Chapter Thirteen
Dimitris
Dafne was beginning to get on his nerves.
Not in a bad way exactly—but the girl was more easily distracted than her psychí, who seemed to continuously chase after every speck of dust that floated by or glimmer of light that cast a beam on the wall.
She had knocked on his door the prior night and when he reached the entryway, the raven-haired seer was nowhere to be found, but a folded up note asking him to meet her in the training ring the next morning was lying outside his door.
So, he made his way over to the attached gymnasium where the men and women from the barracks trained each day and sat along the wooden benches by a wall stacked with weapons for around an hour before Dafne waltzed in.
She was dressed to impress—impress any warrior that fought on the mats that day.
Familiar black training pants stretched over her thighs and a slim-fitting, burgundy cotton shirt clung to her arms and stomach.
The color choice accentuated Dafne’s daimon-like eyes, and she prowled across to Dimitris like the predator she was.
That was where any poise or grace stopped.
Ten times—ten times he tried to get her to focus on his movements, starting with a simple dodge and block set that he had practiced with many young soldiers before.
It was supposed to ease her into footwork and focus.
For a moment she would follow along, and then another pair would begin training on the mat next to them and her head would whip to where the blood began to spatter from noses and lips.
Her eyes would flare and she would flash a terrifying smile, then Dimitris would cough and her attention would turn back to him with a not-so-apologetic glare.
“You realize that you won’t be able to land a blow like that if you don’t learn the basics first,” Dimitris groaned as yet again Dafne spun away, this time to watch a few shirtless men stop to take drinks of water.
Women. How typical could they be? Wasn’t Dafne supposed to be avoiding men like that after what she went through? Or perhaps Thalia underestimated her sister’s resilience. Maybe if he took his own shirt off, she would focus on less of her surroundings and actually train.
“I know enough about fighting. I thought you would help me with moves like that”—she pointed at a man and a woman using very advanced hand-to-hand combat tactics on a mat across the gymnasium—“not whatever dance this is.”
Running his palm over his face, Dimitris shook his head. These two sisters would be the death of him. They did what they wanted, when they wanted, and had little affinity for reason.
A long sigh escaped his lips. “You saw the way I trained the men on the Aphrodite, this is no different. You are the one who asked me for help.”
“Technically, my sister recommended I train with you, but now I am bored.” Her deep-red lips fell into a pout and she folded her arms.
He was going to regret this, hitting a woman unprovoked made him viscerally ill, but she asked for this—asked for him to show her how to fight, and if she wanted to learn that way, it would be either him or some larger, less empathetic soldier to teach her.
“Fine,” he groaned.
“Fine, what?” Dafne asked, her eyes lighting just slightly, her shoulders relaxing.
“If you do not want to learn the right way then you need to show me what you do know.” Dimitris took up a defensive stance, raising both hands in front of his hands.
He hadn’t bothered to wrap them, not thinking he would actually be sparring with the woman.
Hopefully, no blow he gave should cause enough damage that he would regret it.
Dafne raised both her arms in turn, although unlike Dimitris, she did not broaden nor stagger her stance for balance.
Instead she lunged at him in a brash manner, albeit with speed Dimitris did not expect from the woman.
Her fist extended toward his face, thumb tucked inside the rest of her clenched fingers.
With little effort, Dimitris tilted his body so her arm went soaring past.
“Mistake number one—do not throw a punch when your body is faced perpendicular to your opponent. Move your right foot backward, stay pliant through your legs,” he said, returning to his initial stance.
Dafne let out a grunt, but did as he said. Her eyes glittered with determination as she flung her arm back once more.
“Mistake number two—do not lock your thumb under your other fingers. You’ll end up with a broken bone that way. See how mine hooks around the middle part of my fingers? That helps to stabilize your punch.”
Sneering, Dafne did as she was told. At least this time around she was listening to him.
She settled once more into her stance with a slight bounce, mimicking Dimitris.
Again, she aimed her blows too soon, this time going for his stomach.
Dimitris had plenty of time to step to the side and Dafne went tumbling forward, falling to the ground.
He extended his hand, pulling Dafne up from where she knelt. “Mistake number three—you put too much power into your front leg. You want your power to come from the back leg in your stance. You have good natural balance, don’t throw it off.”
This time Dafne did not lunge, instead she followed his footwork, stepping into the space Dimitris gave her to move, to learn how he flowed as an opponent.
But after a few moments, another soldier took their own opponent to the ground with a bang and Dafne’s attention flipped to them.
Dimitris hated himself for what he did next—but this was a lesson any fighter would have to learn.
He drew back his fist, and landed it straight across her jaw—not hard enough to break it or bruise his knuckles, but enough that crimson trickled from Dafne’s bottom lip.
“Mistake number four—never underestimate your opponent. If I was any other man or woman in this gymnasium you would have been knocked unconscious already to teach you the same lesson I just did. Just because we are training, does not mean you can be distracted by your surroundings.”
That red in her eyes flared with something that made Dimitris proud.
“You’re angry; use that anger. But don’t let it explode with your movements—that causes you to falter, to misstep.
Let it boil in your blood, let it act as fuel, powering each movement with a precise and fluid punch.
I know it sounds insane, but let the anger calm you, give you direction.
” Dimitris circled Dafne as she bent over, wiping the blood from her split lip with her forearm.
“What in the gods’ names do you think you are doing, Dimitris?” a shrill voice yelled from the entrance to the gymnasium. Thalia hurried over, leaving a sea of onlookers in her wake.
Her arms wrapped around Dafne, lifting her up by her arms. Thalia muttered something to her sister too soft for even Dimitris to hear. Grabbing a torn piece of cloth from her pocket, Thalia gave it to Dafne who promptly held it firm to the wound on her mouth.
“She wanted to train, so I am training her.” Dimitris moved to the side of the mat where he picked up a towel to wipe away his sweat.
“That wasn’t the deal. You were supposed to teach her shadowing, not punch her across the face!
After all she has been through, you thought that was the best course of action?
” Thalia’s posture stiffened and yet her chest heaved with every slow breath.
Dimitris wasn’t sure what was worse, the vitriol in her tone or the fact that it made him want to take her to the mat right this moment—and not to spar.
“My apologies, gatáki. I thought you said you did want me to hit her.” Dafne chuckled under her breath and Dimitris winked at Thalia who would have all but tackled him if Dafne hadn’t held her back. At least one of the sisters had a sense of humor.
“Leave us, Dafne,” Thalia said through clenched teeth.
“But I was actually getting somewhere, Thalia. I’m the one who wanted to—” Dafne tried to push back, but to no avail.
“I said leave us,” she snarled, pointing at the door. Dimitris had never seen Thalia this tense.
Gathering her things and beckoning to her psychí who had been watching from a corner of the room, Dafne headed toward the doors leading back to the barracks.
“I expect to see you back here every morning, Dafne,” Dimitris called after her. “You are not weak. Do not prove the men who think you are right.”
Dafne paused, turning her head over her shoulder. A faint smile twitched up on her lips. “I never do, wolf.”
Thalia’s glare could level armies. Though, so could the line of daggers that were neatly arranged in a baldric across her chest, looping down to where it attached to leather fighting pants.
She looked like she was out for blood and, not surprisingly, it was Dimitris’s.
Her moon-white hair cascaded down her back in waves, untamed and maddening.
Chest heaving in ragged breaths, she unfastened the baldric, setting it down beside the mat, but never removing her eyes from Dimitris.
“What are you doing?” Dimitris asked, careful to no longer make a joke for fear the seer might lunge at him and claw his eyes out.
Thalia cracked her neck to each side, taking a moment to stretch her arms out before her lip twisted into a snarl. For a moment her eyes glazed over and her hands trembled, but just as quickly that death glare returned.
“I challenge you.” Her voice was as crystal as the seas that danced around Nexos, as damning as the daimons they defeated in Tartaros. She pulled a strip of leather from her pocket and looped her hair up, fastening the rolling waves off her face.