“You are a prince, Thanet your kingdom, and her people your wards. What price is too high for your vengeance, or their freedom?” He lurched to his feet, grabbed the door handle, and shoved it open a foot. Cold wind swirled into the mansion, and the distant patter of rain took on a starker, clearer quality.

“There is your escape if you believe that price beyond what you can pay. The life awaiting you is of a vagabond in hiding. At best, you will accomplish nothing beyond your own survival. At worst, you will be captured and executed. I will not deny you the choice. I do not want a prisoner. I have no need of a slave. I want a weapon. I want a god of death the empire one day fears. Is that you?”

Thorda put a hand on Cyrus’s shoulder. Despite the hardness of his words, his touch was gentle and comforting.

“I asked you this when I first rescued you, but that was cruel of me to make such a demand when you were still vulnerable and confused. You were in ignorance of the task before you, and of the trials your mind and body must endure. So I give you that choice now. May you have pleasant nights, Cyrus Lythan, be they under the roof of this mansion or in the rain-soaked hills beyond.”

The older man climbed the stairs and disappeared around the corner. Cyrus watched him go, then turned. He stared at the open door. Rain fell, lit by the faint shred of moonlight capable of piercing the clouds. His panic returned. His heart thundered like the storm. He thought of waking the next morning, and the morning after, and the one after that, each time enduring the training, the bruises, and the exhaustion. Not for days. Not for weeks. Years.

Without realizing he’d made a decision, he burst out the door and into the night. He ran across the gravel path leading toward the dirt road at the far end of the property. He ran, his thin clothes no protection from the rain and the cold and the chill seeping into his bones. He ran until his weary legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees. The gate to the property was within reach. He could touch its bars if he wished.

Cyrus crumpled into himself, elbows pushing into his stomach and his hands balled into fists. Something sharp and jagged cut loose from the center of him, and it tore out his throat. Amid that downpour, he howled. Let the raindrops drown the two words he repeated, two words that defined the paralysis crippling him. Let only the storm clouds hear his confession.

“I can’t,” he screamed. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”