Still exposed, Cyrus tried to bring his other sword up to parry. Stasia’s elbow struck his chest in reward. He gasped at the spike of pain that followed. His parry attempt came up weak. She smashed that sword aside with both her poles, then hit the underside of his wrist. Out came the sword. He reached for it, flailing, as her leg swept through the backs of his knees, toppling him. Her poles twirled in the air, twirling, twirling, until their flat ends jammed straight down into his exposed stomach as he landed helpless on his back. A whimper escaped his lips as his insides twisted.

“Enough,” called Thorda.

Cyrus lay in the dirt, beaten, bruised, and struggling to breathe. His hands stung. Everything ached. His swords lay beside him, and in an attempt to hide his humiliation, he grabbed them both and jammed them into the sheaths buckled to his hips. His teacher waited, the silent seconds dragging interminably, before he spoke.

“Now do you understand how much left you have to grow?”

“I didn’t know she’d elbow me,” Cyrus snapped. He immediately regretted those words. They sounded so whiny and childlike. Such excuses would never work with Thorda. His master hopped off his stool and crossed the distance. Cyrus tried to stare at the older man’s boots instead of his disapproving face. Even that was denied him. Thorda’s fingers hooked underneath his chin, dragging his gaze upward so they might stare eye to eye.

“I am not training you to win sanctioned duels, Cyrus. You will not fight in an arena with fair odds, equal numbers, and rules of engagement. You will kill men and women who want you dead. It will be brutal, chaotic, and make a mockery of your sense of time. Some moments will last an eternity. Other decisions you will make so rapidly, you won’t know you are making them. Every swing, every block, every parry, and every dodge must be perfect. Anything less is death. Thanet’s resistance has clung to life by its fingertips after Lycaena’s execution. I will not build you up just so you may hang from the Dead Flags, the slain prince whose corpse marks the end of the rebellion. You will be a phantom killer. A merciless shadow. A god among mortal men. Do we understand one another?”

A stubborn, childish part of Cyrus withered and died as he met the gaze of one who had watched thousands of men and women fall while fighting for their homelands. He would not be another. Thanet would be different. It would be free.

“Yes,” he said. “I understand clearly.”