What else could it be? It swallowed him each day. It choked his stomach. He felt sick, rarely ate, and every night came the nightmares. He saw the burning ships. He heard the ringing of metal, heard the echoing scream of his mother, cut down but not yet dead. Screaming in pain. Magus, raising the sword. He didn’t want to see it, he didn’t want to relive it, and surely that meant he was a coward, he was afraid, he was a broken child…

You’re not scared.

The moment he dared think it, it was like tearing a hole in a dam. The primal cry he could never voice, not once for fear of servants and soldiers loyal to the Usurper King, roared within his skull. But there were no conquerors here. His emotions came bursting out, his voice challenging the rainswept quiet of the night.

“Anger,” he screamed. “They took everything from me! My… my mom, my dad, I saw it. I watched it. I can’t sleep. Barely eat. All I want is to hurt Gordian, hurt Magus, hurt everyone responsible.”

“Good,” his master said. “Anger is good. It is useful.”

Cyrus’s entire body shook as if he had caught a fever. How could that be true? How could this consuming fury be anything other than a curse?

“My mother, she said anger is a fire,” he said, trying to make sense of things. If only he could remember what wisdom his parents offered him before their murders. “And if I let it, it would burn me up and leave me hollow.”

“Your mother was wise,” Thorda said. “And your mother is dead.”

Cyrus swung a fist for his master’s face. The older man barely moved, and he didn’t even blink. His left hand caught Cyrus’s wrist, and he pulled them closer together, forcing their gazes to meet. Those red eyes, glinting in the candlelight, became Cyrus’s whole world.

“But she was right,” his master said, his voice suddenly intense. “Anger is a fire, it does destroy, but it can do so much more. Fire fuels my forges. It melts steel and crafts weapons. I do not want your anger ended. I want it to flare so brightly, it lights the entire island aflame. I want your fire to consume the banners of empire, to char the priests of the Uplifted Church, and to set free an entire nation. Do not deny it. Do not hold it back. Let that fire grow, Cyrus. Let it burn.”

Two years of submission. Two years of crying alone in his bedroom. Two years dreaming of a flame-swept harbor. Could this anger truly be enough? Cyrus yanked his hand free, and he staggered several steps backward when Thorda released it without a struggle.

“And if it leaves me hollow?” he asked.

The older man leaned back in his chair. His face was as hard as any piece of ore he smelted.