Chapter 15 #2
I’d seen half-naked men in my village, oftentimes when they returned from bathing in the stream. I knew what strong muscles looked like.
But Harthon…he went far beyond that.
He was built as an animal of prey, powerful muscles honed for agility and speed rolling beneath skin that was marked with violence. It was the unbreakable body of a hunter, a killer—a man who had warmed me last night.
Something unfamiliar but not unpleasant leapt in my stomach.
“You’ll have a better view if you come closer.”
I jumped at the sound of his voice, embarrassment hitting swiftly as I left the safety of the tree and walked forward. There was no point in pretending I wasn’t there. He finished pulling his daggers free and made his way back, the dark whiskers along his jaw shifting as he smirked.
“I’m not here for a view,” I defended, hoping the sky was still dark enough to hide the color of my cheeks. I didn’t even know how he’d heard me approach. I hadn’t made a single noise.
A brow lifted. “So you hide behind trees for fun?”
Paces away now, it took a shameful amount of effort to keep my gaze from dropping to his chest.
He’s only a man, Etarla.
Sure—a very well-built man.
“I heard the daggers landing, and I came to see what the noise was. I didn’t want to interrupt,” I explained in what I hoped was a bored voice.
“And you chose to just stare instead.” Laughter danced in his eyes.
“I was observing your form.”
“I don’t blame you. Many enjoy observing my form,” he replied, that low timbre teeming with arrogance.
My cheeks flamed when I heard the innuendo, realizing how my words had sounded. “I meant your throwing form,” I rushed to correct, even though I was absolutely observing his other form.
His grin only widened. “Right. And what did you learn about my throwing form through your observations?”
My mind raced for something somewhat intelligent to say. It failed. “It’s, uh, very good.”
Kill me now.
“What’s very good about it?” he pressed, enjoying my discomfort far too much. Annoyance zapped through me as I fought to gain control of this humiliating conversation.
“You’re fast and precise.” Floundering for a change of topic, I latched onto the first thought I had. “I should be training while we travel, not waiting to return to Callen.”
The look he gave me said he knew I was trying to distract him. By some act of mercy, he went along with it. “I can train you while we travel. I didn’t offer it because I thought you’d be tired and sore from riding.”
I didn’t want Harthon to train me. He was far too intimidating when it came to fighting, and I would feel like even more of a fool with him than I did with Callen. But I’d needed a new topic, and I wasn’t going to backtrack on my words. So I stubbornly replied, “I’m not too tired to train.”
That part, at least, was genuine. I was used to long days of labor, and I wasn’t afraid of waking early to work. Considering Harthon’s lack of a cloak yesterday morning, it was safe to assume he always trained before dawn.
Harthon slid his daggers into the strap around his thigh and crossed his arms. “Show me the strikes Callen taught you. Do each one three times. Let’s see your form,” he said, the sudden request sounding like a dare.
“Fine,” I instantly replied, because I was in too deep and there was no other option.
Damn. I was doing this. I was training with Harthon.
I was about to get my ass handed to me.
You don’t know how to fight, but you’re good at hard labor. This is just hard labor.
Exactly.
With the best laborer probably in existence.
With a fortifying breath, I shifted into a split stance, my hands bunched into fists just in front of my chin.
Well aware of Harthon’s analytical observation, I struck with a right jab, using my legs and torso for power like Callen had said.
Then I did it twice more before moving to my left side and then proceeding with my kicks.
“Not terrible, but definitely awkward,” Harthon commented when I finished.
I dropped my hands, blinking. I knew I had no experience, but that was…harsh.
He circled around to my front, forehead wrinkled in thought.
“The basics are there, but you’re thinking about everything too hard.
You need to get to a point where each jab or kick isn’t a process, just a single reaction.
Practice them on your own, one hundred repetitions each, every morning the moment you wake up. ”
His blunt evaluation was painfully accurate, though it didn’t make me hate his delivery any less. He didn’t allow me time to respond to his instructions before we moved on.
“Did you go over blocks?” he asked.
“Just the ones that deflect hits.” Callen had shown me how to use my forearms to stop a fist or slap, but I didn’t have the chance to block a real one.
Not that I wanted Callen to throw a punch at me the other day. Or any day.
“Good. They’re essential to know, but you should lean on evasion tactics more.” His eyes lowered to my feet and tracked up my body, my skin tingling beneath his scrutiny. “You’re too small to deflect multiple hits from most soldiers.”
My jaw dropped. I was stronger than the average woman. “That’s rude.”
“No, it’s fact. Your forearm would break if you blocked a hit from me or someone with my size or power. Dodging and then striking will serve you better.”
This time, I allowed my gaze to dip and trace over those bulging muscles, which could easily squash me.
Maybe he had a point.
“So how do I g—”
The air shifted just so, and then bronzed skin was careening toward my face. With a yelp, I jolted back, but I knew I’d be too slow even as I tried to step out of his reach. I slammed my eyes shut just as an open palm landed lightly on my cheek.
There was no pain—only a firm reminder that, had Harthon wanted to strike me, I’d be on the ground because I couldn’t move quickly enough.
Slowly, I peeled my eyelids open, my heart slamming against my ribs, to see Harthon’s lips turned down.
“Your eyes need to stay open, and your reflexes need work,” he observed, dropping his hand.
“I wasn’t expecting you to do that,” I shot back, setting my shoulders back in an effort to regain some composure.
“Do you think your opponents will give you a heads up before hitting you?”
The derisive question grated on my nerves. “Obviously not. I just didn’t realize you were my opponent and this was a real fight.”
“Training should always replicate fighting. Even if I’m instructing you, you should treat me as an opponent.”
Here I’d thought Callen was a torturous training instructor.
It had only been a few minutes, and it was already clear that Harthon was far more intense.
But as uneasy as that made me, a begrudging part of me recognized that I’d never learn if training was easy.
And the quicker I learned, the sooner I could stop leaning on others to protect me and begin to hold my own.
The better I could hold my own, the sooner I could successfully ditch Harthon and ensure my and Merelda’s survival.
So I held myself alert and waited to see if Harthon would strike or speak next.
“Generally, when something swipes at your upper body from the side, you duck. If the hit is coming from above, you sidestep or spin. For low kicks, you step back if you can clear it, and for the rest, you need to make a judgment call. Questions?”
I mentally repeated his fast words, picturing each evasion in my head. Duck with a side swipe. Spin or sidestep for slices from above or higher kicks. Jump over—
Harthon didn’t even shift his weight before a heel was jammed against my stomach, sending me careening toward the hard ground. The air whooshed from my lungs as I landed on my ass on the cold dirt.
For Domus’ sake, how could I evade him when I didn’t have time to remember the tactic?
The complaint shot to my tongue.
Then I stared up at the unyielding expression on his face and swallowed it back. Complaints didn’t have a place here. They wouldn’t do anything but make me look weak, and Harthon had saved me enough times now that proving my strength was an uphill battle.
And, dammit, I was strong.
So I stood, and when he swiped his hand toward my face from the side again, I ducked, the hairs on my head stirring as his hand passed the space. I popped back up as he gave me a small nod of approval.
“Reflexes are built from experience, not thought,” he explained, and then his leg was flying toward my stomach again.
I stepped back. Then I ducked. And then his other fist landed on the top of my skull with a soft thump.
“Your head is cleaved in two.”
I gritted my teeth, tensing my muscles as he began to circle me. I mirrored him, keeping him at my front.
“Good. Never let your opponent get behind you.”
He came at me again with three strikes in a row. I clumsily dodged them all, but his next series ended with me on the ground once more.
“You’re too focused on one part of my body. Use your periphery to observe me as a whole.”
Immediately, I shoved to my feet, irritation narrowing my focus. I would not land on the ground again.
As the sky began to lighten with the sunrise, I ate my words five times and felt Harthon’s palm on my face ten.
While there was no true physical pain, I felt the burn of frustration with every successive failure.
Harthon offered no words of encouragement, only silence as the repetitions multiplied and my breathing grew labored.
Once again, I landed on the dirt, now numb to the impact. I’d managed to evade six strikes in a row, but a flash of excitement had distracted me from watching my periphery, and his leg had flicked out in a quick snap that pushed me down.
Harthon stepped forward and lowered his hand. “We’re done for today. You did well,” he said.
Considering I was staring at his face from the ground again, I certainly did not do well. Not yet, anyway.
Ignoring his hand, I came to my feet. “One more time,” I demanded, refusing to end on failure.
I wouldn’t allow excitement to distract me this time. Maybe I could make it to eight strikes, or ten.
Harthon shook his head. “That was enough. We have a long day ahead of us.”
I dug in my heels. “One more round won’t make me any more tired.”
“One more round is usually too many.”
“I’m not going back to camp until we do it again,” I declared, settling into my stance.
“You’re being stubborn.”
“I want to survive my next kitchen fight.”
Understanding rolled across the hard lines of his face. That was all the warning I had.
His leg kicked out toward my stomach, and I danced away. I ducked beneath a swinging arm and evaded a downward strike by mere inches. His other palm swept toward my face, and I lowered, but not before I noticed his left leg leaving the ground.
Step back.
He circled me, dark eyes searching for weaknesses.
Then he quickened his pace, and it quickly became apparent how easy he’d been taking it on me.
I lurched below his palm as his leg came up again, much faster than before, and I stumbled to the side just in time for his other palm to snap out. Dropping my head again, I noticed the lift of his foot. I was prepared to jolt away from the high kick when his foot swept toward my ankles instead.
Move away.
The thought came a moment too late. He made contact, and my feet flew out to the side. My hands weren’t moving at the speed they needed to break my fall. I was going to hit belly-first.
Two arms wrapped around me, jerking me to a stop.
Thank the Domus. I had a moment to register Harthon’s solid mass above me, and then he levered me back to my feet with easy strength, bringing my chest inches from his.
His grip was a hot, secure brand on each arm as I found the ground, shivering with the remnants of adrenaline.
When I lifted my chin, I found his skin glistening with sweat, and again, my mouth dried.
“We’re done,” Harthon repeated, his tone offering no room for argument. Slowly, his hands trailed down my arms until they fell to his sides. “You’re a quick learner.”
Considering how often I’d landed on the ground, the praise didn’t seem deserved. I needed to be a quicker learner if I was to benefit anytime soon.
“We’re doing it again tomorrow,” I told him.
He cocked his head. “I tend to give orders, not take them.”
“It’s a strong request, not an order.”
His eyes flicked between mine, studying the colors there. “Whatever the magvis says.”
At the term, the responsibilities ahead of me rushed in like a torrent. I had a role to play today, and while I’d owned it in front of Ellan’s soldiers last night, I’d have to play it well enough to convince a Princeps that I was something I was not.
At a party.
A soul-sucking event, according to Ana.
And I couldn’t fail. Convincing the world that I was the magvis was paramount to Harthon securing alliances and limiting attacks.
While I didn’t care about Harthon’s success, I cared about my own safety.
The last thing I needed was to be hunted by more Princepes who knew that I was a powerless villager who could only guide them into Centralis.
The more of them who supported Harthon, the better off I was.
There is a lie within there, a voice in my head whispered.
No. I hadn’t wanted him to die when the looters attacked. But I didn’t care about his success. That was no lie.
Is that so?
A soft nudge on my elbow pulled me from the confusing thoughts, and I refocused on Harthon who nodded toward the woods. “Time to go. We have a few more hours of travel, and then we get to enjoy Ellan’s festivities,” he said without any enthusiasm.
“Does anyone actually have fun at his parties?” I asked, trudging beside him.
“Yes. Not my brand of fun, though, and probably not yours.”
Like he knew what I considered to be fun. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ll wish those pretty eyes of yours were kind enough to blind you.”