It didn’t matter how the thought of murdering his former captors put a pleasure in his heart so powerful it terrified him. It didn’t matter that every single shred of him pleaded incessantly to flee unknown into the country night. At least here, he had a purpose. He had someone to provide him with a means for revenge. But to train under Thorda, to become someone new and entirely different than the boy who had suffered two long years of imprisonment… could he even do it? Was it even possible to become so ruthless a killer? His foes were paragons, elite warriors who slew gods. How could he ever compare?

Too frightened to stay, too frightened to leave. The rain fell. The mud gathered beneath his knees.

Never give in to your anger, his parents had told him, but Thorda was right. They were dead. Anger was all Cyrus had. Anger, and revenge. He could run from neither, no matter how far his feet carried him. There was no distance he could cross that would prevent the burning ships from following in his wake. Better to hold out hope for something better. Better a meaningful death over a shameful life in hiding.

Cyrus rose from the mud. He walked the gravel path to the mansion entrance. It was a black specter upon a hill, and instilled none of the same awe or curiosity as when he’d first ridden the carriage to its steps. He slipped into the main foyer, dripping wet and caked with dirt.

Again someone waited for him in the shadows. But instead of Thorda, it was Stasia Ahlai leaning against the stairway banister. She held a folded towel in one hand and a tin cup candle in the other. She wore a loose bed shirt and leggings quite similar to his own, but if she was recently roused from sleep, she seemed remarkably alert. The woman tossed him the towel as he shut the door.

“I knew you would come back,” Stasia said. She shot him a crooked smile that seemed all the more mischievous in the poor lighting. “Even when you ran out into the rain, I knew.”

“How?” Cyrus asked softly. He padded his face dry as an excuse not to look at her. It seemed her red eyes were glowing embers in the faint candlelight.

“Because I know what it’s like to have nothing left. To know that, no matter where you run, you will never have a home, not the one you want. Not the one that was stolen from you. To be honest, I’d have thought less of you if you didn’t doubt my father. It’s good you’re willing to question your superiors.”

Cyrus couldn’t tell if she was being honest, or merely trying to cheer him up, but he appreciated it nonetheless. He wiped what mud he could off his clothes and onto the towel.