Cyrus retreated to his room after dinner under claims of exhaustion, but truth be told, he was frustrated and ashamed. Being around others was the last thing he wanted. He lay wide awake on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Every moment of his duel with Rayan replayed itself in his mind. At times he remembered proper parries and blocks, the moments he’d read the fight and reacted correctly. More often, he focused on his failures. The missed parries. The improper footing, and the cost to his balance. The many instances he wrongly anticipated Rayan’s attacks.

The final hit that knocked him on his ass haunted him in particular. Where had he gone wrong? What misstep led to getting clocked by a shield to his face? The humiliation had sent him all the way back through time, to when he was twelve and fumbling to properly hold a sword.

“Damn it, just grow up,” he told himself. Sulking in his room would not make him a better fighter. Both Rayan and Thorda were dedicated to his instruction. Going downstairs and asking his betters; that was how he would improve. Cyrus shoved off the bed, exited his room, and started down the stairs. His pace slowed halfway down, for he heard the unmistakable sound of an argument coming from the nearby den.

“… cannot afford to wait,” Rayan was insisting. “The death of Lycaena weighs heavily on every heart, no matter how many prayers I offer in clandestine sermons. Each and every month, more boats arrive from Gadir. The imperial tongue steadily replaces Thanese. Delay is no longer feasible.”

“I only ask for patience, paladin,” Thorda’s deep voice argued back. “My chosen apprentice has already shown tremendous improvement. I need six months, perhaps a year at most.”

“Then choose another, for we don’t have six months to a year. Cyrus is not capable. Your ‘test’ proved as much. If he accompanied me on a raid, he would perish against his first skilled opponent.”

“You exaggerate his defeat. Losing to you is no source of shame. Few alive could beat you in a straight match.”

They were talking about him, and his failure. Cyrus pressed his back against the wall, ear turned toward the half-open door, and quietly listened. Despite knowing he was playing with fire, he was desperate to hear what his master truly thought of his abilities. Thorda was so rare with praise, and so vicious with criticism, it often felt like Cyrus wasn’t improving at all.