IT HAD BEEN nearly five days since Sebastian had been hired as the palace’s new weapons master, and the job was nothing like he’d thought it would be. All he wanted was to manage the king’s arsenal of weapons in peace and quiet, saving his coin until he could afford a solitary cottage somewhere far from Kosim Thalas on a cliff overlooking the Chrysós Sea. Somewhere his father would never find him.
Instead, he was trapped inside the training arena on the palace grounds, polishing swords and listening to a cluster of nobles in fancy clothing speculate about which jewel-encrusted dagger would match their summer wardrobe best.
Not trapped, he reminded himself before his lungs tightened and desperation to fight his way out of the crowded space pushed every other thought from his head.
He wasn’t trapped. He wasn’t caught between the monster who’d raised him and the viciousness of the streets outside his front door. He was performing the duties of his new job—a job a boy like him was lucky to have—and he could walk away whenever he wanted to.
Not that he would. Not until he’d saved enough coin to buy his cottage and his solitude. Enough to lift his mother from the filth and poverty of her life and set her up somewhere else.
Maybe a fresh start would be enough to save her from herself. Sebastian had long since given up believing it would be enough for him. He wore his grief, his shame, and the imprint of his father’s rage deep beneath his skin, where all the coin in the world couldn’t scrub it clean.
He leaned over the whetstone that rested on a wooden crate and patted it with an oiled cloth.
A hand descended onto his shoulder. “Are these all the daggers in the king’s collection?” one of the noblemen asked.
Sebastian jerked upright and took a quick step back, breaking the man’s hold on him.
The nobleman, a tall, lanky man wearing a fitted linen suit that would restrict his range of motion in a fight, stood loose and relaxed in front of Sebastian, his brows climbing toward his hairline as he waited for the weapon master’s response.
Not a threat. Just another in a long line of young nobles flocking to the palace to curry favor with Súndraille’s king. Or, based on a few conversations he’d overheard inside the arena, to keep an eye on the king and report any failures to their fathers.
The man broke eye contact with Sebastian and looked at the other members of his group. “Did Thad hire a mute for a weapons master?” He laughed, and several others joined in.
Sebastian forced his hands to relax instead of forming fists, and took another small step back so that the entire group was in his line of sight while the wall that lined the arena was to his back.
“All the weapons available for visitors’ use are there,” Sebastian said quietly, nodding toward the display of jeweled daggers and ornately handled swords that lined the table to his right.
“He speaks!” The nobleman threw his arms wide, and Sebastian clenched his jaw as he held himself still.
Not a threat. Not trapped.
“Leave him alone, Makario,” said a young woman with friendly eyes and the impossibly small corseted waist that seemed to be popular among the nobility for reasons Sebastian couldn’t fathom.
Who would agree to cinch themselves too tight to be able to draw a full breath? How would they run or fight if necessary?
Of course, nobles didn’t have to run and fight. They didn’t look over their shoulders for threats in every shadow or worry that if they were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, the city’s guard would beat them and throw them into prison to rot.
Makario shrugged and wandered toward the display table. “Just making sure the king put out enough weapons for us to enjoy our practice today. And making sure that in his haste to replace the previous weapons master he didn’t hire an imbecile to be in charge of sharp objects.”
“Makario!” the woman snapped. “He can hear you!” She gave an apologetic little shrug in Sebastian’s direction. He wanted to tell her that words meant little when they came from a man who wouldn’t follow them up with action, but it didn’t matter. She pitied Sebastian because she saw him as a victim.
He would never be anyone’s victim again.
Sebastian waited, watchful and still, as the group bickered good-naturedly over which of them would throw daggers and which of them would parry with swords whose tips were capped with cork to prevent injury to their opponents. When teams had been chosen and weapons assigned, Sebastian skirted the arena to check the targets and arrange the sparring areas to the group’s liking.
He had just finished securing a new sheet of canvas with a bull’s-eye painted in the center to the enormous stack of hay bales at the south end when the woman who’d pitied him approached.
“Here.” She fished a silver coin out of the little pouch that hung from the glittering woven metal belt that wrapped around her waist. “For your troubles.” She pressed the coin into his palm and squeezed his hand with hers. He jerked back as if she’d burned him.
The coin landed in the sawdust at his feet, and a delicate frown etched itself between the woman’s brows. “It’s okay. Thad won’t mind if we reward you for good service.”
His scars ached. It took everything he had to calmly bend down and scoop up the coin as if the unwelcome touch from another person hadn’t set off a reaction inside him that felt like the entire Chrysós Sea was trapped within, tearing at his skin as it sought release.
He nodded to her as he pocketed the coin and hurried back to his corner of the arena where he could sit with his back to the wall and polish swords in peace.
Not trapped. No threats in sight. Just doing his job until he could buy his freedom.
He repeated the words to himself over and over again as he oiled the whetstone and slowly passed the sword over its surface, back and forth until the blade gleamed in the sunlight that filtered in through the windows that surrounded the upper deck of the arena.
The laughter and shouts of the nobility faded into background noise, their movements flashes of color he tracked with his peripheral vision while he focused on the task in front of him. He was finishing the third of five blades when the arena suddenly fell silent.