like that. Or he thought I was lying, or exaggerating. “Old enough to know it was wrong,” I snapped. “Cyra.” Soft again. “How old?” I sat back in my chair. “Ten,” I admitted. “And it was my father, not Ryzek, who first asked.” His head bobbed. He touched the point of the knife to the table and spun the handle in quick circles, marking the wood. Finally, he said, “When I was ten, I didn’t know my fate yet. So I wanted to be a Hessa soldier, like the ones that patrolled my father’s iceflower fields. He was a farmer.” Akos balanced his chin on a hand as he looked me over. “But one day criminals
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