“How long will that take?” Cyrus asked. “Until I am ready?”

Thorda crossed his arms, and he did not soften the blow.

“Three days of solid training, one day at half measures for your body to recover. That will be the rhythm of your life.” He hesitated. “For the next few years.”

“Years?” he asked. Could he wait that long? Could Thanet? He wasn’t even through his first day, and already his muscles were raw and weak, and he could not make himself stand up. The wooden poles quivered in his touch. Thorda noticed, of course he noticed, but Cyrus was learning quickly the man was not one for soft words.

“There is no way to put this lightly, Cyrus, so I should speak it plain. You will face men and women older than you, with years if not decades more training. You will face paragons who have conquered more cities than you have fought battles. The gap between your foes and the skill you possess now is a gulf wider than the Crystal Sea.”

Cyrus leaned his forehead across his arms as he slumped farther.

“So it’s hopeless,” he said.

“It does not mean it is hopeless,” Thorda said. “It means you must try even harder. One day of your training will involve more than most soldiers experience in five. ‘Competence’ will be the dirt far beneath you as we drag you to the stars. We will push your mind and body to become something far greater than you thought possible. Through Stasia’s drills, and my training, you will achieve miracles. You must believe that, Cyrus, or all else means naught.”

His master knelt beside him. His callused hand cupped Cyrus’s cheek. Their eyes met.

“It will require extraordinary effort on your part. It means enduring trials that would break the weak-willed, and countless moments of finding the strength to drag yourself up from the dirt to try again. I will push you to the edge of your body’s limitations. Will you endure, Prince Lythan? Or will you break?”

Cyrus could not look away. It wasn’t only the honesty in the words that captivated him. In those eyes he saw something he himself desperately needed.

He saw hope.

“I’ll manage,” he said. “Somehow. I won’t let you and Stasia get the best of me, even if it kills me.”

A faint smile tugged at his master’s lips.

“Good. On your feet. We go again.”