“I want you to hit it.”
She nocks the first arrow, draws, and releases in one smooth motion. It hits an inch left of the knot. She frowns, adjusts her stance, and draws again. The second arrow is a hairsbreadth short of the target. The third one hits dead center.
I dissolve the bow. “Good enough for the moment. What else have you been taught?”
“Some knife work. How to hold a blade, and where to aim if I’m ever caught alone.”
“Show me.” I let a butter knife form in my palm.
She stares down at it. Then at me.
“That’s not funny.”
“I thought it was.”
“You’re hilarious.” Her eyes roll, but she takes it. “I didn’t have anything else to use.”
“You had the element of surprise. You had me asleep. And you had the blade at my throat.” I form a proper dagger, black with silver chasing, turning it over so the light catches the edge. “And you still couldn’t do it.”
“I hesitated.”
“Hesitation gets you killed.” I take the butterknife and give her the proper blade.
Her fingers curl around the grip, elbow tucking in close, blade held out.
“Brennan showed me how to use one.” Her voice softens when she says his name. I think about all the ways I could kill him. “He used to drill me in the armory before dawn, when no one else was around. He said all women should know how to defend themselves.” She turns the blade over in her hand. “I used to love those mornings. It was the only time I felt like I was actually good at something that mattered. Merina had the politics, the charm and the grace. I had a bow and a knife, and a guard who didn’t treat me like I was made of glass.”
There’s more there than she’s saying. I can hear it in her voice. Years of feeling second-best, of being the spare. The one nobody expected anything from.
“He was right. About defending yourself.”
She looks up at that, surprised.
“Your stance is not bad.” I circle around behind her. “But a knife is no good if you can’t get close enough to use it. And getting close means not dying on the way.”
I study the way she holds herself. The set of her shoulders, the position of her feet.
“Your feet are too close together. An unexpected shove, and you will lose your balance.”
She adjusts, widening her stance. I nudge her ankle with my boot, pushing it another inch into position.
“Good. Now adjust your weight.” I put my hand on her lower back and she stiffens under my touch. “You’re leaning forward. If someone pushes you, you’ll go down on your face. Sink your weight. Unlock your knees.”
She tries, but I can feel the tension running through her.
“Relax.”
“Easy for you to say.” I don’t think I’m meant to hear the muttered words.
“Is it?”
She turns her head, trying to look at me over her shoulder. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means relax.”
She takes a breath, and some of the stiffness leaves her.
“Better. Now … when someone comes at you, your instinct is going to be to step back. Don’t do that.”
