continued once it was clear neither would offer up Cyrus’s location. “A clear word, and a true promise. Accept this blood as a sacrifice to your memory. May it sear across your conscience in the eternal lands beyond.”

Cyrus knew fleeing with Rayan was the wiser decision. He knew it was what his parents wanted. But it seemed so simple to Cyrus, so obvious what the right course of action must be. He turned away from the door, pretending to go with the paladin. The moment Rayan’s hand released from his neck, Cyrus shoved the man’s chest, separating them. A heartbeat later he was out the door, legs and arms flailing as he willed his body to run faster. The distance between them felt like miles. His voice sounded quiet, insignificant, but he screamed it nonetheless.

“I’m here!” It didn’t matter if he put his own life at risk. He wouldn’t leave his family behind. He wouldn’t let them die for his sake. He ran, crossing the green grass of the courtyard between him and the gathered soldiers. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m—”

Magus swung once for the both of them. His sword passed through blood and bone to halt upon the white brick. Only Cyrus’s mother’s injuries weren’t instantly lethal, for the sword cut across her arm and waist instead of cleaving her in half. Her anguished scream pierced the courtyard. Her pain ripped daggers through Cyrus’s horror-locked mind. Magus, however, twirled his sword in his fingers and shook his head with disappointment.

“Why do I bother?” he said as he cut the head from Berniss’s shoulders. “It’s always easier to rebuild from nothing.”

Cyrus couldn’t banish the sight. He couldn’t stop seeing that killing stroke. His legs weakened, limbs becoming wobbling jelly that could not support him. His whole family, gone. Slain. Bleeding upon the courtyard stones with their blood pooling into the groove Magus had carved with his shield. Crossbow bolts hammered into the men and women who had turned traitor and brought the royal family out in custody. No reward for their betrayal. Only death.

Too late, he thought. Too late, too late, he ran too late, revealed himself too late. A scream ripped out of Cyrus’s chest. No words, just a heartbroken protest against the brutality of the day and the terror sweeping through him as the ground seemed to shake at the approach of the Paragon of Shields. Too late, he had gained the attention of the monster from the boats. Too late to save his parents. Too late to mean anything but a cruel death. Cyrus prayed he would meet his father and mother on the rolling green fields of Endarius’s paradise. Face wet with tears, he stared up at Magus and slowly climbed to his feet. He would die meeting the gaze of his executioner; this he swore. Not on his knees. Not begging for his life.

The golden-armored paragon grabbed Cyrus by the throat and lifted him into the air. Instinct had Cyrus clutching at the heavy gauntlet. How easily he carried him. As if he were nothing. Just a ghost. Magus, this man, this monster, towered above the other soldiers come to join him. Cyrus stared into the man’s silver eyes and promised vengeance, even if it meant coming back as a spirit. Not even the grave would deny him his due.

“Cyrus?” Magus asked him. The necklace at his throat shimmered with pale blue light. “Prince Cyrus Lythan?”

Cyrus sucked in a shallow breath as the gauntlet loosened.

“I am,” he said. “Now do it, bastard. I’m not scared.”

One of the soldiers beside Magus asked a question in his foreign tongue. Magus thought for a moment and then shook his head. He tossed Cyrus to the stone, dropping him beside the bodies. Cyrus tried not to look. He tried to not let the blood and bone and spilled innards of his beloved parents sear into his memory for the rest of his life, however long or short it might be. He failed.

“Lock him in his room,” Magus said. “We have much to do to prepare this wretched island, and too few years to do it. And one thing I’ve learned is that when it comes to keeping a populace in line, well…”

His giant boot settled atop Cyrus’s chest, grinding him into the stone, smearing him upon the blood of his slain parents.

“It never hurts to have a hostage.”

Mari slid a word-lace around her neck in preparation for a meandering walk through the conquered city of Vallessau. The imperial tongue was still new to the island, and though she had learned much of Thanet’s native language over the past few months she’d lived there, she found it much easier to rely on the word-lace’s magic.

“Be careful out there,” said Mari’s older sister, Stasia. Sweat soaked Stasia’s body, which was naked from the waist up except for a tightly wound strip of cloth tied across her chest. The two were in what had been dubbed the “training room” of their two-story house. The floor was heavily carpeted. Iron rods of various weights rested on hooks and shelves. A massive triple-wrapped sack of white sand from the nearby beach hung from the ceiling, and Stasia thundered her bare fists into it with a staccato rhythm.

“I’m always careful,” Mari said. She removed a silken green band from her pocket and began tying her long brown hair into a tail. Mari was dressed opposite to her older sister, in a long, loose black dress over a thick chemise, a shawl for her head and neck, and long wool stockings. Whereas Stasia was more muscle than human, Mari would graciously consider herself plump.

“It doesn’t mean I can’t worry,” Stasia said. She weaved back and forth to dodge imaginary punches. Mari knew she’d be at that sack of sand for at least an hour, beating it into submission. Her older sister always worked out when she knew battle approached. It was how she kept her nerves at bay. “I’m going to be at the front lines tomorrow, and I’d like you there with me.”

“I’m trying,” Mari insisted, as if she hadn’t spent every day of the past months doing exactly that.

“Try harder.”

“I’m communing with a god, Stasia. Either Endarius accepts my offer, or he doesn’t.”

Stasia flashed one of her cocky smiles that only an older sister could get away with.

“Don’t give him a choice. You’re Mari Ahlai. What’s a dead lion compared to my little sister?”

“Stubborn, is what he is,” Mari said. “But I’m attending a new ritual later today, so maybe he’ll finally give me a listen.”

Stasia wished her well and then returned to her training. Mari stepped out to the streets of Vallessau. If she was to hear the whispers of Thanet’s fallen god, she needed to be immersed in its people, its back alleys, and its quiet dealings. She had a name and an image to focus upon, and let it direct her wandering steps.

“Endarius,” she whispered as she closed her eyes while standing before a tavern not yet ready to open for the new day. The wooden sign sporting the tavern’s name was scuffed beyond repair, but she saw the faintest hints of a red-and-white feather painted into a chipped corner. “You’re lurking, I feel it, but where?”

Two years had passed since the Everlorn Empire conquered the island nation of Thanet. During those bloody years, the Uplifted Church and its priests and magistrates had scrubbed every reference to its gods from the land. To speak Lycaena’s name was criminal. To bear an image of the feathered lion invited whippings, and you risked far worse if you carried any of the now-banned religious tracts. But no matter how hard the church tried, the people remembered. The imperials could not replace the old gods, not immediately. Given time, and the birth of new generations, the decay would sink in. The