Chapter 7 #3
Warily, I step behind him, mimicking his earlier stance. I wrap my arm around his neck, locking it beneath his chin, bracing the way he had. I try to hold tight.
Gods, it’s like wrapping my arms around the trunk of a tree. All solid muscle and zero give. I have no idea how this is supposed to work.
“Good,” he says, voice completely unconcerned. “Now—watch.”
He lowers his center of gravity in an instant, his body dropping slightly. I feel my stance shift awkwardly, my balance thrown off just by that one movement.
“First,” he says. “Lower your center. Makes you harder to move, forces your opponent to adjust.”
I tense, trying to stay locked in.
“Next—don’t pull away. Turn into the hold.”
Before I can process, he twists into me. His shoulder hits my chest, my grip falters.
“That weakens the choke immediately,” he explains. “It’s instinct to pull away, but that only tightens the hold.”
He moves again, faster this time, hooking his leg around mine, using his hip as leverage. A sharp twist, and I lose my footing. The next thing I know, I’m the one off-balance. My hold is broken. Thane grabs my wrist, yanks downward, and just like that, I’ve lost.
I stagger back, staring at him, breathless.
He stands, calm as ever. “Now, your turn.”
I rub my aching elbow, heart thudding. “You make it look easy.”
“It is,” he says. “Once you understand how to use your opponent’s strength against them.”
Thane steps behind me and places me in a chokehold again.
I drop my weight first, feeling how it shifts my balance.
I turn toward the hold instead of away, my shoulder pressing into his ribs.
I hook my foot behind his, pivoting—and for the first time, I feel the shift of power.
His stance weakens. His hold loosens. I yank down on his wrist and suddenly, he’s the one who has to step back.
Not much. But enough.
I breathe hard, grinning before I can stop myself.
Thane nods once. “Better.”
He steps back, arms loose at his sides. I shake out my limbs, shoulders sore, muscles screaming. Thane doesn’t look winded.
“We’re moving on,” he says, already heading toward the weapon racks. “Pick a sword.”
I blink. “What, no break?”
He doesn’t answer—because of course he doesn’t.
I sigh, wiping sweat from my brow before following him.
My fingers tracing over the cool steel of the blades.
The scent of oiled metal and worn leather fills the air, grounding me.
I pick up a sword—one that feels familiar.
A short, slightly curved blade, similar to what I trained with in the village.
The moment I lift it, Thane speaks. “That’s the wrong sword for you.”
I glance over, brow furrowing. “What?”
He crosses his arms, head tilted slightly. “Too heavy in the wrong places. The balance is off for your frame.”
I frown, shifting the grip in my hands. “I’ve used this kind before.”
“And that’s the problem,” he says evenly. “You picked what’s familiar, not what’s best for you.
I exhale, resisting the urge to argue. Instead, I set the sword back on the rack.
“Then what should I use?”
Thane steps forward, scanning the racks like someone who knows every piece of steel by name. His eyes move quickly, precise. Then he stops and reaches for one. He hands a blade to me without hesitation.
“Try this.”
I take it, adjusting my grip. The difference is immediate. It’s lighter, but not too light. The balance is even, fluid, built for speed and precision without sacrificing strength. I test the weight, rolling my wrist slightly. It moves with me rather than me working just to hold it.
Thane nods. “Your size and reach matter. A blade that’s too heavy for you will slow you down. You rely on movement, not brute force. You need something that lets you stay fast but still hits hard.”
I shift my stance, gripping the hilt more firmly. It feels right.
Thane steps back again, arms folded. “A well-chosen weapon becomes an extension of you. This one won’t make up for hesitation, but it’ll let you move the way you’re meant to.”
I look at the weapon, feeling the weight of his words as much as the blade in my hand.
He turns, motioning toward the sparring mat.
I follow, adjusting my grip again. The sword feels right in a way the old one never truly did. Now I just have to prove I’m worthy of it.
Thane rolls his shoulders, drawing his own sword—a longer, heavier blade than mine. Built for power and endurance. I flex my fingers, my pulse kicking up.
I know this is different from hand-to-hand combat. But knowing doesn’t make this any easier.
Thane lifts his sword between us, murmuring something under his breath. A pulse of energy ripples through the air, subtle but unmistakable.
I tense, my grip tightening around the hilt. Magics. The blade in my hands shimmers faintly. So does his. A soft glow flickering along the edges before fading.
“Relax,” Thane says, his gaze steady. “It’s just an enchantment.” He lowers his sword slightly. “For now, when they strike, you’ll only feel pressure. No cuts. No bruises.”
I blink. “So I can’t kill you?”
His lips twitch. “You’d have to land a hit first.”
I scowl. “I was joking.”
“I wasn’t.”
I narrow my eyes, grip tightening.
Fine.
He tilts his head, still watching me. “This protection won’t last forever. Over time, I’ll lessen the enchantment so you learn to fight with pain. A fight without consequence teaches you nothing.”
I swallow hard. Of course he would think that. He expects pain. Trains with it.
And soon, I will too.
Thane raises his sword. “Let’s begin.”
I move first.
I step in, bringing my blade down in a quick arc—fast, direct, efficient. Thane parries easily, his sword deflecting mine with a flick of his wrist. The impact sends a dull pressure up my arm—not pain, but a weighted thrum, like striking solid force without resistance.
I barely register it before he counters. I dodge, twisting to the side, but he’s already repositioning, his blade coming for me in a controlled downward strike. I block, but just barely.
My sword vibrates from the force, the pressure rippling through my grip. He’s testing me, feeling out my reflexes, my instincts.
I reposition, then strike again—faster this time. He meets it with precision, deflects, drives forward. I’m already retreating. He’s not letting me breathe.
Steel clashes against steel, the dull impact humming through my arms. I adjust, try to predict his next movement, but he’s too fluid, too controlled. I swing—he redirects effortlessly. I step in—he’s already gone. Every attack I throw misses its mark. He’s too damn fast.
Tap—ribs. Death blow. I barely recover before—
Tap—chest. Death blow. I swing, fast and sharp, but he knocks my blade aside like I’m not even trying.
Tap—neck. Death blow. Frustration coils tight in my chest.
How is he doing this?
I grit my teeth, shifting my stance, trying to anticipate instead of just reacting, but it doesn’t matter. He’s always a step ahead.
Tap—stomach. Death blow. I growl under my breath, heat crawling up my spine. He’s not even breathing hard.
I throw more power into the next strike, aiming for his side, but he sidesteps effortlessly, sword flashing. The deflection stings, sending a sharp shock through my arms. Like he’s correcting a mistake I don’t even realize I’m making.
Tap—shoulder. Death blow. I exhale sharply, trying to ignore the tightness in my chest. I’ve trained before. I’ve fought before. But this—this isn’t a fight. It’s a lesson I didn’t ask for.
Tap—side. Death blow. Damn it. Is he even sweating? Because I am. It’s dripping down my back, mixing with the frustration grinding in my gut.
What does it look like when he actually tries?
I keep pushing, keep attacking, but my movements feel slower, heavier. My arms start to feel like boulders.
“You’re still hesitating,” Thane says, knocking the blade aside like swatting a fly. “You’re reacting to me. Not controlling the fight.”
I tighten my grip. “I’m trying.”
“Then try harder.”
His sword sweeps low—I jump back just in time, but stumble, ever so slightly. Thane doesn’t press the attack. He steps back instead, lowering his blade slightly.
“Reset,” he says. “And this time, don’t just react. Take control.”
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders. My chest heaves, sweat slicking my grip.
“What does that even mean?!”
Thane tilts his head slightly, sword still lowered, calm, unaffected.
“It means you’re letting me dictate this fight,” he says evenly. “I decide when to attack, when to hold back. I control the space between us. I control the tempo. You’re just keeping up.”
I tighten my grip. “And how exactly do I change that?”
“Take control.”
I stare. “That’s not helpful.”
His eyes flicker with something—not amusement, not impatience, just pure instruction. “Control the fight, Amara. Stop waiting for me to move. Make me react to you.”
I breathe through my nose, trying to hold the frustration before it boils over. “You say that like it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” he says. “That’s why you’re learning.”
I clench my teeth, but he continues.
“Right now, you react. You block, you dodge, you counter—but you don’t lead. You wait for me to attack so you can defend.”
I scowl, wiping my wrist against my forehead. “That’s how we trained in my village.”
“Then it was bad training.”
I glare at him. He doesn’t blink.
“A good fighter controls the fight,” Thane continues. “I know exactly how you’ll react before you even move. I control the space, the rhythm, the pace. I control when you get to breathe.”
That hits harder than I want it to.
“So how do I fix it?” I ask, throat dry.
His grip tightens around his sword. “You set the pace. You make me move where you want me. You don’t just swing and hope—it’s not luck, it’s design. Set traps. Cut off escape routes. Think ahead. Stop fighting like this is a spar.”
He steps back, blade raised.
“Start fighting like you mean to win.”
I swallow hard. I’m soaked in sweat and barely holding form.
But I raise my sword again anyway.