Though when my father handed off my training to Rodric a few months ago, after seeing his skill with a blade, I learned what truly harsh training was. Sure, Rodric conditioned me in ways similar to what my father had, like building up my stamina and strength by having me hang above pits of raw worms that would bite into me if I fell in or tying me to a rope during the start of a sandstorm, making me run against the wind. Those I could handle. But unlike my father, Rodric didn’t wait for me to bandage my wounds. He’d give me small cuts and then purposefully flick sand toward them.

And he thought everyone fought better when they were mad. So he’d do everything he could to goad me. He’d steal my sandals, making me fight barefoot in the burning sand. He’d shove my face into that same sand, one hand holding my face down while the other tried to bury it, suffocating me. He’d grab me from behind and pull my eyelids open, making me stare into the sun until I could fight free from his grasp.

I hated his methods, preferring a more calculated fight—one where I studied my opponents and found their weaknesses. That’s what my father had always taught me. Look for a weakness and exploit it.

So while I couldn’t see whatever it was my father valued in Rodric beyond his brute strength, it was obviously something exceptional, because my father had been turning to him more and more these past few months. And I was being left out of decisions. Like this one.

“A trap?” I scanned the arena as people emptied toward the streets. I didn’t see any guards waiting to ambush the boy, so I studied my father. He’d seemed oddly calm—oddly indifferent—during the trial. My eyes landed on the doors across the arena. “You put carts behind both doors,” I said, wishing it came out more as a question than a statement.

Rodric leaned against the railing and squinted down at me. “Of course.”

Heat pulsed through my body. “You let him get away? You’re the captain of the guard. It’s your job to catch him. He’s not some water beetle you buy in the marketplace that the merchant swears will lead you to some underground spring. No, that boy is a scorpion—you have to squash him while you can so he doesn’t crawl away and hide, waiting to sting you when you’re not looking.”

Rodric clenched his jaw before replying, “It’s better to let one scorpion go when it’ll lead you to all the rest, so you can kill them where they sleep.”

I started to retort, but my father interrupted. “Rodric, send as many guards as you think necessary. I want their hideout found and destroyed.” Once his order had been conveyed, he moved toward the exit.

Rodric turned and motioned for two guards to come forward. He gave them brief instructions before the men headed out after the boy.