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“Thalassarians are normally so guarded.”

Nerys began walking to a nearby structure. Like much of the palace, it seemed to be erected from the sands, its cream color blending seamlessly with the sand on which it sat.

“They are apprentices who have received special invitations to train with Stormcallers. Some from noble families, as a favor. Others who show promise. But all wield basic magic. There is nothing proprietary about their skills.”

As I looked closer, the truth of her words revealed itself. There were even two children among the young ones, Elydorians who had not yet reached one hundred years of age.

As we approached the structure, its thatched roof like many of the huts along the shores of Thalassaria, a man around Nerys’s age greeted us. Behind a driftwood counter, weapons of every kind stared back. The presence of tridents and spears, along with what appeared to be healing potions, reminded me of an armory back home.

“Has a sword been brought?—”

Before Nerys finished, the man produced my weapon from beneath the counter.

“Fine morning, Nerys,” he said without looking at me.

“Indeed, it is. And Caelum?”

“There.” He pointed toward the sea.

“A sword for him as well?”

By the time I worked out what was happening, I had my weapon back and we were striding toward a group of three who practiced water-wielding; only one doing so successfully.

“Caelum is an old friend and a trained swordsman,” Nerys said, explaining as we approached. “An Aegis Commander of the palace.”

He said something to his pupils, who scurried away.

“So this is your human?”

“He is not my human, Caelum.”

I’d been about to say the same. Instead, I bowed to the warrior, who did the same back to me. “Sir Rowan of Estmere,” I said.

“Master Caelum of Thalassaria,” he said, watching me carefully.

Tall and lean, his dark hair, unusual for a Thalassarian, was tied back. With sharp eyes and an angular jaw that looked permanently set, as if the weight of the world had hardened him, Master Caelum would be a formidable training partner. By the look of him, though still haranya, he had many, many decades on me, perhaps multiple centuries.

“No magic,” Nerys said.

Caelum looked at her as a father might. Kindly, with enough reproach that only the recipient could decipher its true meaning.

“How many years of training do you have on me?” I asked him.

Lifting his sword, Caelum said nothing but inclined his head, as if acknowledging his advantage.

Nerys backed away, but she was the only one. Before the first strike, most of those who previously were training had moved toward us. Blocking out the sun, the sound of waves crashing and of the cheers that were raised as we sparred, I relied on my training, hearing my grandfather’s words.

The fight begins in your mind, Rowan. If you hesitate, you’ve already lost.

My father’s words.

Move with purpose, not just strength. The blade follows where your mind leads.

And my uncle’s, one of the greatest swordsmen in Estmere.

A sword is an extension of yourself. When you wield it, let your heart guide its edge.

With every parry and strike, more cheers filled the air. Beads of sweat dripped from my forehead into my eyes, but I ignored them and everything around me but learning this man’s fighting style. Few Elydorians bothered to learn the skill of swordsmanship, their magic much more powerful. Those who did, however, typically were worthy opponents.