I flex my fingers, testing the strength of the wrap one more time. Then, finally, I lift my chin.
“Alright,” I say. “What’s first?”
Thane studies me, measuring something only he can see. Then he turns on his heel and walks toward the far side of the room.
I follow, my wrapped fists flexing at my sides.
He stops in front of a hanging striking post—a thick wooden column, its surface wrapped in layers of hardened leather and reinforced with tightly wound rope. The leather is worn and scarred, the ropes darkened from years of sweat and impact. Deep indentations mark where countless warriors have struck before me, the grooves of fists and knuckles etched into its surface.
“This will teach you how to strike properly,” Thane says, laying a hand against it. “The leather gives. The wood doesn’t. Hit it wrong, and you’ll feel it.”
I glance at him. “Hit it right?”
His lips twitch. “Then you’ll feel that too.”
I square my stance, raising my fists. The linen presses tight, my knuckles bracing against the fabric.
“Don’t swing wildly,” Thane says, circling behind me. “A good strike isn’t just about power. It’s about efficiency. Speed. Precision.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake out the stiffness from yesterday’s training.
He steps behind me, adjusting my stance with small, deliberate corrections—his boot nudges my back foot slightly wider, his fingers press against my shoulder, shifting my balance.
“Your power doesn’t come from your arms,” he says. “It comes from your legs. From the rotation of your body. If you only throw with your fists, you waste your strength.”
I set my feet more firmly, feeling the ground beneath me, the weight shift from heel to toe.
“Now hit it.”
I exhale and swing. My fist connects, pain shooting up my knuckles. The impact reverberates through my wrist, jarring, imperfect. I shake out my hand, biting back a curse.
Thane doesn’t blink. “Again.”
I grit my teeth and try again. The second strike is better, but not by much. I feel the force travel upward instead of outward, dispersing before it can land with any real weight.
Thane steps beside me, lifts his own hand, and throws a single punch. The impact is instantaneous—a deep, controlled force that ripples through the leather and sinks into the post beneath it. The sound is solid, sharp.
He pulls back without looking at me. “Do you see the difference?”
I nod. My punches glanced off the surface while his drove through it.
He gestures for me to go again. I take a breath, reset my stance, and hit. This time, I rotate my body, letting the movement start from my legs instead of just my arm. The punch lands better. It feelsright.
“Better,” Thane says. “Again.”
I already know that this will be the rest of my afternoon.
Thane steps around to the other side of the striking post, gripping the thick ropes that secure it in place. His stance is firm, braced, like he expects me to hit hard enough to move him.
I blow out a breath to settle my nerves and reset my stance.
“Jab, cross,” he instructs. “One-two. Again and again until your body remembers it better than your mind does.”
I roll my shoulders, clench my fists, and throw the first punch. A sharp jab with my lead hand. The impact reverberates up my arm. Before I can think, I follow with the second—a cross, driving my back fist forward with more force. It lands better than the first, but I still feel the shock of it.
“Again,” Thane says.
Jab, cross. Jab, cross.
