I stumble back, barely catching myself.
He never stops. Every motion is a calculated thread in a seamless sequence. A quick feint to my ribs. A real strike aimed at my shoulder. A sharp flick of his foot to test my balance. A step forward and then he’s already stepping back. A punch thrown and then he’s already dodged before I’ve fully extended.
I try to track him, to find a rhythm, but there isn’t one. Because he’s not reacting. He’s dictating every move.
And I can’t keep up.
I shift my stance, trying to predict his next move, but he’s too fast. It’s not like fighting a person, but rather a force of nature. A few more moments of this—testing, assessing, dodging everything I throw at him like it’s effortless—and then, finally, he steps back.
I let out a breathless gasp and bend over, bracing my hands on my knees.
Thane inclines his head, arms loose at his sides, like this wasn’t even a warm-up.
“Let’s work on your defensive skills,” he says. “Now I have a better idea of what you’re capable of.” He pauses, then adds, “And so far, it’s not much.”
I glare at him.
“What did they even teach you back in your village, anyway?”
My jaw tightens. I wipe sweat from my brow, forcing my pulse to slow. “Enough to survive,” I mutter.
Thane’s expression doesn’t change. “Not for long,” he says. “Not like this.”
I grit my teeth. The ache in my arms flares, but I don’t look away.
I’m not just some soft-handed girl with no idea how to fight.Farming takes strength. Endurance. Grit.I have all of that.
“I can take it,” I say. “Teach me.”
His lips twitch slightly, like that’s exactly what he was waiting to hear. “Good,” he says. “Let’s begin.”
The air is thick with sweat and steel. Leather and pressure. Every stone under my boots is marked by someone stronger than me.
But I’m here now.
I don’t know if I belong here. But I know I’m not leaving.
“You can’t just know how to hit,” Thane says. “You have to know how to take a hit.”
I clench my fists. “I’ve taken hits before.”
His lips twitch. “Not like this.”
He moves. His first strike comes slow—testing, measuring. I raise my arms, blocking it, absorbing the impact. That was easy. The next strike is faster. I block it, but the force reverberates through my forearm, sending a dull ache up to my elbow.
“You’re letting me push through your guard,” Thane says, stepping back. “A real opponent won’t just stop after one strike. They’ll break through. Wear you down. So you don’t just absorb—you redirect.”
He steps in again, throwing another controlled jab at my ribs. I block, but too hard, too stiff. The impact sends me off balance.
Thane shakes his head. “Again.”
I set my stance, heart pounding against my ribs, sweat trickling down my back, following the lines of the tattoos that weren’t there days ago.
A few days ago.
How is this my life now?
Thane throws another strike. I block better this time, angling my forearm to deflect rather than just stop it.
