They've been 'training' for an hour, perhaps, when Karim finally lowers his staff and looks at the panting boy in front of him. "You're not very good at this, are you?"
Terrestrius wipes his brow, dressed down in a dirt coloured tunic and green hair slicked back with sweat. His hold on his staff is clumsy yet sturdy, likely from a natural affinity from the wood that made it.
Karim's hold is more sure but less stable, the wood charred slightly beneath his fingertips. They're not letting him hold a real weapon of course—it has taken months of good behaviour to be let out of the dark, dank cell he begrudgingly sits in, and let into the light of Katolis' newly constructed courtyard—and he is not used to the difference. The weight is wrong, the length unfamiliar, and he has to keep reminding himself he cannot channel fire spells through it.
That he is not allowed to channel fire spells at all, anymore, anti-magic runes still stitched onto his sleeves. Onto the thin bracelets encircling his wrists.
They are less clunky than his manacles, but they are still chains, no matter what the little king calls them.
"I told you," Terrestrius says breathlessly. "I'm not a fighter."
"And you're rusty too, Your Highness."
Karim wrinkles his nose; he has never been able to entirely discern whether Terrestrius uses his title as a sign of respect or as a poor attempt at a light hearted jab. Or both.
"I wonder why," Karim bites sardonically.
"But are you a warrior, then? In addition to being a mage?"
"I... suppose. I was raised to strong. To fight to the bitter end with honour."
Terrestrius blows sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. "You sound like a Moonshadow elf."
"They are our lesser reflections, yes."
"I've met Moonshadow elves," Terrestrius expands and Karim rolls his eyes; yes, the assassin of the king who somehow gets to galavant around the palace because his daughter is the other prince's brooding bride. "They'd all kick your ass."
Terrestrius has been spending too much time with Amaya, lately, Karim thinks, and then wonders if they ever discuss him. But what does he care, truly? Since when has he cared what his sister-in-law thinks, or even what his remaining sister does?
"And it's not strong, what you're doing," Terry continues. "Life is about more than fighting—"
I am asking you to fight, to stay alive for me. For our baby.
"—and about way more than winning."
"And who taught you that nonsense?"
"My ma and pa, for starters. And then Lord Viren—the previous High Mage. He had to learn what a different kind of strength was. Said that my name was strong... when I told him I chose it."
Karim stops, a strange vulnerability on the other man's face. "You chose it?"
Terrestrius meets his gaze with just a hint of defiance. "Yes."
Karim considers. Many are Choosers, in Sunfire society—Kazi the librarian. Janai. She'd fretted over picking a new name for herself, till Khessa had grown too impatient and selected one from the few options still on the table.
He can remember the first time he'd ever said it. How right it had felt.
"It's a good name," Karim says at last. "Traditional, if a bit long."
"Well, that's why my friends call me Terry."
Karim sets down his staff, letting it clatter onto the courtyard. "I'm tired," he says, and Terry herds him into the shade.
For the first time, the silence isn't uncomfortable, and when Terry passes him a cup of water, he says thank you.
