I reached for the armor and began to put it on; each leather strap I tightened felt like a silent promise to myself. I would never be useless again. As I fastened the final buckle, I felt the weight and restriction of the leather against my skin. Orc armor was simple, designed to absorb impact rather than to be fancy, and it smelled faintly of tanned leather and earth.
Malek waited in silence, his gaze fixed on me the entire time. The weight of his attention made my hands sweat as I finished adjusting the gear.
“Ready?” he asked, and I nodded.
He reached for a thick leather belt hanging from a nearby stump and fastened it around my waist, adjusting it carefully. Then he took a simple dagger with a short, wide blade and secured it at my side. It wasn’t the thin, elegant blade I hadused in Ceilte, which I had lost along with my magical bag and the Orb of Caith, but it was lethal.
“First, without weapons,” he instructed. “Hands.”
Malek stepped in front of me; he was bare except for a leather loincloth, arms crossed over his chest. The difference between us was obvious. He was a wall of muscle while I was…not.
“Attack.”
“Already?” I asked.
“Yes. Attack.”
I steeled myself, recalling what Astor—the guard who had trained me—had taught me. I lunged, aiming a quick punch at his side, hoping speed would make up for size. Malek barely moved. He leaned aside, and my fist met the air. Before I could recover, his hand caught my wrist and pulled me forward, using my own momentum against me.
In an instant, he trapped me—one arm tight around my neck, the other pinning my wrist behind my back.
“Stop,” he said softly against my ear, sending a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. “What did you do wrong?” His grip didn’t hurt, but I couldn’t break free. I tried anyway. “You rushed,” he went on. “You chose speed and lost your balance.”
He loosened his hold just enough to turn me to him, without fully letting go. With his free hand, he adjusted my stance, nudging my feet into place and pushing my hips back slightly.
“Power comes from here,” he said, touching my core. “Not from the arm.”
Malek released my wrist, then took my fist and adjusted it, curling my fingers properly with my thumb on the outside.
“Don’t open your hand. Never,” he said. “Move your hips.”
I did exactly as he instructed, adjusting my stance until he nodded, satisfied. On the next attempt, I managed to strike his palm, but Malek didn’t move a single muscle.
“Again.”
I clenched my hands into fists once more and lunged at him.
???
Malek made me train for hours, focusing not only on strength but on technique; how to take a hit, pivot away from an attack, and use my body weight to maximize impact. Every time I attacked, he answered with a swift, precise counter, stopping me before I could follow through.
I hit the ground more times than I cared to count. The armor, which had been uncomfortable at first, now felt like a second skin, softening each fall. Being so easily overpowered by Malek stung, but with every impact, my resolve only hardened.
One time, I tried something different. Instead of a punch, I feinted and kicked at the side of his knee—a move I’d learned from Leone. Malek’s reaction was fast. He caught my leg midair and lifted me with ease. Before I could react, he slammed me to the ground, the air leaving my lungs in a sharp gasp.
“You’re fast,” he said, looming over me. “But predictable.”
I wheezed, struggling to breathe, frustration rising in my chest.
“Again,” I said, trying to stand—but my body gave out. I sank back down, exhausted, my breath uneven.
Malek crouched beside me, the scent of the forest mixed with sweat invading my senses. He chuckled—easy, almost carefree. For a moment, I just watched him, trying to reconcile that sound with the feared warrior, the one whispered about in so many stories in Ceilte.
Malek Strong-Axe, the merciless orc warrior, possessed a gentler, even pleasant, side. He wasn’t one for easy smiles, nor was he particularly charming. Still, there were moments he surprised me with quiet words of support or his endless patience. He’d spent hours training me under the harsh sun, and not once had he complained.
The two sides didn’t seem to fit, and yet they coexisted within him. It was a quiet contradiction, one that stirred my curiosity.
As we held each other’s gaze, his smile slowly faded. He ran his tongue over his lower lip, the gesture subtle but charged. My attention drifted to the movement of his throat, lingering there longer than it should.
