“No.” Drust’s gaze followed every move Ghent made with the staff. “He tested it in the palace’s training yard.”
	Drust gave a snarling scowl and stepped back when the boy attempted twirling the weapon.
	Elayra’s deadly glare bore into Ghent at being called out. She opened her mouth to snap a retort, but Ghent lost his grip and dropped the staff. It just barely missed the fire pit, landing unnervingly close to the flames. She smirked. More condescension rested in that single expression than what should have been possible.
	“Jealous of [i]what?[/i]” she snarked, glad for the distraction. Even if it [i]did[/i] only strengthen her thoughts and wet her itch to rescue the weapon from him. “Your ineptitude, or your stupidity?”
	As soon as the boy had straightened with the staff, Drust reached out and gripped the shaft immediately beneath Ghent’s hand, his massive and an unnaturally pale off-white compared to Ghent’s.
	A snarl twisting his face, he leaned closer to Ghent, his grip impossibly tight. “Did you [i]not[/i] hear what I said?” he snarled. His neck twitched and the veins at his eyes gave a quick pulse. “It’s a [i]tool,[/i]” he continued through his teeth. “Not. A. Toy!”
	Elayra’s attention snapped to Drust. Her smugness vanished from her face, her mind switching gears to react accordingly if Ghent triggered the Curse.
	[i]If you can even stand,[/i] she reminded herself resentfully, scowling. She did not yet feel much of a difference from what she had drank of her Curative-infused water. If it was working its magic, she could not say from sitting there.
	Drust released the staff with a heavy, growling sigh and stepped away from Ghent. He gripped the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, leaving Ghent to abide by his final order. His head twitched toward Ghent at the gentle sound of the boy’s footsteps on the grass, but he kept his eyes shut for a moment more.
	Elayra watched the two of them, her gaze flicking back and forth. Ghent with a weapon still unsettled her far more than Drust's unstable state.
	Drust’s eyes opened as Ghent passed him. At his name, he turned his head to look to his charge. He gave a quick grunt and jerk of his head to indicate for Ghent to continue.
	The giant of a man turned to face the boy, his dark eyebrows rising at Ghent’s questions.
	“The human guards of Heart Palace began training around the age of seven,” he began. His eyes again followed Ghent’s every twitch with eerie precision and swiftness, half his face still visible in his angle to the firelight.
	Elayra looked away, her jaw clenching, at the switch in conversation. A switch to what once [i]was.[/i] To what [i]she[/i] was expected to return, in some shape or form. Again focusing on tuning out his words, she took another drink from her water skin, almost draining what remained.
	“They would train for nearly sixteen years. Devoting their lives to the art. Only the strongest and noblest became true knights. The commanders of my ilk—and occasionally myself—were often their judges.” The corner of his lips tugged upward.
	Drust crossed his arms, making his muscles bulge slightly against the brown sleeves of his tunic.
	“[i]Your[/i] fate doesn’t lie with them. Your lot is to take your father’s place as palace vinifcium when the time comes. A title that earns a place in the queen’s council. The right-hand of the White Rule.” He sighed before answering Ghent’s second question. “Yes. The armor of our warriors was a sight to behold.” He snorted. “More [i]importantly,[/i] it was [i]practical[/i]. And prevented your insides from spilling out quicker in a real battle.”