‘You let them in here, didn’t you, stupid boy!’ It was not a question but a harsh accusation. As he spoke, Lord Adrath, High Minister of the Grand Empire, Councilor of His Most Exalted Majesty, and Keeper of the Crescent Lands, lunged at his one and only son, Cyrus. He seized him by the neck and shook him roughly. ‘Didn’t you!’ he bellowed in Cyrus’s face, currently turning redder and redder as Adrath’s hands closed tighter around his throat. Cyrus’s hands struggled automatically to break his father‘s grip, but his slender fingers were no match for the lord‘s huge paws. ‘Didn’t you!’ Adrath shrieked again, slamming Cyrus against the wall. Cyrus’s feeble bids for escape grew weaker as he began to slip towards unconsciousness from lack of air. He resigned himself, through the haze that clouded his mind, that his father really was going to kill him this time. He cared less than he might have had he not come so close to death before, and more than once. Adrath would now simply finish what he‘d started on several previous occasions.

But once again, Cyrus’s life was spared, and once again he did not know why. His mother‘s voice, shrill with urgency, cried out from somewhere in the hallway. ‘Adrath! I can’t find Cyrus anywhere- but we have to leave! They’re all over the place! Where are you?’

Adrath loosened his hold on his son slightly, enough for Cyrus to begin taking in ragged gasps of air. ‘I’m here!’ the lord called back over his shoulder. ‘I’ve found Cyrus- he’s been killed.’ He turned back to Cyrus, who, upon hearing those last words, had decided he was not to be saved after all and begun resigning himself again. But his father released him. ‘Now look, stupid boy, you’ve got to run. I‘m giving you a chance here,’ he growled as Cyrus endeavored to recover his breath. ‘If you can get out of here with your life, then I suppose you’re entitled to it.’ With that, he turned away and made for the door of the hall at a good pace. ‘I’m coming!’ he shouted to Cyrus’s mother. He paused only once and looked back at Cyrus. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? You know the way out! Stupid boy.’ He left.

Yet Cyrus did not move immediately. He stared at the doorway Adrath had just passed through. He was... gone? Just like that? How... how was that possible? Cyrus could not imagine a life without his father, did not know what to make of such a thing. Adrath had always been there, always made sure Cyrus knew he was there.

The sound of not-too-distant shouts of anger jerked his attention back to his current plight. He would have to mull over the implications of his father’s departure later, or he would be dead. Swiftly, he made his way across the hall to the hidden door in the left-hand wall. With the furious voices coming ever nearer, he located the latch, pulled the small door open, and slipped inside.

The narrow tunnel that ran between the walls of the library and the solar was dark- there were wall sconces with torches every twenty feet or so, he knew, but they were not kept regularly lit. Thus, he went as quickly as he dared while feeling his way by touch. It was an uncomfortable journey; he was still short on breath, and what air he did manage to pull into his aching lungs grated painfully in his abused throat. His imagination- what he had of one, at least- was against him too, conjuring the sounds of pursuit both behind him and before. Yet every time he halted to catch his breath or merely listen, only silence met his ears.

He continued along the passageway for as far as it went. There were other doors along the way- the tunnel had been built for secret nightly visits to various parts of the manor, not as an escape route- but the final one, the one opening into the kitchens, would put him closest to a door leading outside. At this last door he paused, listening for sounds from the other side. There was nothing. So, cautiously, he opened the door a crack and peered out.

The grey room that was the kitchens was deserted, though it clearly had not been so in the recent past. Normally tidy bowls and plates had been overturned, the ingredients for what was to have been that night’s meal had been scattered about the floor, and the logs for the cooking fires had been spilled from their orderly stack by the door. Someone- or some ones- had apparently come rampaging through here; Cyrus shuddered at the thought of those wild strangers in his home.

There was no time to muse on that either, though. He steeled himself to run again, then made a break for it across the kitchen. His goal was the simple wooden door at the other side, a door which let out onto the sweeping lawns that belonged to the house. He reached it, swung it open, and began to tear across the grass as fast as he could manage in his condition.

It was far from warm outside; with the days now comfortably settled into fall, the air had taken on a frosty bite that called animals to sleep and left its icy kiss on the blades of grass every morning. But Cyrus had no time to notice the cold. He flew over the white-tipped grass towards the woods that marked the edge of the house’s lands and the beginning of the world, though in Cyrus’s mind there was little difference. His father ruled over both of them, bowing only to His Most Exalted Majesty, and so Cyrus had never bothered to determine the real difference between the two. He was the son of the second most-powerful man in the world- why did it matter?

And now, suddenly, it did matter. It seemed that there had been some sort of rebellion, though he knew not what had sparked it, and the existing hierarchy of life had been undone. He did not know, however, if it would be forever or merely for a short while. He had been vaguely aware that there was dissatisfaction among the people with the rule of His Most Exalted Majesty, and with that of his father; now that someone had done something about it, they would not willingly accept a return to the former ways. He had a nagging feeling that this upheaval was here to stay, and that meant trouble for him.

As he approached the line of trees, Cyrus was forced to slow his pace to a jog. A cramp was forming in his side and his throat burned with the effort of taking in air. He was not unfit, but no athlete either; so soon after being throttled by his father he was even less inclined to running long distances. Still, it was not too long before he gained the cover of the trees, effectively shielding him from anyone who might be watching from the house.

But he did not stop to rest. If the people who had stormed his house were truly out for blood, then they would surely search the grounds as well. He was not safe yet, and would not be until he was far away from here. Yet even then, would he be safe? It was not as if his own existence was unknown to the general populace- once he was found not to be in the manor or the lands around, a search would undoubtedly commence. He would be hunted. It was a dangerous thing, he knew from the many stories he’d read and heard, to leave the son of a deposed ruler alive- to leave any of his relatives alive was to give them a chance to take revenge and seize power again. No, they would not want him to live.

For a brief moment, he actually considered going back, letting them take his life. But such a notion quickly passed; he might have spent much of his life expecting his father to end it, but that did not mean he wanted someone else to do so. He intended to live as long as he possibly could, if not longer. And so he began to run again, deeper into the woods.

The world was unusually silent today; the sound of his feet stirring up the dry leaves and his troubled breathing were the only noises he could hear. No birds sang, no breeze rustled the leaves. The stillness was rather eerie. At least there was no sound of pursuit, either. That was some slight comfort to him in a world suddenly gone mad.

He ran until his body could take it not a minute longer. He collapsed to the ground at the foot of a tree, panting heavily. He did not know how far he’d gone, or in what direction; he needed some sort of landmark to determine where he was. Though he’d never gone exploring much, he knew the land well from the hours he’d spent staring at his father’s maps. Once he was out of the woods, he should be able to figure out where he was.

And then what? It was all well and good to decide to flee for his life and make sure they never caught him, but could he, in fact, do so? After all, he’d lived all his life as the son of the highest-ranking nobleman around, and though it had not always been easy on him personally, it was still a pampered position. He’d learned his letters while common folk learned to gather and prepare food, had been taught the art of diplomacy and court etiquette while they were instructed in survival in the wilds and how to endure the elements. The one useful skill he had was archery, and he had neither bow nor arrow with him. He did not know which plants were edible and which poisonous, nor how to set snares for animals. The list of his practical ignorance seemed infinite.

Cyrus put his face into his hands and gave a hoarse groan. He was going to die- if not by some rebel’s sword, then by starvation out here. He would not even live to see his seventeenth year, still two months distant. If only there was someone he could turn to for aid! But all his companions were of noble rank as well; surely they’d also been attacked; besides, the estates their fathers held were weeks distant. No commoner would give succor to him, he was certain. Unless, perhaps... they were to think him one of them?

He looked down at himself. Immediately, he realized it would not work. He was clad in grey-lavender silk pants and high-collared shirt, both embroidered along the hems. No commoner dressed like that. His formerly immaculate cream-brown hair, hanging down in sleek waves past his shoulders, had gotten quite disheveled in his flight but was still obviously better-groomed than any commoner’s hair. That could be attended to, but the clothing discrepancy was unavoidable. He let out a long sigh and tried to keep the panic within him from rising. There had to be a way. He would survive.

Then, just as sudden inspiration came, the sound of many pairs of feet approaching reached him. He scrambled upright and debated whether to run again or to hide. He decided hiding was his most likely option and grabbed the lowest branch of a nearby tree. He climbed as high as he dared and crouched among what was left of the rainbow-hued foliage, wishing spring and better cover were here. At least some of the leaves still remained, or he would have been spotted instantly. As it was, he held his breath and watched as a band of twenty-odd men came marching into view.

They were certainly commoners, by their dress, though they wielded weapons Cyrus recognized as taken from the manor- among them, his precious black longbow and his father’s massive greatsword. He resisted the urge to command they return them- a foolish idea, and he knew it. Instead, he contemplated the implication of the greatsword’s presence: was his father dead? Merely gone? Both thoughts caused a slight shiver of fear, the one because he did not want his father dead, the other because he was afraid to have him alive.

But in spite of that sentiment, he did not hate Adrath as the people did. They loathed most of the nobility, really. What did the people think of him, he wondered suddenly as the group of rebels drew nearer. He’d never thought about that before. Did they hate him too, though he was too young to wield any real power? Did they ignore him? Mock him? came a third, nasty suggestion. That had to be impossible- no one knew what passed between him and his father. The first one was far more likely.

Angrily, he banished these thoughts from his mind. Accurate or no, they were mostly dire prospects and it was best not to dwell on it.

As soon as the group had passed beneath him and disappeared from view, Cyrus slipped quietly down from the tree and made for the manor. There, he could find food to take with him, and more importantly, a bow to hunt with.

Despite his fear of the contrary, the house was deserted when he reached it. He entered the same way he had left and immediately set to work gathering up the food in the kitchen. He found a sack to put it all in, left it in a corner, and went off to search the manor for a bow and arrows. And his parents, if they had never been able to leave.

The latter he found first, in the library. He knew instantly what their plan to save themselves had been: a secret door, similar to the one he had used, led into an underground room with enough foodstuffs to sustain five people for two months, if they ate sparingly- it was the manor’s last retreat. He’d never even considered using it today, preferring to leave the house entirely. But although his parents had recalled it they had never reached the haven.

Their decapitated corpses lay sprawled on the ground, blood dripping from their severed necks to form large pools on the floor. His mother’s head lay fairly close to her body, but his father’s was not there. Cyrus did not want to search for it either- that was probably a sight best left unseen.

Trembling, he approached the macabre scene and went to his knees between the two bodies. He did not dare touch them, out of some nameless fear. He stared back and forth between the two- his father, his mother. Dead. But how could they be- how could life be without them? It was far beyond his mind’s ability to contemplate.

His father’s hands. He’d feared them in life- now, dead, they looked weak, defeated. His mother...

He looked away, unable to bear the sight any longer. Truly, the world had gone mad! Was His Most Exalted Majesty lying in his own blood at this moment too? Was his son kneeling beside him, weeping?

For he had begun to cry, without even realizing it at first. His father had always told him not to cry, had hit him when he did, but he could not help it now. His father would not strike him- he was dead. And Cyrus was lost.

If not for the worry that someone might return to the house and find him there, Cyrus might have stayed beside his parents’ bodies for a great while longer. His discovery has sapped his strength, made him realized how alone he now truly was. But he got to his feet at last and continued his quest for a bow.

Oddly, there was none to be found anywhere, even in the armory. The rebels must have taken them all. He let out a moan of frustration- would nothing ever pass smoothly for him again? This was, undoubtedly, the worst day of his life- and it was up against some very stiff competition.

Eventually, he collected himself and returned to the kitchen. If there were no bows, then there weren’t. He could not change that. Perhaps he could purchase one in a town that was far enough away to ensure no one there would have ever seen him. Yes, that is what he would do.

Acting upon this resolve before his nerve could fail him, he picked up the sack of food and left the manor. He did not look back, sure that if he did, he would not be able to walk away... Though a part of him did desperately want him to return, to stay there forever.

That night found him well beyond the forest and searching for a place to rest. He was plodding along a field that seemed to be comprised mostly of thistles, as he had discovered when he had tired to sit down earlier. They had grown more profuse as he had gone on, scratching at his ankles in the space between his soft shoes and his pants. He was now regretting not having changed clothes while at home, but it had completely slipped his mind. The silk had already been torn in several places by various spiked plants; he was not sure how much longer he would be decently covered.

At that thought, he gave a harsh laugh that was utterly devoid of mirth. He was without home, family, or defense against those who doubtlessly hunted him even now- and he was worried about his dress! Perhaps he was going insane. His whole life had; why should he not as well?

The laugh shortly changed into hacking sobs as the emotions and distress of the day caught up with him in full. His weary footsteps slowed to a halt and he collapsed upon the ground regardless of thistles. There he lay and wailed his miseries to the evening sky, beating his fist into the ground without noticing how a thistle spine tore into it. Had his father been there to see it, he would have probably taken a whip to Cyrus out of shame. But had his father been there, all would have become normal again and Cyrus would not be crying. At least, not over this; some other matter, perhaps, but not this.

He sobbed until his strength was too spent to do more than sniffle softly; it was then that he sat up. He dug into the sack of precious food, pulled out whatever first came to hand, and stuffed it into his mouth. He was hungry, it had just occurred to him. He had not eaten since... last night. It had been a fine dinner: roasted boar, tender venison, delicate pastries filled with light cream. The mere thought of it made his eyes well up with tears again. It was all gone. His parents. He choked on his current mouthful of food and spat it out.

Why had this happened? His father was not- had not been- a bad man, nor had His Most Exalted Majesty. To tell the truth, he had never understood why the people hated them so. Neither had done anything to deserve death. The image of Adrath’s mutilated body floated into his mind and he howled again. He had been terrified of his father most of his life, it was true. With his unpredictable moods and frequent, often drunken, rages, Cyrus had had to tread carefully near Adrath, and even then had been nowhere near assured escaping his wrath. And yet, to know he was no longer around was far more frightening than anything Adrath had ever done. Cyrus had enough nightmares about those things- he shuddered to think how long this disastrous day would haunt his sleeping hours. Or his waking ones.

No longer wishing to eat, Cyrus thrust the remainder of his food back into his bag. Nightmares or no, he had to have sleep. It had been an exhausting day, and tomorrow would bring only more of the same. Here was as good a place as any to rest- one part of a field was much like any other part when you came down to it. He curled up into a small ball on the ground- small enough to avoid the plentiful thistles- and closed his eyes.

But he did not sleep. For one who had grown up sleeping on a fine bed with feather-stuffed pillows, the hard, frosty ground was near impossible to rest on. The cold, too, had intensified with the night, and he had nothing, not even a cloak, with which to ward it away. So he clutched at himself in a futile attempt to keep warm and stared up at the sparkling tapestry of the night sky for hours, miserable and alone.

In the early hours of the morning, however, he was less alone than he had been earlier- a raccoon came along and decided to investigate the contents of his sack. Cyrus started at the rustling sounds and sat up. The culprit stared at him for a moment before turning and loping off. Cyrus glared balefully at the retreating form, then peered into the bag to see what damage had been done. Fortunately, the food was all still there, though Cyrus was hesitant to eat it after those dirty paws had gone over it. But there was nothing to be done about that- or sleeping, he accepted finally. He got slowly to his feet. If he could not rest, he might at least get further away from any pursuers.

Eyes wanting to close with every step he took, he stumbled along with the sack of food slung over his shoulder. It was a heavy load now, but he guessed that in a few weeks, possibly even days, he’d be wishing there was a lot more weight to it. If only he’d been able to find a bow- then he wouldn’t have to worry.

It was no use thinking of such things, he reminded himself sharply. He had no bow, that was all. Planning for what he would do in the near future would be far more useful.

Instead of the near future, however, his thoughts jumped ahead well over a year. Sometime during the night, he knew not when, ideas of revenge had woken within him. He would avenge his parents’ murder. Not now, that much was certain- he could not take revenge by himself. But surely he was not the only one of noble blood still alive. Others must have made their escapes too. He would find them; they would band together and restore the Grand Empire to the way it had been before.

He snorted dryly and shook his head. The lie rang false even to himself. He would never find any of the others who had survived- if, indeed, there were any. And even if they did somehow join together, they would never have the strength to overthrow whatever government the commoners would have set up by then. The army would probably be serving them, really! Only the generals had been nobility, and they had been executed in all likelihood.

No, he was not going to be able to reclaim power. What that meant, he was not yet sure, but it promised a hard life. Within the borders of the Grand Empire he would find no haven, that much was certain. If he could reach the small kingdoms beyond it, he might be safe- they cared little about both the commoners and nobles of their larger neighbor, so long as they did not try and extend their borders. However, even the nearest of the countries was far away, the Grand Empire covering an extraordinary amount of land. He’d always been proud of this before, but now it was his bane. He would run out of food long before he crossed the border and he could not get more. He needed a way to get sustenance on the journey.

When he got far enough away from home, to that area where no one would recognize him on sight. He could work in exchange for food. He shivered at that prospect- to think that he, son of Lord Adrath, was to do the work of common folk! It was an abomination. But it was what he would have to do if he was to survive. There was no alternative.

This dark decision made, he began to ponder the important question that went along with it. Exactly how far away was safe to show himself? He could probably explain the fine, if battered, clothes, but it would be for naught if they knew what Adrath’s son Cyrus looked like.

In the end, he decided to let fate decide for him- or rather, need. When his food ran out, he would seek labor; in the meanwhile, he would eat sparingly and hope that when his supply dwindled to nothing it had lasted long enough. What else could he do?

There was so little he had control over anymore, really, and he hated it. The sons of lords should not be helpless! Though in his father’s presence, he usually had been, the comparison occurred to him. But that was different! he argued back against himself. He had understood why his father had acted as he had. He had no explanation for what the world did.

He most certainly preferred it when it was cold out but dry, he decided bitterly some two weeks later. Mercifully, the weather had held for half a month- until this evening. The clouds had been gathering all day and now they had opened up, drenching the world with their contents. Soaked to the bone, Cyrus ran along a narrow path he’d located earlier that day. It was a dirt path, mud now in the rain, and perhaps he might meet up with someone on it, but he was so desperate to get away from the plants that constantly tore at his legs and ankles that he did not care at the moment. Besides, it might lead to a shelter of some sort.

Over his head he carried the empty food sack as a pitiful shield against the rain. It was empty not because he had eaten all the food- far from it; he’d eaten only once a day since leaving home. It had been the rain that had finished it off. Within the first hour of the deluge, the food had been turned into a soggy pulp that would clearly spoil within a day and had made him retch upon tasting it. So he’d dumped it all out and moved on with the hope of finding more- by work or luck- later.

Then, catching sight of something up ahead to his left, he slowed his run to a walk. He squinted through the pelting rain to try and make out what the large dark shape was. A house? Unlikely- there would be lights, surely. Unless it was abandoned.

There was only one way to find out. Picking up his pace again, he left the path and made for the building, whatever it might be. The ground here was sloped upwards and far more slippery than the muddy road; his foot slid on something and he lost his balance. He landed face-down in the mud and whatever else there might be in a field; without pause, however, he picked himself up and continued towards his goal.

As he approached it, he recognized it was a barn and felt a weary smile, the first in days, appear on his dirty face. It would make a fine haven for the night. He went up to the large doors, lifted the latch, and entered.

The first thing he noticed was the warmth that washed over him as if he had just immersed himself in a steaming bath. It must have been from the thirty-some cattle who stood tethered to the walls at intervals- there was no other reason for it to be this pleasant. A few of the cows eyed the newcomer with vague interest; the rest ignored him.

Leaving a trail of water behind him as he went, he took a few steps further into the barn. The smell made him wrinkle his nose; he’d been able to stand the scent of horses, but this was different, fouler. Still, it was better than being out in the pelting rain, and he looked around for a place to sleep. Two haylofts caught his attention: one above the door, the other across the barn. He elected the former- it would be harder to spot him there- and crossed over to the ladder leading up to it.

A sigh of pleasure escaped him as he surveyed the loft. Mounds of straw, some nearly as tall as he, were piled everywhere- fine beds compared to the unyielding ground! Tonight he might actually have some small amount of comfort as he slept. He wasted no time in stripping off his soiled, wet shirt and tossing it aside after using it to wipe some of the muck from his face. He peeled off his pants as well, having heard stories of death due to spending too long in wet clothing, then strode to the nearest heap of hay and fell upon it. It scratched his bare skin as he buried himself under it, but it was also marvelously warm and covered his largely naked body. Then without further ado he fell asleep as the rain pounded on the roof overhead.

He would have slept less well had he known he was not as secure as he appeared to be. He was woken quite early the next morning by a nudge in his ribs and a hard voice asking, ‘Who’re ye?’

Cyrus grunted drowsily and slowly opened his eyes. Then it got through to his half-asleep mind where he was, and he sat hastily up.

The hay had been cleared off of him at some point, presumably by the girl who now stood over him, his clothes in one hand and his sack in the other. She appeared to be roughly his own age, perhaps slightly older. She was dressed in a plain woolen gown that had been patched in many places; her brown hair had been drawn back into a braid and her hazel eyes were glowering fiercely down at him.

For her part, the girl was studying him in kind. He had pale blue eyes set into a comely, if dirty, face; they stared up at her nervously, still with sleep in the corners. She did not pay much attention to his face, however, but to the rest of him- now that was unusual. Not overly tall, his sinewy body, mostly his torso, was covered with marks of all descriptions, from thin lines to bruises and scrapes to the welts she recognized as those a whip left. Some of them, mostly the bruises, were recent; others were clearly scars that had been there for years. She’d seen more of the same on his back before he’d turned over. Around his neck traced several parallel dark lines like a strange necklace. Blotches of mud framed his face and matted his hair, a fitting compliment to the pieces of straw sticking out of it at odd angles. ‘Who’re ye?’ she asked again when she received no reply.

Cyrus’s mouth moved but no words came out as he tried to collect his scattered thoughts and formulate an answer- not an easy task for him much of the time. ‘The storm,’ he came out with at last in a rasping voice- his voice always sounded hoarse because of the many times he’d been strangled nearly to death. ‘I needed shelter-’

‘I asked ye who ye were, not why ye’re here,’ the girl snapped.

‘Cy-’ began Cyrus, stopping at the last instant as he remembered himself.

‘Kai?’ repeated the girl. ‘So, what’re ye doing in our barn-’

‘The storm-’ he started again, but she went on over him.

‘-naked?’

Cyrus flushed a deep shade of red. ‘I’m not,’ he mumbled. Not quite, at any rate; the important areas were still covered.

‘Hm.’ She snorted and thrust the clothes, still wet, at him. ‘Well, get these back on. It’s not pleasant.’

Cyrus was about to make a sharp retort when he realized what she referred to. He drew in a hissing breath and pulled his shirt on as quickly as he could. No one had ever seen those scars, not even his own mother. He’d kept his father’s abuses hidden from the world- his deepest secret... No longer. He stared up at the girl with a mixture of horror and hatred; she had no right to look at him while he slept! Or while he dressed.

‘Do ye plan on staying here long?’

In the middle of pulling on his damp pants, he stopped and looked at her curiously. ‘ You... I can stay?’ he asked in surprise.

She shrugged. ‘Ye’re not the first to have sheltered here without asking. Ye can stay as long as ye like, as long as ye do work.’

‘Food?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Eh, we’d feed you if ye worked hard.’

‘What work?’ Nothing too distasteful, with luck.

‘Eh.’ She glanced around the barn. ‘Ye can shovel out that manure, to start.’

‘What?’ He could not believe what he was hearing. ‘No!’

The girl raised an eyebrow. ‘No? Then ye can leave right now. Go on!’

Cyrus hesitated. He needed food, but to shovel manure for it? That was going too far! His stomach gave a discontented rumble at that moment, wanting a say. He sighed deeply. ‘Fine! But I want food first.’

‘All right. We’ll go to the house. Down.’ She pointed to the ladder and stepped aside to let him pass. She followed, rather amazed by him, though she did not show it. She could tell his clothes had seen better days, but they were of fine cloth with expensive embroidery. And he had refused to shovel the manure- a distasteful chore, even in her opinion, but she had never known anyone to so vehemently disdain the task before. Was he a noble of some sort?

With a laugh, she dismissed that silly thought. All the nobility had been slain in the uprising- he was probably just from a richer family than most. On the run from an unhappy apprenticeship, no doubt; that would explain the whip marks and his appearance as a whole.

‘I’m Liira,’ she said as they walked across the slick field towards a small cottage Cyrus had not noticed before.

‘Oh.’ He did not sound particularly interested.

With a shrug, Liira quickened her step to reach the cottage door before he did. She opened it and called to someone within, ‘There was a boy out in the barn- says he’ll work for food.’ She turned and gestured to Cyrus, hanging back uneasily a few paces behind her. ‘Come in.’

The room was simply furnished, with a table, four chairs, and various household items hung on hooks. A wooden door beside the hearth led into what Cyrus guessed must be a bedroom; in a place this astoundingly small, it couldn’t be much else! Two commoners, presumably Liira’s parents, sat at the table over a meager breakfast of some kind of porridge. They looked up as Cyrus entered and surveyed him with mild interest. ‘His name’s Kai,’ Liira supplied helpfully.

‘What’s m’daughter brought in now?’ the man grumbled under his breath, but still loud enough for Cyrus to hear. Cyrus’s back stiffened but he managed to rein in his tongue as the man went on. ‘Have ye worked a farm before, boy?’

‘Call me Kai,’ Cyrus could not resist commanding crisply. No one but his father called him ‘boy’! ‘And no, I haven’t,’ he added to answer the man’s question.

The farmer’s bushy eyebrows rose dangerously at this impertinence. ‘Watch yerself, Kai. I don’t like cheek.’ He stood from his chair and walked slowly to the door, jostling Cyrus on the way out. ‘If ye want work and food, ye’ll get it; join us in the barn after ye’ve eaten. Come, Liira.’ He stomped out with his daughter in tow.

Liira’s mother, a woman who gave the impression of former beauty now gone stale with age, rose and came over to him. ‘Don’t mind Aran. As long as you watch yer words, he’ll be quite friendly. My name’s Kera. Where are ye from?’

It took Cyrus a moment to wrap his mind around this information, all delivered in swift succession. ‘From north,’ he replied at length.

Kera nodded briskly. ‘Right. If that’s all ye’re willing to say, then I won’t ask more. I’ll feed ye, but ye’ll need to bathe first. Looks like ye’ve manure all over yer face- I don’t want that at my table.’ She pointed to a metal basin sitting in the corner. ‘Over there- there’s water left still.’

Used bathwater? Simply barbaric! ‘No.’ He made for the table. ‘I want fresh water.’

He was halted midstep by an abrupt slap across the face from Kera, followed by her wiping her soiled hand on one of the few clean spots remaining on his shirt. ‘I said, ye’ll wash!’

Cyrus stared at her, stunned by the audacity of the woman. It had slipped his mind completely that he was no longer anyone of rank, that they did not know who he was. He drew himself up to his full height and hissed icily, ‘How dare you!’

‘How dare ye!’ Kera returned without hesitation, seizing him by the arm and pulling him across to the tub. She shoved him down onto his knees beside it- for a small woman, she was surprisingly strong. ‘Ye are a very rude boy- yer father must’ve had far too soft a hand with ye!’

At those words, something within Cyrus gave. He began to tremble, shaking like he had not since the day of the rebellion. ‘You don’t know a thing,’ he whispered. Slowly, reluctantly, he raised a hand and pulled at his shirt, undoing the buttons until the scars he bore showed clearly. It didn’t matter any more who knew; he had no reputation left to preserve. Right now, all he wanted was sympathy, in any measure.

And he received it- Kera saw the scars and her demeanor changed instantly. ‘Oh, ye poor thing!’ She bent down and wrapped her arms around him- this gesture was so different from the throttling grasp his father had inflicted upon him whenever he’d wept that Cyrus was unsure how to react. So he did nothing and let her hold him. ‘I’ll just wash yer face then,’ Kera murmured, dipping a hand into the water and beginning to wipe away the muck from his cheek. ‘And I’ll get clean clothes for ye.’

In spite of the used water, Cyrus let her bathe him without comment, until her gentle fingers found the one scar that several people knew about but had never seen: a long dent in his skull just above his left ear, hidden completely by his hair. ‘What’s this?’

‘Hit my head,’ Cyrus mumbled, not wanting to go into detail. His father, drunk, had hit him one night; he’d cracked his head against the wall and shattered his skull there. That had been the closest to death he’d ever come. He’d been unconscious for three weeks following, bedridden for several months, and silent for nearly two years afterwards. He had never told anyone the reason behind that silence- he’d been learning to talk again. Something in the injury had made him forget how to. Even when he had recovered his speech he had never again spoken in his father’s presence- Adrath treated him a bit nicer after he’d apparently inflicted lasting damage on his son. It was true, in a way; some days Cyrus still was unable to talk properly and was short of words even when he could.

Kera, to his relief, did not pry further, but continued to clean him. Unfortunately, they were interrupted by Aran’s return not too long afterwards. ‘Where is the boy? We’re waiting on him.’

‘He’ll be along,’ Kera returned firmly. ‘Ye can bide yer time a bit longer.’

Then and there, Cyrus decided he would stay here up until the last possible moment. It might be the last friendly place he’d ever find, and he was determined to take advantage of it as long as he could.

Over the course of the next fortnight, he began to settle into the family, at least to the extent of his capabilities. He forced himself to do the work they assigned him, below him though it might be, telling himself he needed the food they gave in return and that it was kind to Kera, whom he’d grown fond of in spite of her being a commoner. Whenever he had difficulties of any sort- from speaking to simply not knowing how to complete a task- she would aid him and avert Aran’s temper, quick to flare, elsewhere. Liira kept him company as well and helped him with his chores; however, she was more interested in his past than her mother and so he avoided her and her queries whenever he could. When Aran did not find him impertinent he even got along with the gruff farmer. The awful dreams he had of his parents’ murder and the older ones of his father still visited him though, and he would sometimes wake shrieking in the barn, where he slept. Kera never came to him there; all he got were disgruntled look from the cows.

And then, two weeks and three days later, Cyrus’s peace ended. They had just finished dining together and begun to clear the table. Cyrus was prepared to head for bed as soon as he could- the work here was tiring beyond anything he’d ever had to do at home, and he still had not adjusted. Then, a sudden shout from outside made them all jump. ‘I’ll go,’ Aran said shortly. He disappeared out the door.

Cyrus slowly went back to picking up the dishes. Could they have found him? What would happen now? Would he be killed? He did not want to die.

‘Hurry up, Kai,’ Kera ordered, noticing his pause, and Cyrus obeyed though his mind was still elsewhere. He tried to listen for voices outside, but heard nothing. What was happening? There was no way out of the house besides the front door. He was trapped in here if it was them. But was it? What reason did he have to think it was people hunting for him? They could simply be visitors to the farm.

Aran’s return revealed the farmer in a stormier mood than Cyrus had ever seen him, which said much. Cyrus felt an icy blanket settle over his heart; the entire room froze, in fact. Then Aran fixed Cyrus with a level stare and the single word he spoke explained all. ‘Cyrus.’