“I didn’t just beat him,” said Rayan. “He’s quick, I’ll give him that, but that wasn’t nearly as difficult as I was promised. For the role you want him to play, his skill is not at the needed heights. He can’t fight at our level, not with me, nor Stasia, nor Mari. Given what you’ve told me of that heretic Arn you’re bringing over from Gadir, I doubt he’s equal to him, either.”

Cyrus bit his tongue to remain silent. His face burned a deep red with shame at such a casual dismissal. And who was this heretic, Arn, that Rayan referred to? Did Thorda think Cyrus needed even more help?

However deeply wounded his pride, what came next was so much worse.

“He doesn’t need to be equal,” Thorda insisted. “He isn’t you or Stasia or Mari. He’s the Vagrant Prince of Thanet. With his name, and his bloodline, he merely needs to be good enough. Carry him if you must. Once the tale of his valiant return spreads throughout the island, he can retake his throne amid a surge of popular support.”

“But how many years will it be until he is ready to retake that throne?” Rayan asked. “And can Thanet afford the wait? Every day, the Uplifted Church spreads its hateful faith. You may unleash a savior upon an island that no longer wishes to be saved.”

“Arn will arrive within nine months, perhaps a year at most. That delay will benefit everyone involved, and allow Cyrus significant growth while we accumulate more soldiers in the island’s outskirts. As I said, I don’t need to achieve perfection, only acceptable—”

Cyrus pushed the door and stepped inside. He could listen no more. Rayan and Thorda stood opposing each other before a roaring hearth, and they fell silent at his entrance. Cyrus stared at the blue carpet, unable to meet their gaze. Instead he closed his eyes and focused his mind inward, needing that confidence, that focus, to force out the words he must say. His innards were a cacophony of humiliation, shame, and wounded pride.

“I wish to apologize for my failure today. I promise to double my efforts so that next time I will perform better. I will succeed in the test given to me.” He paused for emphasis. “However long it takes.”

He left without another word. When he returned to his bed, he again lay wide awake staring at the ceiling, but it was for far different reasons.

Cyrus was waiting for Stasia at the start of their looping track come the next morning.

“Someone’s up bright and early,” she said cheerfully.

“I want you to know, however far you run this morning, I’m running that far, too.”

Stasia lifted an eyebrow as she worked her arms and legs in a stretch.

“Your best ever is six miles, Cyrus. I try to never do less than eight.”