“That’s a kindjal.” He shifts behind me, guiding my grip with his own. “Practice version. Dull steel.” His thumb brushes my knuckles as he balances my hold. The pressure is unyielding. “Once you’re ready,” he murmurs close to my ear. “You’ll use a double-edged one.”
The implication lands low and warm. You’re not going anywhere. His hand lingers a second longer than necessary. My pulse is loud in my ears. I look at the knife in my palm while its weight is making my wrist dip.
“Don’t fight the weight.” Viktor’s voice comes from just behind my shoulder. He nudges my wrist until the blade steadies. “Let it settle. Then compensate.”
His hands close over mine, adjusting my grip by a fraction. It's a tiny movement, but it changes everything. “The kindjal isn’t thrown like a kitchen knife.” He shifts my wrist, firm but controlled. “You don’t flick it. You guide it. The wrist stays firm.”
He lifts my elbow, pressing my shoulder back with a slow push. “Straight line. No curve.” His mouth is close enough now that I feel his breath brush my cheek. “If your wrist bends, the blade turns. You miss. Or you wound.”
My breath catches.
“And when you wound,” he continues evenly. “You don’t get to choose what happens next.” His fingers tighten briefly around mine. “Wounded men panic. They scream. They bleed longer. Someone else finishes it. Or they live just long enough to remember who hesitated. Like this; hold the grip near the end.” His thumb presses against my knuckles. “Feel where the balance point is.”
I shift my fingers. The blade tips forward, then settles into a place that feels inevitable. “There.” He stills my hand. “You feel that?”
“Yeah.”
“That is where you throw from.” Viktor’s hands settle around my wrist and forearm. “The blade should roll out of your hand. Not jump. Not fly sideways. Roll.” He guides my arm into position. My pulse jumps under his fingers, loud enough that I’m sure he feels it. “Breathe,” he murmurs.
I drag air into my lungs. It comes shallow anyway. “Focus on the line between you and the target.” He angles me toward a cracked section of wall marked with faint scratches. “Picture the blade moving through that line. Not at the wall, but through it.”
My elbow dips without me noticing. “Up.” His grip firms, correcting me immediately. “Always keep the point aimed where you want to strike. Intention first. Force second.”
I lift my arm again. My shoulder is tightening. “Good.” He moves my hand through the motion. It is a single, clean path from shoulder to release. “That’s the throw.” His voice stays calm. “No force you don’t need. Control is what decides the outcome.”
He draws my arm back to my shoulder and then lets go. The space he leaves behind feels louder than the contact did. “Try it.”
My palm is damp. The weight pulls at my wrist, but I hold the line the way he showed me. I exhale and let the blade roll out of my hand. It hits the wall with a hollow thud and drops to the floor. Viktor steps past me and picks it up, turning it once in his hand. “That was straight. Your follow-through was short. Strength will come. Precision already has.”
He places it back in my palm. “Again.”
I try again. The blade turns this time and hits the wood sideways. His hand closes over mine before I can pull back. “Don't rush. Your body still thinks everything is an attack. It wants to react fast. Make it slow. Make it yours.”
He guides my fingers back to the balance point. His thumb is sliding across the back of my hand. “You control the blade. Not the fear.”
“One more.”
I breathe in. Then I throw. The kindjal hits close to the mark. For a second I wait for his reaction like it’s the only thing holding me up. Viktor’s mouth softens. “Good.”
He retrieves the blade. When he returns, he places it back into my hand. My grip is steadier this time. My breath isn't. “You’ll learn. You just need repetition and control.”
The word control lands heavy between us. His attention settles on me in a way that strips the room of everything else. The knives, the wall, even the breath in my chest disappear. It feels like pressure on my sternum even though he hasn't touched me. “Not just control of the blade,” he adds quietly.
My stomach pulls tight.
“Control of yourself. Control of what you give me.”
My fingers tighten around the hilt. He steps closer. His hand slides over mine and lowers the blade until the point faces the floor. “You think this lesson is about throwing.”
“You said it was.”
He shakes his head once. “No. This is about learning to listen.” His thumb moves along my knuckles. “And to obey when you’re told to.”
Heat crawls up my neck. He takes the kindjal from my hand and sets it aside on the table. He tips my chin higher. “Look at me.”
I do.
“You’re tense. Your pulse is too fast. That means you’re thinking instead of listening.”
