Cyrus was alone in the dark room he had chosen. The red hue of fire was only a small candle softly burning within its glass jar on his nightstand. He should go back to bed, he knew. Tomorrow would be another long day of training, and he needed the rest. Sleep, however, was not coming. He lay there, eyes wide as he stared at the ceiling. Faint shadows danced from the light of his candle. It was raining, he realized belatedly. Soft pings hit the glass of his window. He’d not even noticed. The rain… He’d thought it the crackling fire of burning ships, the sound so normal to him, so constant, it receded into the background.

A groan slipped out of his lips. Everything hurt. His limbs were wood. His neck ached. His right knee in particular pulsed with pain from when Thorda had struck it at the start of practice. Blisters wept from across his palms and between his thumbs and forefingers. Nothing in the world sounded better than sleep, yet he could not. His heart pounded. The muscles in his neck tightened, and breathing turned difficult. Panic. His entire body was locked in panic.

“Damn it.”

He flung the sheets off. He didn’t know where he was going, and he didn’t care. Every instinct said run, and so wearing only his soft bed shirt and bottoms, he slipped out into the main hall. The dream, the memories, they would not leave. His mother’s dying scream chased him down the green carpet that burned his bare feet. Candles flickered within their candelabras, lighting the hallway. He saw closed doors, and a distant staircase. Cyrus ran toward it, feet quietly thumping atop the carpet. He didn’t dare question why he ran, to where, or what from. Just down the stairs. Into the main foyer. To the front door. If he stopped for even a moment, he might realize where he was going, and what he was doing.

He might acknowledge he was a frightened coward, and that he was running to the front door to leave and never return.

A shadowed figure sat on a tall chair directly before the door, interrupting such plans. Cyrus skidded to a halt upon the tile. He couldn’t see his face, but Cyrus immediately knew who it was by the voice that quietly rumbled in greeting.

“Good evening,” Thorda said. “Trouble sleeping?”

Shame fought with Cyrus’s deep panic. His intense desire to run increased tenfold. No, not run. Escape.