She returned to the forge and said something to Thorda and Rayan. Cyrus wisely decided not to follow, and instead retrieved his two swords from where he’d set them aside.

“If a certain overeager young man insists,” Rayan said with exaggerated volume, and he knelt over the two sacks containing his armor.

Cyrus studied his opponent preparing for their duel. His well-oiled platemail was still painted pristine white, but that was the only part unchanged from before the empire’s invasion. When Rayan strapped on his cloak, Cyrus noted it was as gray as a springtime cloud, and split down the middle so that the two sides vaguely resembled wings. Once attached, he belted his sword to his waist and lifted his shield. Its original rainbow surface was painted over with a cascading mixture of white, black, and numerous shades of gray. Had he abandoned his faith in Lycaena? That didn’t feel correct. Perhaps merely hiding the colors so he might travel more freely through the occupied lands?

Such curiosities could wait. Cyrus bounced on his heels, getting his blood back to pumping. His swords twirled in his fingers. He knew Rayan well, for he had been a constant presence at the castle throughout his childhood. The man had ever been a loyal retainer and protector of the throne, as had his entire family line for countless generations. But his actual combat prowess? Their training sessions when he was younger were but child’s play compared to real battle. Cyrus had only faded memories of duels the paladin had fought during the springtime Fisherman’s Festival. He may not have always won, but Rayan was a constant favorite, and Cyrus’s father placed his friendly wagers on him when betting with other members of the court.

“I see you over there, eager and impatient,” Rayan said as he stepped into the dueling circle. Instead of his own sword, he wielded a blunted blade borrowed from Thorda’s workshop. “Give an old man time to stretch. Those tedious hours on the ride here did me no favors.”

“Can you blame me?” Cyrus asked. He tried not to feel insulted that Rayan expected no blunted blades on Cyrus’s behalf. Did he trust his platemail? Or did he have zero fear that Cyrus would score a hit? “I’ve suffered through all this training, and the only ones I may showcase the results to are Stasia, who will tell me to run some laps around the mansion, and Thorda, who has never given a compliment in his life.”

“Truly your life is one of struggle and misery,” Rayan said with a wink. They both looked to Thorda, who lifted an arm into the air to make their duel feel more official, then dropped it.

“Begin.”