Tap—side. Death blow.Damn it.Is he even sweating? Because I am. It’s dripping down my back, mixing with the frustration grinding in my gut.
What does it look like when he actually tries?
I keep pushing, keep attacking, but my movements feel slower, heavier. My arms start to feel like boulders.
“You’re still hesitating,” Thane says, knocking the blade aside like swatting a fly. “You’re reacting to me. Not controlling the fight.”
I tighten my grip. “I’m trying.”
“Then try harder.”
His sword sweeps low—I jump back just in time, but stumble, ever so slightly. Thane doesn’t press the attack. He steps back instead, lowering his blade slightly.
“Reset,” he says. “And this time, don’t just react. Take control.”
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. My chest heaves, sweat slicking my grip.
“What does that even mean?!”
Thane tilts his head slightly, sword still lowered, calm, unaffected.
“It means you’re letting me dictate this fight,” he says evenly. “I decide when to attack, when to hold back. I control the space between us. I control the tempo. You’re just keeping up.”
I tighten my grip. “And how exactly do I change that?”
“Take control.”
I stare. “That’s not helpful.”
His eyes flicker with something—not amusement, not impatience, just pure instruction. “Control the fight, Amara. Stop waiting for me to move. Make me react to you.”
I breathe through my nose, trying to hold the frustration before it boils over. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” he says. “That’s why you’re learning.”
I clench my teeth, but he continues.
“Right now, you react. You block, you dodge, you counter—but you don’tlead.You wait for me to attack so you can defend.”
I scowl, wiping my wrist against my forehead. “That’s how we trained in my village.”
“Then it was bad training.”
I glare at him. He doesn’t blink.
“A good fighter controls the fight,” Thane continues. “I know exactly how you’ll react before you even move. I control thespace, the rhythm, the pace. I control when you get to breathe.”
That hits harder than I want it to.
“So how do I fix it?” I ask, throat dry.
His grip tightens around his sword. “You set the pace. You make me move where you want me. You don’t just swing and hope—it’s not luck, it’sdesign.Set traps. Cut off escape routes. Think ahead. Stop fighting like this is a spar.”
He steps back, blade raised.
“Start fighting like youmean to win.”
I swallow hard. I’m soaked in sweat and barely holding form.
