I breathe out hard. “Alright. Show me again.”
This time, when he moves, I try to see what he’s doing instead of just reacting. His strike comes toward my ribs again, fast and deliberate.
I shift, not away, but with him, catching his wrist at just the right angle—for half a second, I think I have it—the movement feels natural, like stepping into a current instead of fighting against it. But then Thane corrects me in the most Thane-way possible.
By knocking me onto the mat. Again.
I land hard, cursing under my breath.
“Better,” he says—like I didn’t just eat the mat for the hundredth time. “But you hesitated.”
I push myself up, breathing hard. “Because I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“You will,” Thane says simply. “Again.”
I grit my teeth and reset.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I strike. He blocks. I twist. He redirects. The rhythm builds—measured, merciless.
Suddenly, the floor rushes up to meet me. Hard. Pain shoots through my back, the air knocked from my lungs.
Thane steps back, watching, waiting.
I grit my teeth and push myself up.
“You’re still trying to stop me,” he says, arms still loose at his sides, stance perfectly steady. “You’re thinking about resistance. Don’t.”
I wipe the sweat from my forehead, chest heaving, hands flexing at my sides. “Then what the hell am I supposed to be thinking about?”
Thane tilts his head slightly. “Not thinking,” he says. “Feeling.”
I let out a sharp breath. “That’s vague and unhelpful.”
“You rely too much on force. Too much on trying to meet strength with strength.” He steps forward, slow, deliberate. “You won’t be the strongest opponent on the battlefield. Not physically. So stop fighting like someone who is.”
I glare at him, but he’s already shifting into position again.
“Again,” he says.
I breathe out, setting my feet, pushing through the ache of my muscles. This time, when he strikes, I let the motion carry through me, past me, redirecting instead of stopping.
Thane adjusts at the last second, his body twisting to keep himself from losing his footing. It’s slight, but I see the weight shift, the barest misstep. It’s progress.
I don’t have time to feel satisfied before he moves again, faster this time.
I try to anticipate, to adjust, to flow with it, but he’s already correcting, already shifting the momentum, already sending me straight to the mat.
Again.
I let out a frustrated growl, pushing up onto my elbows. “I swear to the gods, you enjoy this.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—but this time, it doesn’t stop there. It curves, just slightly, into something rarely seen on Thane’s face.
