Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
‘Remind me why we’re training all the way out here?’
Marian wipes sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, cheeks flushed, damp curls sticking to her temples. The clearing Allen dragged her to is at the very rim of Elswyth, where the trees grow thin and the canopy opens to a spill of late sunlight.
It’s been ten days since the attack, and she can finally move without wincing.
Once she was cleared by the healers, Marian slipped back into the rhythms of life within Elswyth.
Mornings are spent at the river, hands plunged in the cold spring water, steam rising off drying linen in the sun.
Afternoons belong to Little John, who teaches her balance with the patient, brutal economy of a tree withstanding the wind.
Evenings are Allen’s, who shapes her anger into something sharp and deliberate.
Together they worked on her reflexes so that when the memory of that day clamps down on her heart, there is now another rhythm beneath it to answer.
The work was practical and loving in its brutality.
She finished her days sore, her body aching with the pull of new muscles.
The bruises and the burn of exertion mattered less than the small victories: a clean pivot that didn’t throw her off; a strike that landed without the reflexive flinch; the steadiness that would let her be grabbed without allowing panic to win.
What they’ve helped build is a body that belongs to her, a skin that would not be surprised into silence.
Allen leans against a crooked oak, a branch balanced across his shoulders.
‘Because, Mare,’ he drawls, his training staff tracing idle circles in the dirt, ‘tomorrow night’s the Severing, and everyone’s in a frenzy, trying to make themselves look holy and important.
The glade’s quiet, which means no nosy Elders, no sharp-eyed Will, and, most importantly, no antlered overlord storming in to ask why you’ve got a black eye or a split lip. Now, quit stalling.’
Marian rolls her eyes and adjusts her position, fists raised like he taught her.
Allen lifts his brows, unimpressed. ‘I’ve seen tighter fists on a squirrel clutching his nuts.’
She scowls, but her mouth quirks despite herself. ‘You’re insufferable.’
‘And you’re sloppy,’ Allen replies, poking her wrist until she re-centres her guard. ‘Which is another reason we’re out here instead of under the heart tree, where half the village could watch me knock you flat.’
In the distance, the bustle of Elswyth carries with the rise and fall of voices chanting practice hymns. Tomorrow night’s Greenwake rite, when the veil between grief and joy thins, is when every heart will declare what tether it will sever, and what new bond it will weave.
Marian’s gaze drifts toward the sounds, and she wonders what she would sever if asked.
The Hallomere name that still feels like a chain coiled around her throat? Or the fragile thread she’s spun here in Elswyth – one that feels less like captivity and more like something dangerously close to belonging?
Her thumb finds the latest of Lox’s wordless offerings tucked into her pocket. The wood is rough, still smelling faintly of sap. She traces the curve of the small fox’s tail, feeling how easily it might snap if pressed too hard.
The staff raps lightly against her thighs, pulling her attention back.
‘Looser knees,’ Allen crows. ‘If someone barrels into you, you’ll topple like a tavern stool.’
She exhales hard, forcing her stance to widen. Her blood is hot with frustration. ‘You’re enjoying this.’
‘Of course I am,’ he says cheerfully. ‘You think I get to boss around Lox or Will? They’d gut me for half the lip you’ve let me get away with.’ His grin widens, but there’s an edge of seriousness lodged beneath it. ‘Better you stumble here in a sunlit glade than when someone means it.’
Marian knows he’s right, but it doesn’t soothe the sting of every correction. She sets her feet, rolls her shoulders back, and pulls air low into her belly the way Little John has drilled her, before snapping her knuckles forward in a crisp punch.
‘Better,’ Allen admits, stepping back. ‘But don’t burn yourself out on the first strike. Try again and, this time, think less hammer, more hinge. Your body is the door. Swing it.’
The next crack of her fist through the air is satisfying, but her balance falters on the return.
‘Again,’ Allen says, tone lighter than his eyes. She resets. Breath. Hinge. Swing. Punch. Retract.
Her wrists ache, but she imagines the faces of men who leered, who gripped, who thought her smallness meant safety for them. She imagines her father’s ledger, her own name written like a line of debt, crossed out when he handed her over to the Sheriff. Her fist lashes forward with more intent.
Allen circles her, humming a tune that feels half like mockery, half like prayer.
‘You’re thinking of faces again,’ he says, sharp enough to startle her.
‘Good fuel, but dangerous.’ He taps the side of his temple.
‘Anger can blind you and make you react rashly. Your fist is an arrow, your shoulder the bow. Remember to pull from the spine, not the arm.’
She bites down on the retort that rises. He’s right, curse him. Rage comes easy. What she needs is control. She adjusts, again and again, until each strike comes faster and her wrists buzz from repetition.
‘Better,’ Allen murmurs when her fist lands clean, balance unbroken. He spins his stick once, then lowers it. ‘You can punch the air well enough. Now punch me.’
She blinks. ‘What?’
He taps his chin with two fingers. ‘Right here.’
Marian’s stomach tightens. The idea knots her insides. ‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can.’ His voice softens as he pats his cheek. ‘Proper form is well enough, but you also need to know what it feels like when fists meet flesh.’
Her pulse stutters as she clenches her fist and swings half-heartedly. He catches her wrist just before it lands and gives her a sympathetic yet accusatory look.
‘I don’t want to hurt you.’ The confession escapes before she can bite it down.
‘Believe me, I’ve been hit harder by lovers in bed.
’ His eyebrows wiggle, and she snorts despite herself.
‘This isn’t about hurting me. It’s about proving you can make it count when flesh fights back.
That you won’t falter when it matters. If it’s easier .
. .’ He drops her arm and steps back, holding both his hands up, palms out, in front of her.
‘Hit these instead; that way you won’t bloody up something as beautiful as my face.
’ He winks and the knot in Marian’s chest loosens.
She exhales through her nose, trying to shove the hesitation out with her breath.
Her fists tighten until her nails bite into her palm.
She plants her feet to ground herself, squares her shoulders, and swings.
The smack of knuckles against his calloused palm jolts up her arm. It isn’t pain, exactly, more like a vibration that rattles bone and tendon.
Allen grins and shakes his hand out. ‘There you go. Again!’
She hits his other palm. Sloppy. Crooked wrist. His correction comes quickly. ‘Remember, door hinge, not a flailing shutter.’
The next punch lands truer, a snap instead of a shove. He nods. ‘Better. Again.’
Each impact zips through her. Her chest begins to buzz with it, like the body she once thought useless has found a purpose it wasn’t supposed to. She grows faster, sharper.
Allen doesn’t let her off easy. He shifts his palms, forcing her to adjust, to miss when her gaze drifts. ‘Eyes up. Don’t look at your fist, look at what you want it to break through.’
Marian’s lungs are a forge. Each breath scalds on the way in; each exhale hisses through clenched teeth. Her chest tugs where the scar runs, but she keeps going until her knuckles sting and her arms tremble.
‘Better,’ Allen wheezes, flexing the pain in his hands away. ‘Now give me three – high, mid, low – without resetting your feet.’
She does, the last landing with a bark of satisfaction. Allen shakes his hand out, grin going lopsided. ‘See? There’s a wolf under all that civility.’
‘Or a fox.’
Marian’s head snaps up. Allen startles hard enough to flail. A dark shape shifts among the higher boughs, half-shadowed beneath a twisted elm.
Lox sits perched on a branch like he’s been there for hours, brows arched in mild appraisal. Bow and quiver strapped to his back, one boot braced lazily against the bark, the other hanging loose in front of him.
‘Either way, lots of teeth.’ Allen chuckles nervously. ‘How long have you been there?’
Lox’s gaze slides to Marian’s face. ‘Long enough to see her stance still needs work.’
‘We’re – I am – still working on the basics,’ Allen sputters.
Lox shifts forward, dropping from the branch with a catlike grace that belies his size.
He lands without a sound, straightens, leans his bow and quiver against the tree, and steps into the glade.
Sunlight breaks against his shoulders like it’s trying to reach him, casting shadows across his collarbones and the line of his jaw.
His eyes flick between them, lingering on Marian longer than she expects before shifting to Allen.
‘This is hardly what I asked of you,’ Lox sighs.
Allen rubs the back of his neck. ‘In my defence, you never expressly told me I couldn’t—’
Lox’s eyes sharpen. ‘I didn’t realize I needed to specify that you weren’t to turn her into a brawler before her skin’s even finished knitting itself back together, Allen-a-Dale.’
Old fear that she’s about to be punished, dragged back into obedience, inches up Marian’s spine.
‘She’s not porcelain,’ Allen argues. ‘You asked me to remind her that she’s not powerless, to give her back her shape. Well, part of that shape has sharp edges.’
The cord in Lox’s neck jumps. ‘You will push her into breaking!’