“We shall see,” Thorda said. “Stasia, retrieve the sparring poles from that shelf. I want Cyrus to feel what it is like to use them in true combat.”

Cyrus’s excitement grew. He’d never dueled Stasia before, only seen her occasionally practicing with her axes. Sure, she performed drills with him, but it was Thorda who taught him forms and stances, and who tested his reflexes. While Stasia grabbed the poles, Thorda dragged his stool he kept at the forge out to the flat, worn space used for training beyond it. He sat, legs and arms crossed, and prepared.

Stasia returned with two wooden poles of approximate length to her axes. She twirled them in her grasp, showing the easy familiarity of someone practically born with a weapon in hand. Cyrus almost replicated the motions with his own weapons but thought better of it. If he slipped and cut off his own fingers, he’d spend the rest of his life drowning in humiliation.

“Shouldn’t you have armor in case I hit you?” Cyrus asked, worried he might hurt her with the blisteringly sharp edges of his swords.

“Don’t worry,” Stasia said. “You won’t.”

“Someone’s cocky.”

“Someone’s about to get destroyed and doesn’t know it yet.”

Cyrus swung his swords to limber up as well as get a feel for their weight. They were drastically lighter than any of his practice weapons, and it made him feel quicker, more dangerous. His eagerness grew as Thorda lifted his arm above his head. Sitting on that stool, he looked like a professional judge for one of the tournaments Cyrus had watched with his father in the grand courtyard. The same courtyard they’d been executed in.

The sudden memory poisoned his mood. Cyrus forced a smile to his face and pretended all was well. He clanged the weapons together, using that clear ringing to bury the painful emotions deep, deep down. Thorda dropped his hand, calling out the start of their duel.

“Begin!”

Stasia dashed at him, both poles swung together in a downward slash. Wood hit steel, but Cyrus’s pride at properly blocking lasted all but the span of a heartbeat. One pole shoved his longer sword aside, the other thrust for his exposed belly. Training kept his feet moving, and he retreated out of harm’s way. He found no reprieve, for in came another dual slash. Cyrus crossed his swords into an X to block, and he grunted at the painful jolt that traveled up his elbows to his shoulders.