“And the real defense?” he asks, his tone tightening slightly.
I meet his gaze.
“Doesn’t sit still,” I reply.
Something shifts in his expression.
“You’re not holding the line.”
“I’m not losing it,” I say.
That lands.
Harder than the words suggest.
Training them is worsethan I expected, not because they can’t move, but because they don’t move the same way twice.
Five villagers stand in front of me, each holding a weapon like it might change its mind and bite them if they grip it wrong. One man keeps adjusting his stance every few seconds, shifting his weight like he doesn’t trust the ground to stay where it is.
“Stop,” I say, stepping forward.
They freeze.
Not cleanly.
But enough.
“You’re not fighting alone,” I continue, reaching out to push one man’s elbow higher, correcting the angle of his spear. My hand lingers just long enough to make sure he holds it. “If you break, the person next to you breaks with you.”
The man swallows, nodding quickly, his grip tightening too much.
“Loosen it,” I say, tapping the shaft once. “You choke it like that, you lose control.”
He adjusts immediately.
“Again.”
They move.
Too slow.
Too hesitant.
“Faster,” I snap, my voice cutting sharper this time.
They flinch, then try again, stepping forward together, uneven but closer.
Better.
Still not enough.
From the edge of the group, I can feel Lyria watching. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t step in, but her attention is there, tracking every movement the way I am.
I move down the line, adjusting a shoulder, shifting a foot, forcing them into alignment through contact instead of instruction.
“You don’t need strength,” I say, stepping back just enough to see all of them. “You need timing. If you hit alone, it doesn’t matter how hard you swing.”
One of them shakes his head, breath uneven. “We’re not soldiers.”
