Levon Datevar lunged, thrusting his sword straight for his father's unguarded sternum. But somehow, Lev's counterattack struck only air instead of embroidered tunic. Somehow, his father had already pivoted away with a dancer's grace. And worse, as he completed his pirouette, his sword came to rest on the side of Lev's neck. A butterfly couldn't have landed more softly.

  "Well, well," Lev's father said, withdrawing his wooden weapon. "Your counter was exceptionally quick ... and clever. Except—"

  Lev blew out a heavy breath. "Except I still lost. As always. If this were a proper fight, I'd be dead."

  His father ran his fingers across his bronzed forehead and through his cropped gray hair, swiping back the sweat that had beaded there. He grinned impishly, and his blue eyes sparkled as he nodded in silent agreement. After yet another intense sparring session, he remained the superior swordsman.

  But of course he was. How many customers came to his father's bakery, gave furtive glances for Tolian guards, and, if possible, said, "Thank you kindly, Master Swordsman," instead of Master Baker? How many of his father's friends would pull Lev aside and whisper tales of his father's heroic exploits with a sword before the Tolian occupation? When D'Win was the capital city of an idyllic mountain kingdom instead of the capital of an occupied province?

  All his father's friends would. Every single one of them. Arto Datevar, they would say with prideful nods and awestruck eyes, was Hyasa's greatest living swordsman.

  Lev's father, though, never talked about his days as a soldier. And, a reserved man, he certainly wasn't one to gloat about his talents. So, as was his way, he said nothing about his victory or skill. Instead, he tipped his head to his son while they took a break from their training. Lev braced for the stern looks and critical commentary his father was about to offer.

  Instead, though, his father flashed a smile and let out a soft chuckle. "Give yourself credit, Son. You're learning and getting sharper every day. You're already faster than me and nearly as strong. Lately, my chief advantage has been my experience. Trust me, with more practice, you'll soon be my equal and more. I'd venture to say you'll be faster and stronger than even your uncle was."

  Uncertain how to answer, Lev turned around in the narrow alley and located their water and towels, which he'd set aside by the back wall of their home. As he stepped in that direction, he chewed on the rare compliment his father had given.

  "Thank you," Lev finally said, leaning his practice sword against the rough-hewn stone wall and picking up the water jug. "Your praise is ... is ...."

  "Deserved," his father said as he joined Lev by the wall. "Much deserved. I am blessed to have a son so talented. A young man who will make all Hyasa proud. One day, you—"

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  A loud shriek from the alley's left end interrupted their conversation. Lev's father swung around and squared his shoulders toward the startling sound. Hiding his sword behind his back, he stepped in front of Lev.

  At first, every muscle in Lev's body locked with fear. But then he caught the insistent wagging of his father's sword, urging Lev to hide it. Spurred into action, he reached out for the wooden weapon just as loud laughter echoed down the alley. His father turned around and released a tense sigh.

  "It's nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Just some rowdies in the crowd, heading for the governor's festival. Fools. Now, where was I?"

  Eyes narrowed, his father extended his sword and stared at it wistfully before placing it against the wall. Then, grinning again, he rested his hand on Lev's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Someday, Son, our weapons will be made of steel instead of wood. Then we will rid our country of these horrid Tolians, and you will be counted among our reborn nation's new leaders."

  "Oh, that would be a joyful day for sure," Lev said with a snort. "But I think we both know I'm much more likely to be a baker than some sort of leader. Besides, steel weapons? The Tolians defeated? I'll believe it when it happens."

  "Working on it, Son." His father gave Lev's hair a quick tussle. "Working on it. These sorts of things take time, you know. So have faith. And have more faith in your abilities."

  Lev tilted his head and stared at his father. Sometimes he said the strangest things.

  "Ahem," a high-pitched voice behind them said, interrupting their conversation. Both Datevar men turned toward their house's back entrance, where Lev's younger sister Jemma stood with her hands on her hips and her round face puckered into a pout. "What about me, Father? Why can't I lead our people? And why don't I get to train with you? Answer carefully, or I won't tell you my news."

  Lev's father laughed. "Oh, you won't, huh?" In two strides, he reached the doorway and scooped up his middle child and only daughter. "I'm sure you will be a fine leader, too, little dove. But you are years younger than your big brother. How about you let Lev do all the hard work, and you take over when our people need a more charming and clever leader?"

  Lev groaned, but Jemma giggled and nodded. "Sounds like a plan, Father."

  "Good. And your news, little dove?"

  "Mother says to clean up before you come to the lunch table. Do not dare ruin her wonderful meal with your warrior-stench. And put on your nicest tunics and trousers. She wants the day to be special." With that, Jemma wriggled free and adjusted the coil of brown braided hair atop her head. "Mother even let me wear one of her dresses."

  Jemma gathered up the hems of the much-too-long dress and twirled to show off her fine clothing. Lev and his father clapped when she stopped.

  Blushing, she curtsied. "So don't disappoint us!" she demanded before skipping back inside the house.

  "You heard your sister," his father said, chuckling. "Apparently, if we want to eat, we need to wash up and change our clothes. Best get moving."

  "Be right there," Lev said.

  His father nodded and hurried after Jemma. Once he disappeared inside, Lev picked up his sword again and slashed at the air. Could it be true? he wondered. Could he be a brilliant swordsman? A master even? And, more importantly, was he truly destined to be a Hyasan leader?

  Of course not, he thought. The Tolians are too strong, and I'm better suited to kneading dough than leading a nation.