Chapter 7 #5
I stare down at my hands. Strange. They don’t look like mine anymore. The linen is rough but secure, wrapping my fingers, knuckles, wrists—turning my hands into something meant for fighting. Not for planting or gathering. Not for tending fields under the morning sun.
I curl my fingers into a fist. The fabric holds, supporting me in ways I never thought I would need.
Just weeks ago, my hands were covered in dirt, not linen and sweat. I used to wake with the sun, not for combat, but to help my mother in the fields, pull weeds, or carry baskets of grain to the village. I knew the weight of a shovel, the feel of soil slipping through my fingers.
Now, I wake for bruises and aching muscles, for the Elements, to be the Spiritborn . . . and war.
My eyes sting.
I look up. Thane is watching me carefully, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t rush me and I feel a small twinge of gratitude bloom in my chest.
I exhale slowly, forcing the heartache back down.
I’m not that girl anymore. And maybe, never will be again.
I flex my fingers, testing the strength of the wrap one more time. Then, finally, I lift my chin.
“Alright,” I say. “What’s first?”
Thane studies me, measuring something only he can see. Then he turns on his heel and walks toward the far side of the room.
I follow, my wrapped fists flexing at my sides.
He stops in front of a hanging striking post—a thick wooden column, its surface wrapped in layers of hardened leather and reinforced with tightly wound rope.
The leather is worn and scarred, the ropes darkened from years of sweat and impact.
Deep indentations mark where countless warriors have struck before me, the grooves of fists and knuckles etched into its surface.
“This will teach you how to strike properly,” Thane says, laying a hand against it. “The leather gives. The wood doesn’t. Hit it wrong, and you’ll feel it.”
I glance at him. “Hit it right?”
His lips twitch. “Then you’ll feel that too.”
I square my stance, raising my fists. The linen presses tight, my knuckles bracing against the fabric.
“Don’t swing wildly,” Thane says, circling behind me. “A good strike isn’t just about power. It’s about efficiency. Speed. Precision.”
I nod, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake out the stiffness from yesterday’s training.
He steps behind me, adjusting my stance with small, deliberate corrections—his boot nudges my back foot slightly wider, his fingers press against my shoulder, shifting my balance.
“Your power doesn’t come from your arms,” he says. “It comes from your legs. From the rotation of your body. If you only throw with your fists, you waste your strength.”
I set my feet more firmly, feeling the ground beneath me, the weight shift from heel to toe.
“Now hit it.”
I exhale and swing. My fist connects, pain shooting up my knuckles. The impact reverberates through my wrist, jarring, imperfect. I shake out my hand, biting back a curse.
Thane doesn’t blink. “Again.”
I grit my teeth and try again. The second strike is better, but not by much. I feel the force travel upward instead of outward, dispersing before it can land with any real weight.
Thane steps beside me, lifts his own hand, and throws a single punch. The impact is instantaneous—a deep, controlled force that ripples through the leather and sinks into the post beneath it. The sound is solid, sharp.
He pulls back without looking at me. “Do you see the difference?”
I nod. My punches glanced off the surface while his drove through it.
He gestures for me to go again. I take a breath, reset my stance, and hit. This time, I rotate my body, letting the movement start from my legs instead of just my arm. The punch lands better. It feels right.
“Better,” Thane says. “Again.”
I already know that this will be the rest of my afternoon.
Thane steps around to the other side of the striking post, gripping the thick ropes that secure it in place. His stance is firm, braced, like he expects me to hit hard enough to move him.
I blow out a breath to settle my nerves and reset my stance.
“Jab, cross,” he instructs. “One-two. Again and again until your body remembers it better than your mind does.”
I roll my shoulders, clench my fists, and throw the first punch. A sharp jab with my lead hand. The impact reverberates up my arm. Before I can think, I follow with the second—a cross, driving my back fist forward with more force. It lands better than the first, but I still feel the shock of it.
“Again,” Thane says.
Jab, cross. Jab, cross.
The rhythm sets in.
Jab, cross. Jab, cross.
I feel more power in my hits and less of a shock.
The burn comes slow at first, creeping into my forearms, settling into my shoulders. The repetitive impact makes my knuckles sting beneath the wraps.
But I can’t stop.
Because stopping would mean thinking. And thinking would mean realizing how much my life has changed.
I blink away the tears threatening to spill over.
My days used to be filled with the sound of rustling stalks in the wind, with the steady rhythm of life I had always expected to live.
Now I wake up before dawn to train until my muscles scream. I stand in open fields, commanding elements I was never meant to wield. I don’t recognize my life anymore.
I don’t recognize myself.
“Again,” Thane says, voice even, steady.
I snap back to the present, inhaling sharply as I drive my fists into the post again.
Jab, jab, cross. Jab, cross.
It hurts. But so does everything now. And I’m starting to wonder if that feeling will ever go away.
“Use your core,” Thane calls. “Your power starts there. Pull from it.”
I adjust. Hit again.
Jab, jab, cross.
I grit my teeth, adjusting, throwing another punch.
Jab, jab, cross.
The impact shudders through my arms, my muscles burning with every strike.
“Again.”
Jab, cross.
“Turn into it. Your whole body moves with the hit, not just your fist.”
I correct, twisting my hips with the movement. The strike lands better, sharper. But my arms are aching, my shoulders screaming. Still, I keep going.
“Again.”
I keep throwing punches, driving my fists into the target as if the motion alone will carve something new out of me. Make me forget.
Somewhere between the repetitions, between the burning in my muscles and the rhythmic impact of my knuckles against the leather, my mind slips.
Jab, jab, cross. Jab, jab, cross. Again.
I hear the wind rustling through tall stalks of grain.
Jab, jab, cross.
I hear my mother’s voice calling me from the fields, the warmth of the afternoon sun on my back.
Jab, jab, cross.
I hear the creak of the old wooden floor in our home, the scent of fresh bread in the air, my father sharpening his tools at the table. The smell of dirt and earth, the way my hands would sink into the soil as we worked. The quiet peace of it.
I swallow it down—rage, grief, whatever it is.
Jab, jab, cross.
The image of my parents flickers behind my eyes. They are gone. Killed when the village was destroyed, when the screams of my people tore through the night, when the only home I had ever known was turned to dust.
I should have died with them.
“Again,” Thane orders.
The ache in my arms deepens, but it doesn’t matter. I need this.
Somewhere between the rhythmic pounding of my fists against the striking post, between the burning in my shoulders and the sweat sliding down my spine, anger starts to seep in. It begins as a slow simmer, then builds, hotter, sharper, coiling in my chest.
Jab, jab, cross.
I see my mother’s hands, dirt-stained and calloused, reaching for me one last time.
Jab, jab, cross.
I see my father standing in the doorway, sword raised, firelight flickering in his eyes.
Jab, jab, cross.
I hear the screams. The fire. The sound of steel cutting through flesh.
The pounding of my fists grows harder. Faster.
Why didn’t my powers awaken sooner? Why did it have to be after?
Pain sears through my knuckles, but I don’t stop.
They died because of me. Because I wasn’t ready. Because I wasn’t enough.
“Again,” Thane commands, voice like stone.
My chest heaves, my arms trembling, but I step forward and hit again. I let out a sharp breath, the edges of my vision burning.
In the middle of all of it, tears start to fall. They blur my vision, slipping down my cheeks. I don’t even notice at first, not until I taste the salt on my lips. Not until my breath catches, ragged and broken.
I bite down on my cheek hard, trying to push it down the way I’ve done since the night everything was taken from me. But it’s too late.
It’s spilling out. Strike by strike. Like water. Like fire. Like everything I’ve been holding back since the world cracked open and left me behind.
I hit the post again, but the force is different now—something shattered.
My body is shaking. My breath comes in uneven, shaky gasps between punches. I can’t blink the tears away fast enough. The ache in my muscles is nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
The tears keep falling. I can’t stop them. I can’t stop any of it.
Jab, jab, cross.
I hit the post again, the impact vibrating through my knuckles, through my wrists, through every part of me that feels like breaking.
Jab, jab, cross.
The grief twists into something sharper. Hotter. Dangerous.
And then, the ground rumbles.
I barely notice at first. Too lost in my own my own fists, my fury.
I strike again—harder—and the tremor grows. A deep, throbbing force beneath my feet, rolling outward like an exhale.
There’s a distant clatter—metal hitting stone.
Something shifts in my peripheral vision, but I keep punching.
Then a loud crash. A row of weapons topples from the wall, clattering to the ground. The walls shudder, dust shaking loose from the ceiling.
Thane’s voice cuts through the haze. “Amara.”
I barely register it.
“Amara, stop.” The command is sharp, demanding, but I’m still locked inside the rage, the ache, the crushing guilt.
The next blow doesn’t land because Thane’s hand catches my wrist mid-strike.
When I look at him—he’s not watching my form, he’s watching me.
Another deep, echoing tremor rolls through the floor. Louder. Stronger. And this time—I feel it. The earth beneath me moves with my pulse, echoing my grief.
I stumble back, breathing hard. My hands won’t stop shaking. My body protests every movement. And my mind—my mind won’t stop reeling.
And just like that—I stop. The rumbling goes silent. Dust hangs in the air. Weapons lie scattered across the floor. The tension still hums in the walls—like the room itself hasn’t caught its breath yet.
I blink, my heartbeat crashes in my ears. I wasn’t trying to use my magics, but they answered me anyway.
Slowly, I pull my gaze away from the striking post, from where my fists still hover in the air. The floor is littered with weapons. Swords, daggers, axes knocked loose from their mounts, scattered in disarray.
I did that.
The realization settles slowly, creeping in.
I look at my hands. The linen wraps are dark with fresh blood. I didn’t even notice when my knuckles split.
I look up.
Thane is standing in front of me now. Close. I hadn’t noticed him move.
His stance is steady, his arms loose at his sides but his presence feels different now. He isn’t just observing anymore.
I meet his eyes. Smoke-gray. Intense.
I can’t look away.
Thane steps closer, and before I can react, his hands settle on my shoulders.
I still.
His touch is firm, steady, grounding in a way I don’t expect. The heat of his palms seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt, spreading slowly, sinking into my skin.
At first, I think he’s restraining me. Holding me back from breaking something else. But he’s not.
He’s holding me steady.
That’s when I feel it—how tight I’ve been wound. How my shoulders locked, every muscle braced for something that isn’t there.
The tension starts to unravel, bit by bit, like a dam breaking in slow, measured cracks. The grief, the anger—the storm that had been building inside me for weeks—it begins to drain away.
I don’t know if it’s his touch, or the way he’s just standing there, silent and unwavering, or the fact that I’ve finally let myself feel what I’ve been running from. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe.
Thane continues to quietly stand there, anchoring me to the present, letting the storm pass without demanding I explain it. Like he gets it.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet.
I swallow hard, still feeling the warmth of his hands. My knuckles throb, the ache in my arms deep, but my chest—the crushing weight that had been there moments ago—is lighter.
I exhale slowly. “I . . . I think so.”
He watches me. Still measuring. Then, with a quick nod, he says, “Okay. Let’s end for today,” and drops his hands.
I blink, caught off guard. Just like that?
He steps back, arms folding over his chest. “Tell Valen what happened.”
I nod slowly, flexing my aching fingers. I don’t want to talk about this. Not yet. But I know Thane is right. Valen needs to know.
Thane tilts his head, like he might say more—then doesn’t.
He just watches me for a beat longer before nodding a goodbye and turning away. He walks to the weapons rack and starts collecting the fallen blades.
I stay where I am. My heartbeat still high in my throat. The weight of what just happened settles into my bones.
Finally, I turn. And walk out, quiet and heavy, like the air hasn’t cleared yet.