Embers became flames became a roaring fire. Mari took a seat opposite Cyrus. The young man had set aside his book, and he slumped in the chair. He looked so tired, the poor thing. Even in the dim light she could spot a dozen new bruises blooming on his body, and his eyes were horribly bloodshot. It had been six months since Rayan’s test of his competence. That failure had clearly changed him. During this recent visit she’d watched him fling himself at his training like a man possessed. There was no denying the results, either. He was practically all muscle, and his sparring matches with Stasia were beautiful and savage in equal measure.

“Do you care to talk, or would you prefer I leave you to your reading?” she asked him. “There’s always time for another lesson.”

“I would be a poor student at this dismal an hour.”

Mari smiled at him. She had begun visiting the mansion every few weeks, a chance to both visit her father and spend time with Cyrus. Thorda, always uncomfortable when it came to spiritual matters, had requested she teach some rudimentary concepts and lessons from Gadir. The young man’s understanding, limited to Lycaena and Endarius, had left him woefully ignorant. And so she taught him of the various pantheons, some living, some lost to the empire’s expansion. Of gods who could change shapes, who looked like humans, who resembled wild animals so completely, they rarely communicated beyond chirps and growls. Cyrus, bright and curious, always listened and always learned.

“So I should leave you to your book then?” she asked.

“My hope in reading is that I’ll fall asleep during it, so please stay and talk away. You’re as comforting as a book, honestly.”

“I see someone’s been developing a silver tongue.”

“Don’t be mean,” he said, and blushed. “It’s way too late for that.”

The playful exchange did not hide how exhausted Cyrus looked.

“When was the last time you had a good night’s sleep?” she pressed. Cyrus tapped his lips.

“Let me think. The Everlorn Empire invaded, what, almost four years ago? So four years. Now I see that look on your face. Don’t worry. I’d say I’m quite due for a good night’s sleep, wouldn’t you?”

He was joking to avoid acknowledging how deeply seeded his trauma was. Four years, thought Mari. Four long years of nightmares and doubts and fears for his future. She knew it all too well.

“I was eight when we had to flee my home of Miquo,” she said. “I barely remember it, but I do remember waking up crying. It was a nightly ritual between me and Stasia. I’d cry, she’d leave her bed to come to mine, and then I’d listen to her sing until I fell back asleep.”