The trial loops behind my eyes, the way he wouldn’t let anything stop him from winning.
I freeze as it hits, wood smoke and cigarettes. The same smell from the cliff, the first night. It snakes into my lungs, hot and heavy, wrapping me until I’m caught inside it.
“Planning on jumping, little lamb?” His voice drags low, rough enough to scrape across my skin.
He stands at the edge, the lighthouse flashing behind him, carving him in shadow and light. Wind tangles his hair, but hiseyes cut through it, sharp, rimmed in exhaustion, edged with anger.
“Not until I learn to fight with this.” I hold up the knife, eyes narrowing slightly. He stares at it, then at me.
“You need to change the knife,” he tells me again, and in a tone which tells me he’s fed up with telling me.
“They won’t let me,” I say.
He exhales slowly, then nods for me to move. “Jump down.”
I hesitate but do as he asks. Hopping down from the ledge to where he’s standing, closer now.
“Give it here.”
I hand him the knife. He flips it in the air, high enough I lose track for a heartbeat, then catches it by the very tip without even blinking.
“You want to learn?” He asks as he continues to study the knife.
“You’ll teach me?”
He steps closer. “I’m asking, aren’t I?”
“Yes.”
He moves behind me, the cigarette glowing between his lips. His presence closes over me, heavy, pressing at my spine. His hand finds my wrist, firm but careful, guiding my fingers along the blade’s hilt.
I see him flick his cigarette to the ground, and he adjusts my grip, fingers brushing over mine.
“Now balance it.”
I try; it wobbles again but doesn’t fall.
He leans over my shoulder, our bodies almost pressed together. “Loosen your stance. Weight on your back foot, knife held out like it’s part of you, not a burden.”
I move again. His hands follow, correcting. Guiding.
His fingers trace up my arm, anchoring on my elbow. “You’ve got good control here. But your fingers…” He trails alongmy forearm, then presses over my knuckles with slow intent. “Tense. You’re scared you’ll lose control.”
“I’m not scared,” I whisper.
“Then prove it. You have to be one with it, you control it, it doesn't control you.”
The blade spins once in my hand, this time by my own choice. I catch it, not perfectly, but it doesn’t fall.
A breath leaves me. He watches. So close now I can feel his chest brush my back.
“You’re learning,” he says, voice low.
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
A beat of silence stretches long between us. Our hands are still connected, and I turn my head slightly. Our faces hover an inch apart, breath mingling.
“Do you train the enemy often?” I whisper.
