“Why not?”
“Because stepping back is giving ground. You give ground, you lose your balance. You lose your balance, you end up on the floor with someone’s boot on your throat.”
And just because I can, I have her on the ground with my foot on her throat before she can blink. The blade flies across the clearing. I dissolve it with a glance.
“See?” I reach down and pull her onto her feet. “You want to move sideways, out of the line of attack, not away from it.”
“Sideways,” she repeats, but her focus is on me now, not on what I’m saying.
“Like this.” I come at her. She steps a second too late and my shoulder slams into her. She drops to the ground again. “Up. Again.”
She moves better this time, but she goes the wrong way, and I spin her off balance. She stumbles but doesn’t fall.
“You moved into me. Watch where I’m going, not where I am.”
“I was watching!”
“You were watching my eyes. Eyes lie. Watch my shoulders, my hips. That’s where the movement starts.” I come at her again … and she hits the ground …again.
I vary the speed, the angles, the direction, and slowly she starts to understand. Her eyes drop from my face to my body, learning to read the shift of weight that signals where I’m going. She’s not fast. She won’t be fast for a while yet, but she’s learning.
“Better,” I say when she manages to sidestep cleanly for the third time in a row. “Now let’s add something new.”
I step closer and take her hand, pressing her palm flat against my chest. “When I move, don't try to stop me. You can’t. You need to use my momentum against me. When I’m close enough, slam your hand right here.” I tap the back of her hand. “Most of the impact will come from my forward motion.”
Her hand is warm through my shirt. She’s staring at her fingers splayed across my chest.
“Alleria.”
Her eyes lift to mine. There’s color high on her cheeks, and her pulse is fluttering visibly at the base of her throat.
“Are you listening to me?”
“Yes.” She clears her throat. “Yes.”
“Then show me.”
I step back, giving her room, then move toward her. She sidesteps, better this time, more fluid, and pushes.
“Harder.”
“I don’t want to?—”
“You’re not going to hurt me. Harder.”
The next time she shoves, there’s more force behind it. It isn’tenough to stop me, but enough that I feel the impact.
“Adequate.”
“Adequate?”She’s breathing hard, frustration bleeding into her voice. “That’s all you're going to give me?”
“What do you want, a round of applause?”
“You haven’t said a single positive thing since we started. You just keep barking instructions at me. I hit that target three times?—”
“You hit it once. In good light. Standing still. With no one trying to kill you.” I step toward her, and she holds her ground. “You want praise for that? Go back to your palace and shoot at targets until someone pins a ribbon on you. If you want to survive what you’ve chosen to be a part of, then you have to learn to do it when you’re tired, hurt, and terrified. When your hands are shaking, and your eyes are full of blood, and someone is coming at you with a blade they mean to put through your throat.” One of my swords appears in my hand, its tip pressing against her throat. “That’swhat this training is for. Not for ribbons. And not so you can go and hunt half-dead game to brag about around the dinner table.”
She stays still, frozen to the spot, lips parted.
