Escape from what? he wondered. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. Shame and embarrassment warred within his head, and it paralyzed him. He wanted to answer, yet couldn’t, so he turned away. Maybe his master would be kind, say nothing, and let him retreat to his room. Maybe the dreams wouldn’t return. Maybe when the next day came, and the day after that, and the day after that, the training would not break him like it had that first day.

“Sorry,” he muttered, as close to an answer as he could give Thorda. He turned for the stairs, managing a mere three steps before Thorda’s words struck him and held him in place. In the quiet, they were a thunder, somehow given power by the wide space and empty darkness.

“Be still.”

Cyrus halted at the foot of the stairs. His jaw clenched so tightly shut, he feared he might crack his teeth, all to hold back the tears that were building up unwanted in his eyes.

“Yes, Thorda?” he asked, still not turning around.

“You will address me as ‘master,’ child. Now look at me.”

Child? He was sixteen, but perhaps “child” was fitting, given his behavior. Cyrus slowly spun on his heels. In that brief pause, he discovered Thorda had somehow lit a candle, and he set it beside his chair in a small tin carrier. His red eyes glinted within its glow. He said nothing, only gestured for Cyrus to come close. Cyrus did, his every step feeling like approaching an executioner. Such a foolish thought, but one he could not force out of his head. His master sized him up and down, his face so perfectly still, it was an unreadable mask.

“Kneel with me,” he said at last. “Close your eyes, and let us pray.”

“Pray to who?” Cyrus asked.

“To each of us our own.”

Thorda put his hands atop Cyrus’s shoulders, and he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. Cyrus smelled the forge on him, lingering sweat, a hint of coal, and worst of all, a forever stain of smoke. His attempt to focus, to pray, faltered.

“But I have no god to pray to,” he said. Visions flashed before his closed eyes. A spear piercing the Lion’s side. Daggers tearing into black flesh and ripping apart wings. “Lycaena… Endarius… they died.”

“Gods do not fade away in death, not like humans do. They can linger, their presence hovering about their faithful, eager to return should that faith remain strong enough across the years. But you need not pray if you do not wish. Think on your hurt, if you would, and allow me my own prayer.”