Thane steps in front of me again and without warning, presses his palm against my shoulder andshoves.I stumble back, catching myself before I fall.
He tilts his head. “Exactly.”
I grind my teeth. Of course, he had to prove his point like that.
“Again,” Thane says.
I reset, adjusting my footing, anticipating this time. Thane shoves my shoulder again and this time, I don’t move.
He nods. “Better. Now your punches have a chance to actually matter.”
I exhale, rolling my shoulders. “So what, we just fix my stance all day?”
Thane smirks. “No. Now we learn how to hit.” He pulls a roll of rough linen from his belt and gestures for my hands.
I hesitate, then extend one toward him. “I know how to make a fist.”
His expression doesn’t change. “Not well enough.”
I bite back a retort as he takes my hand and starts wrapping. His movements are practiced, efficient, the linen rough but secure as he coils it over my knuckles first, layering the fabric snugly but not too tight.
“Knuckles first,” he says. “This takes the most impact. If you hit wrong, this is where you’ll split your skin first.”
He loops the wrap over the back of my hand, then around my wrist. His fingers brush against mine, calloused but precise, working quickly.
“Wrist next,” he continues. “If it’s not supported, you’ll break it the first time you throw a punch with real force.”
The wrap winds around my palm, back over my knuckles again, then down to my wrist once more, creating tension that locks everything in place.
He tugs once, testing the tension, then ties it off. “Too tight?”
I flex my fingers, curling them into a fist. The wrap holds, firm but flexible. “No. It’s good.”
He gestures for my other hand. I lift it without protest.
As he starts wrapping again, his voice is steady. “You’ll learn to do this yourself. Before every fight, every session. It won’t stop your bones from breaking, but it will keep you from tearing yourself apart.”
I swallow, watching the methodical rhythm of his hands, the way he moves with purpose.
Thane finishes tying off the last loop of linen, securing the wrap around my wrist with precise, practiced efficiency.
He steps back, nodding once. “Now, you’re ready to hit something.”
I stare down at my hands. Strange. They don’t look like mine anymore. The linen is rough but secure, wrapping my fingers, knuckles, wrists—turning my hands into something meant for fighting. Not for planting or gathering. Not for tending fields under the morning sun.
I curl my fingers into a fist. The fabric holds, supporting me in ways I never thought I would need.
Just weeks ago, my hands were covered in dirt, not linen and sweat. I used to wake with the sun, not for combat, but to help my mother in the fields, pull weeds, or carry baskets of grain to the village. I knew the weight of a shovel, the feel of soil slipping through my fingers.
Now, I wake for bruises and aching muscles, for the Elements, to be the Spiritborn . . . and war.
My eyes sting.
I look up. Thane is watching me carefully, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t rush me and I feel a small twinge of gratitude bloom in my chest.
I exhale slowly, forcing the heartache back down.
I’m not that girl anymore. And maybe, never will be again.
