Amund isn’t hard to find. He’s the only one there. He jabs a spear forward, the motion practiced but strong. Sweat drips from his brow as he trains, going over a range of different attacks.
I stop for a moment, unable to resist watching him. Unlike in class or around campus when he’s trying to blend in, Amund looks relaxed and natural while he trains. Each movement is strong and assured.It’s a completely different side of him. Seeing him like this, there’s something almost… magnetic about him.
Amund hears me approaching, even though I’m still a good distance away. When his head turns in my direction, I nearly miss a step. He looks like he’s searching for a threat—
His expression softens. “Oh. Edith.”
“I want to learn how to protect myself.”
“Right. Let’s get started.”
When I nod, he approaches me.
Amund slips a dagger from his belt. “You’ll need this.”
A knife. The sight of it in his hand makes me uneasy, even though I know my dad actually used his claws to kill my mom. I’m hesitant to take the knife from Amund. It looks dangerous. Deadly. A weapon designed with one primary purpose: to take a life. A killer is the last thing Ieverwant to be.
“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I hate knives.”
Amund takes my hand and closes my fingers around the hilt. Somehow this feels different from when Nils touched me. “Weapons aren’t just used to take lives,” he says as if reading my mind. “They can save lives too. It’s how they’re used that matters.”
I glance up from the blade to look at Amund. His hazel eyes are fixed on me. There’s no trace of judgment there, only honesty. Knowing that he’s a hunter, it’s hard for me to believe that’s how he feels.
“But you…” I begin, only to stop myself. I’m at a loss for words.
“Hate violence,” Amund finishes for me. “It’s only a tool to be used when necessary, like any weapon. It can be wielded for good, to protect people.”
I fall silent, searching his eyes.
He seems sincere.
I’m surprised that a hunter as big and strong as him could despiseviolence. As I look at the rough boot marks pressed into the dirt around us, evidence of fights and struggles left behind, and the countless weapons lining the racks, it seems like violence is his entire world. If it’s true he doesn’t like it, how must it feel to be constantly surrounded by it?
Slowly, I take the dagger from him. “Okay.”
“You’re holding it wrong,” Amund says softly. He guides my fingers, adjusting my grip. “You want to have a good grasp on it. See?”
The hilt fits better in my palm this way and feels more secure, but it takes all my willpower not to fling the dagger as far from me as I can.
“Here,” he says, steadying me. “Like this. Good.”
I hate that some part of me enjoys his praise. Wants more of it. I need to learn how to protect myself. I don’t want to feel helpless ever again or need someone to save me. So I follow Amund’s lead, adjusting my grip on the dagger.
“Try it with your other hand now.”
“I’m right-handed though,” I tell him.
He gives a lopsided grin. “When you’re fighting for your life, none of that matters. You want to learn how to wield a weapon with both hands. You never know what circumstances you’ll be in.”
“You’re ambidextrous?” I ask, curious now.
He nods. “I had to learn to be.”
“Are all hunters?”
“No, not all. Val isn’t, for instance. She still favors her right hand, no matter how much she trains with her left.”
“What’s up with you and Val?” I ask, realizing too late I sound a little jealous.
