He sized the young man up. His face and arms were bruised, his hands blistered. His left wrist was wrapped in a splint. A lifetime of practice allowed Rayan to easily hide his worry with a warm, welcoming smile.

“How goes your training?” he asked. “I’d love to see what all Master Ahlai has you perform in a day.”

Stasia finished burying Clarissa in kisses, then gestured to her father.

“I’m done with him for the day, but I doubt you wanted to watch me and Cyrus run exercises for two hours anyway. I’m sure you’ll find Thorda’s training much more informative. You might even learn a few things yourself.”

Rayan did indeed learn two things within minutes of Thorda’s instruction. One, that the combined attention to detail and imparted skill were of incomparable value for Cyrus.

Two, that Thorda was an absolutely ruthless master.

“Try again,” the older man said as Cyrus crouched on his knees. He’d tried, and failed, to properly block as Thorda demanded. His reward had been a strike to his shoulder by the master’s wooden pole. When Cyrus had tried to catch his weight on his splinted arm, it had crumpled, and he’d whimpered in pain.

As much as it killed him, Rayan waited to react. To do so now would make his reasons obvious. Patiently, he watched as the young prince settled back into a stance. Down came the hit, and finally Cyrus blocked it exactly as desired. Thorda chopped twice more in rapid succession, ensuring his student fully memorized the lesson, then stepped back. The momentary relief, and at a moment of accomplishment, gave Rayan his desired opening.

“You’ve grown so much since I first put a sword in your hand,” he said, leaning heavily on the nostalgia to disguise his true purpose. He entered the training circle, and stood between Cyrus and Thorda. “And to use two blades instead of one? Surely more difficult than I with my shield. If you would indulge me, I would love to see some examples of the core tenets of Miquoan fighting.”

Thorda fell silent to observe. Rayan pretended he wasn’t there, and he nodded his head supportively as Cyrus began talking. The young man started slow, careful to put minimal pressure on his splinted arm. He began with what appeared to be the basics, a few key initial stances that the rest of his actions would spiral out of. The more he talked, the looser he grew, and the easier he smiled. His explanations became more animated, his movements sharper. It hurt him to use that arm, that much was certain, but less than before, for he was relaxed and in control.

“I suppose you have trained enough, and it would be cruel to keep you from your guests,” Thorda said after a time. “I will await you inside.”