Chapter 12 #2
After lunch, we crossed the village to a clearing a little farther away. The ground was marked with both old and new tracks. Weapons rested against wooden racks—spears with worn tips, broad-bladed axes, curved knives, and longbows of dark wood.
Malek stopped in front of one of the logs and picked up an axe with a metal head darkened by use, fixed to a thick wooden handle.
“Mekut’er rhark’n,” he said. I remembered the meaning right away: learn to fight.
“I know rhark’n,” I replied. “With daggers.”
He snorted disdainfully. "Dagger isn’t a good weapon." He pointed to the axe. "Kors’hk."
Before I could react, Malek’s large hand wrapped around mine and pulled it into the correct position, closing my fingers around the rough handle. When he stepped away, the weight of the weapon pulled my arm down instantly.
"It’s heavy," I remarked, surprised.
I was used to daggers—light, balanced, and forged from gnome steel.
The axe, by comparison, felt crude, made of solid steel with no trace of finesse.
But, as I held it, I realized that it wasn't made for delicate hands.
Like everything in the Okshai culture, the weapons were also made for survival, not to decorate the belts of nobles who never had to lift a finger to fight.
"Come."
I followed Malek to a corner of the clearing where cut logs were arranged like targets. Some were splintered from raw force, while others bore deep grooves, scars etched by blades over countless strikes. Malek stood before a log and stared at it as if sizing up an invisible enemy.
"Here," he said. "You strike until your arms shake."
He picked up another axe and showed me the movement with practiced ease, bringing the blade down in a heavy strike that tore a thick splinter from the wood. The impact echoed through the clearing as Malek looked at me expectantly.
I lifted the axe with difficulty, feeling the handle slip in my hand. The weight threw me off balance, and when the blade hit the wood, the strike was weak, bouncing off the log with an ugly metallic sound that barely left a scratch.
Malek didn't even blink.
"Again," he commanded.
I tried again, but the result was the same: a clumsy blow, the axe nearly falling from my fingers.
"You are using only your arms," he said, almost in a whisper, before positioning himself behind me. "Use your body. Your legs."
His large hands settled on my waist with a familiarity that made my pulse falter, adjusting my posture like I was a puppet and he the puppeteer. With light nudges of his foot, he pushed mine farther apart, forcing me to plant myself more firmly on the ground.
“Here,” he murmured. “Rooted.”
His fingers slid a bit lower, pressing my hips back until they were aligned with my shoulders. My body responded automatically, and a shiver ran up my spine as he made me rotate my torso slightly.
"The strength comes from here," he continued, touching my thigh to indicate the muscle. "It passes through your core..." His hand moved up, steady, to my abdomen. "...and comes out through the arms."
The touch was almost clinical and should have been nothing more than that, yet my body reacted like it couldn’t tell the difference, a slow heat spreading from the place where his fingers pressed against me.
He wrapped his hands over mine on the axe handle.
The contact became unavoidable: his broad chest against my back, his strong arm guiding my movements, his breath far too close to my neck, drawing out shivers I couldn't contain.
My heart raced, and for a moment, the weight of the weapon slipped from my mind, leaving me aware of nothing but the presence behind me.
"Don't push back against the weight," he said, so close that his voice seemed to vibrate against my skin. "Use it."
The deep timbre of his voice made something tighten inside me.
My throat went dry, and a restless mix of nerves and awareness ran through my body, like every sense had sharpened at once, too focused on each touch and correction.
When he finally stepped away, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
With his closeness igniting so many reactions, keeping my focus felt impossible.
I tried the strike again, now set on the idea of being ‘rooted’ just as he had explained.
I steadied my legs, pushed my body weight forward, and the axe responded to the movement.
The blade came down in a more confident arc and hit the log with a dry, satisfying thud, leaving a clear mark in the wood. The result was visibly better.
"Better," Malek said, and coming from him, that approval felt like a silent victory. "Now, don't stop until you cannot lift your arms."
I nodded, even with my arms already trembling.
My lack of stamina and endurance shamed me, yet at the same time, it filled me with a sudden spark of determination.
I had never had strength training like that.
All I learned was how to handle daggers in secret, with one of my father’s guards.
I had to bribe him at the time, since noble females couldn’t learn how to fight in Ceilte.
Even though our kingdom has been at war for generations, the justification for this choice was simple: without the females, we would go extinct. Our bodies were made to produce heirs, not to wield weapons.
When I was twenty-two, watching Leone leave for battle and return covered in bruises made me think that was a great injustice.
We should have known how to fight, even if they never sent us to the front lines, even if our role was simply to survive.
If the kingdom were invaded, or a witch cast a spell against someone, at least the women should have had a chance to defend themselves.
We wouldn't just be victims waiting for the worst.
Perhaps, if I had learned to handle a real weapon, I might have stood a chance against Merith. Even if my magic didn’t work, I wouldn't have been so defenseless.
The thought burned almost as much as the physical effort.
But instead of breaking me, it changed into something more solid.
Here, among orcs who made no distinction between genders, because all they needed was to survive, perhaps I could still learn what Ceilte denied me.
And when I saw Merith again, I won't need to use An Talamh to finish her. A good blow from an axe will be enough.