They paused to catch their breath, and for Stasia to fetch them both water to drink. Cyrus stood awkwardly in the dueling circle, watching the forge from the corner of his eye. Mari and Rayan were chatting away within the shade of the forge, while Thorda listened and interjected occasionally while he tended the furnace. The kinship among them was as tangible as the clouds above. Was it the time spent together during the first two years of rebellion? Or was it because they had battled side by side, relying upon one another while risking life and limb?

Cyrus didn’t know the answer, but it left him feeling like an outsider to the small group despite them having never shown him anything but kindness. He was relieved when Stasia returned, two enormous wooden cups in hand. It was only with her that he felt truly comfortable. Daily jogs and workouts certainly helped with that, as did their training. He spent similar time with Thorda, but no such bond had formed. There was always a feeling of distance between them, an invisible curtain that never once parted.

Cyrus accepted the enormous wooden cup and drank down half of the well water. The rest he dumped over his head, the cool shock sending a welcome shiver down his spine. As he recovered his breath, he again looked to the forge, where Mari was laughing with her father. A certain curiosity pushed at his mind. Though the two were sisters, and their faces almost mirror images of each other, Stasia was a good foot taller than Mari, and seemingly pure muscle. Cyrus voiced his question, but did it with his best attempt at tact.

“My training regiment, it’s the same your father gave you, right?” he asked.

“Mostly. I’ve tweaked it plenty over the years as I’ve learned what does and doesn’t work best for my body. Why?”

Cyrus watched Mari cheerfully poke her father’s side as he tried, and failed, to return to his smithing work.

“Did Mari not have to train like that, too?”

Cyrus had always known Stasia to be cocky and charismatic, as much confidence as muscle, but her mood darkened and her lingering smile was far from genuine. There was hurt here, hurt he didn’t understand and would likely never be privileged to. He immediately regretted his clumsy attempt for an answer to a question he had no right to ask.

“Father has always made it clear our blood differs,” she said. “Mari inherited the gift of a god-whisperer. I didn’t. So we both make do with what fate granted us.”

Cyrus flushed and dropped his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”

“I think you’re warmed up enough,” she interrupted. “Let’s see if Rayan is ready to put you to a real test.”