Cirin struggled forwards, drawing sweat as he finally finished the swing. The wooden sabre wasn’t heavy, but having to swing it over a countless times made it weigh much more. Cirin glanced over his shoulder and cursed at the sight. Azhar was always this way. Always strict and unfairly so.

“Is dat all ya got mouse?”

“Go bodda someone else.” whined Cirin.

Azhar puffed and leaned back, his hands thrust in his pockets, “Ya telling me ya give up?”

Cirin grit his teeth and swung again, feeling every bit of his fatigue only a hundred times worse. Again he wrought his hands around the pommel, ready for the next unimaginable swing. Azhar stopped him then, holding the boy’s arm before he could lift it.

The boy looked up at his worn master, the black curls of hair covering both of their faces. Cirin caught his breath before speaking up, “Why did ya-”

“Ya failed, mouse.”

“What!?”

Azhar yanked the blade from Cirin’s tired hands and pushed the boy back with a tap on the forehead.

“Da test was ta know when ta give up and regain ya energy. If dis wa da real ting, ya be dead. And more importantly, so to would da prince.” Azhar pointed the blunt blade at the even younger boy a little ways behind him. The boy was pale with black hair and green eyes.

Cirin let his head fall back before the boy stumbled to hide himself, “Sol again? Why do I gotta protect such a weak ting?”

Azhar swaggered to the far side of the garden where they trained, deciding that was that. “Ya dun get it, mouse.” He said, his voice echoing in the distance.

“I never get anyting ya say, ya stupid old mon!”

Cirin could not see Azhar then, but he knew the old man was shaking his head as he always did. There was nothing Cirin hated more than that condescending grin Azhar prodded about. Cirin sat up. Azhar did not get him. The old man proved incapable of acknowledging Cirin or his skill with the blade, despite how every other magistrate who saw him had nothing but compliments for him. A genius of swords they said. No better breed of warrior they insisted. Truly a spectacle to see when he got older. Yet his own teacher, the failure Azhar, had not once recognized what everyone else had. Cirin stood up.

“If it’s because I’ll be banished, den I do get it. I’m strong!” said Cirin pointing at his chest, “I can defend myself out dere. I can grow up ta become a mercenary, maybe a bandit, or a soldier. I dun need dis-- dis royal welp slowing me down!”

Azhar paused his easing walk, “No. Ya dun get it. Ain’t na ting slowing down. Rest up and reflect. We’ll be seeing how ya do on new sunlight.”

Cirin kicked the ground in front of him, prompting a dust cloud in its wake. “Stupid old mon.”

“Are you ok?”

Cirin sneered at the boy prince, “It be people like you I hate da most. Here, let me protect ya by giving ya advice.”

The boy nodded meekly. He was young as was Cirin, but compared to the ten year old, the prince was only five.

Cirin motioned for Sol to come close, and the lamb complied.

“Dis advice be simple.” Said Cirin with a step towards da prince, “If ya want ta stay safe.” Cirin reached for the boy and lifted him by his collar, “Stay away from me.”

“Y-you’re hurting me.”

“Let him go, mouse.” warned a distant Azhar, staring back.

Cirin lifted him higher and held him there. There were no words as he did so, only the meek squirming of Sol. Finally, Cirin released the boy, and let him fall on his bum.

“Go.” commanded Cirin, “and if ya tell anyone, I won’t let go next time.”

Sol scrambled to his feet and was gone the next moment. Cirin spied at Azhar, he too was gone.

Cirin kicked the dirt in front of him once more. Sol was meek even for a five year old, yet despite the difference in their strengths Sol had one common trait to Cirin. Just like Cirin, Sol never gave up. Cirin had known this of his would be charge for three years.

Life had been good til he was seven. Days were full of free roam through the palace. He knew everyone then, and they him. It didn’t matter of Al’Azim was the son of a noble or Gizir was the soon-to-be cook in training, whatever their rank, they were still friends, still comrades at arms against the opposing children when they took part in the many bouts of the palace grounds. Until recently, no-one cared that he was the son of two criminals. No-one bothered wondering why the parents of an orphaned boy would even matter. Yet one day they did.

Gizir went off to train with his father, Al’Azim sent to another palace in another city. All the while Cirin was forced to meet a beady eyed toddler. When he was seven, Cirin became alone again. The students of Azhar knew his background well and decided not to talk to him. Cirin found himself lashing out in bouts of anger, made all the more worse by Azhar’s training regimen. He spent most of days staring blindly at the ocean when he wasn’t training. It all started then. Cirin had been in hell for three years.

“Keep running!” instructed Azhar.

Cirin panted behind his dozen colleagues. They were almost finished as was he. The sweat stung in his eyes and his heart beat ravenously. Azhar had them run along the palace walls every morn and evening. Cirin’s head bobbed as the first of the students passed the finish. Morning runs were easy. He squinted against the setting sun. It was the evening runs that tested the runner’s mettle. A mettle, the boy knew he had proven time after time. Even though he was the slowest, he was also the youngest by far. To most it was impressive that he even finished the laps. Cirin slowed as he neared the finish line. That was when Azhar demanded the impossible.

“Cirin, ten mo laps!”

The boy slowed even more to glare at his teacher. Lately, the man had become intolerable with his demands.

“Slow down even more and ya might as well stop. Ya giving up, mouse?”

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To that, Cirin transformed his trudge into a jog. The cruel Azhar was keen on the boy’s weakness. And so the boy kept pace lap after lap till the sky shed its blue for a black darker than ink, darker than the momentous tower looming over the city. Cirin found himself collapsed by the palace wall and heaving.

“Catch your breath mouse, I’ll fetch da training blades.”

Cirin rose a hand to protest, but his exhaustion fought him down. That was just like Azhar. Only a man as twisted as the slavers would appreciate the suffering of a child.

“Water?”

Cirin looked up at the outstretched cup. He turned away from it, mouthing the words before saying it, “Didn’t I tell ya ta stay away from me?”

“Water?”

Cirin spun to the prince and leapt to his feet, “Ya thinkin I’m an animal now, eh? Ya worked da cattle too hard and now ya need feed it?”

Seeing the water still held out, Cirin quickly knocked it out of the boy’s hand. “Don’t patronize me.” Scoffed Cirin.

Sol tried to pick up the cup then, but Cirin kicked it away, “You’re a prince, ya best be acting da part.”

Yet Sol went after the cup instead. Cirin balled his hands into fists. The training was tough, his comrades ignored him, and what little he had in the world had left him three years ago. But despite all of that it was Sol’s demeanour that bothered him most. Sol was an exception among exceptions. He was a kind master.

Cirin had lived long enough in the palace to know that such a thing could not possibly exist. The masters thrived on cruelty and like child to the parent, the servants mimicked that behaviour. Those who were strong lived at the expense of the weak. That was how it was. He knew his job would be a difficult one, yet it frustrated him just how much worse his charge would make it. Sol was weak, so defending him would be harder. Sol was kind, so his enemies would reasdily exploit him.

Cirin fell back against the palace wall and rested his head against the cold limestone. For a moment he tried to think of something other than Sol. In spite of his training, the fact he was ignored, or what he had lost three years ago, it was the little prince put under his care that occupied his mind. He snapped his head back to the prince, who had picked up the cup and wandered into the palace. Cirin sighed. No doubt the prince was planning to get more water.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor and once again Cirin stood up.

“We’ll skip da swings today. I want ya ta try defending against me.”

“A spar?” brightened the boy.

“Heh. Not quite mouse. You’ve a long way ta go before I grant ya da honor. Now den.” Azhar seized his advance and threw the boy a wooden blade. Cirin caught it just as Azhar withdrew his own, “If ya don’t stagger my hits, ya will be feelin it tammara.”

Cirin nodded, weary of his trainer and widened his stance in preparation.

Azhar charged and for the rest of the night the beat of wooden blades echoed like drums.

Azhar backed off, holding the wooden blade in front of him as he spoke between breaths, “Enough for today. Go, retire and reflect.”

Cirin nodded, tossing the blade back to its owner. That usually signaled their exchanges at the end of daily practice, yet that night Cirin ventured a little further.

“Old mon?” He started.

Azhar paused, his back kept to Cirin, “What is it, mouse?”

“Why me? Why do ya train me harder den da others?”

Azhar stayed silent for several uncomfortable moments until finally he let his words out, “Because even if ya don’t, ya’ll train ya self and just as hard.”

Cirin pressed his brows, “And why would I do dat?”

Azhar laughed before pacing away from Cirin. “Cause ya have a goal, mouse. Even if ya don’t get it. I do. Ya as simple as a door wit da contents written on it.”Azhar’s voice faded into the palace grounds, “But dat be no bad ting.”

Cirin kept quiet after that, watching his master shrink into the distance. He had watched Azhar’s back for a while now. The man carried two swords, but only ever used one. Though Cirin had scarcely seen Azhar even use that one.

As the training continued, the days turned into seasons, and the seasons into years. By the time Cirin was twelve he had enough of the prince.

Cirin pointed his blade squarely at the boy.

“I be telling ya everyday now. Ya got no guts to be a master needin’ our protection. Ya don even try ta protect yourself so why should we bother?”

“Oi Cirin, dat’s enough. Sol’s a docile boy.”

“He’s weak.” Spat the twelve year old, “And if he wasn’t here we’d be in betta guard positions. Betta paying, more respectable.”

Cirin’s fellow students who had oft quibbled against his treatment of the prince finally showed signs of unease of the situation. Cirin smiled, up until then it had been stark assertation that Sol was a charge worth protecting. Now, as if an era had passed, Cirin was winning.

Sol tossed his head about at his various defenders and quickly found himself shifting as uneasily as they did.

“Go den, defend yourself.” taunted Cirin.

Sol stood quiet, almost shaking under the pressure of the around him. Finally, he managed a squeak so meek Cirin must have been the only one to hear, “I don’t know how.”

Cirin lowered his brows and tossed his wooden sabre to the ground, “This isn’t worth it.” He declared, before storming past the boy. “I’m leaving dis palace and any of ya who tink demselves stronger dan dese mongrels ought ta do the same.”

Cirin’s fellows who had said nothing in the meantime stood dumbly looking about each other. Even after the instigator had left himself, the rest remained dead still.

“He’s right ya know.” Started a man, “There be no pride for us here, we’re nothing betta dan slaves.”

Another man, this one visibly older scoffed at the claim and stomped up to the first, “Ya honestly believe dat urchin? Have any of ya seen da outside world?”

“Ofcourse we have.”

“Den you know why we stay here. You should be thankful for da protection dese walls give and da ease of protecting a child no one remembers. What be out dere for you, eh? Sandrats? Hah, if ya be lucky. You lot will be slaves befa ya know, captured by da Merid Dance Troupe no less.”

One of the men from the back of crowd spoke up then, “Even if he is an urchin, even if he be younger den us, he’s still da most skilled.”

“A genius of blades.” Nodded another man, “and not just dat, he’s always been wise-headed for his age. As practical as a builder and as cynical as a miser.”

“Pah, look at ya all, praisin’ a child who has yet ta break his voice.” The old man staggered between each man, looking each one in the eye, “Dis isn’t a matta of pride. Pride be getting ya killed. Look at me.” He beat his chest with his hands, both visibly stained with scars, “Look at me and wanda why I be older dan all ya fools, is cause I used my head, I lived with dese walls and ‘defended’ whoever needed defending. If dat means protecting prince Sol den I don’t care.”

There was huffle in the crowd as a few of the men started whispering.

Finally the man from the back said it aloud, “Where be da prince, anyways?”

…

Cirin craned his head to the gates high infront of him. He had stared at those doors for his entire life and yet he had never been on the other side. He clutched his chest and hung on to his shoulder. The thought of what lay on the other side filled him to the tip with unease. He had heard the rumors. Outside was dangerous. Bandits, cutthroats, and slavers all roamed the streets like rats in bird seed. Kidnapping was common, the most profitable resource of lamanori wouldn’t have been slaves otherwise.

“Ya want ta leave, boy?”

Cirin snapped to the guard at the top of the gates. The question seemed simple. From the moment the teachers could cram the rules of the palace within his curly black head, Cirin had known that there was no contract or obligation keeping him confined within palace grounds. He was free the moment he was born. Yet re-entry into the palace required direct permission from a palace authority, permission from people who would much rather pretend none below their status existed.

Cirin nodded at the guard and the guard disappeared. The boy practised his breaths, deep and measured. Then the guard popped back and pointed curiously at the object besides the boy.

“Is dat da waste cart from da morn?”

Cirin shrugged coolly, “I tink so.”

“Looks like da lazy bastard Mafa got drunk again last night. Take dat wit ya, eh? If ya bring it close to da dumping grounds Mafa will pick it up.”

Cirin tossed his eyes from the sodden wagon to the man above him, “alright.” He agreed.

Within moments the heavy door unhinged and swung inwards summoning a dense cloud of dust in its wake. Cirin shielded his eyes instinctively until the dust blew away and revealed what lay ahead.

Cirin held his eyes wide. It was worse than the rumors. It was a wasteland. The green lushness of the palm trees hung in stark disarray over the abandon shacks.

“Go, before Azhar sees ya.”

Cirin sighed, leaning down to pick up the wagon before venturing into the great city of Lamanori. As soon as the palace gates shut behind him, he knew he was alone. Or atleast he knew they thought he was alone. There was a bump in the cart and Cirin instinctively ‘shh’d’

“Sorry” replied the cart.

“Carts dun talk, mon.”