Eutych, the soon-Prince at Agonost, stood uncomfortable in the golden practice armor his Fathers had made for him. It made him feel slow in the face of the furious onslaught the weapons masters had caught him in down on the practice floor.

A man to his right, Eutych dropped the tip of his spear, drove it into the floor, used the spring to knock the swordsman back.

A man behind, three heads shorter than the willow-tall prince. He swung around and caught the man’s legs out from under him. The tip of his spear glinted and whistled against the air.

To feel so slow when he had finally begun to feel his life rush about him. Hardly seemed fair.

“You will have to learn some techniques I cannot teach you,” Kemen had said, back at the Bretevair. Eutych was dressed in functional, common Bretevi armor then. Eutych had left his royal blood on that practice floor, and he’d been glad to spill it for the lessons he received. He left only droplets of sweat on the stones, now. “When you have another set of arms, I imagine much of what I’ve taught you will be obsolete!”

Another pair of arms.

Weapons master came leaping in, had seen Eutych moving slowly.

Had finally decided to attack like a soldier and not a nurse-maid for the soon-Prince.

Eutych passed his spear from one hand—

--to the hand that would be there. The other pair of arms. After the coronation.

Or so it felt.

He twisted like he had seen Benat twist, when Kemen and he had decided to spar while the soon-Prince rested against a wall.

The armor could not constrain him. He moved like Benat, the small warrior prince, had moved.

His spear-pint caught the weapons master, center of mass, stopped him in the air and dropped him with gasp.

Eutych pivoted up, the way Kemen lept to his feet when Benat gave the smallest bit of ground. The way he leapt after the smaller swordsman. All while Eutych rested and watched and learned.