flowers bloom in the rain
Flora drifts up beside me like a soft breeze, all effortless presence and easy confidence, and it’s strangely reassuring to hear she wasn’t always good at this. I know I’m skillful—I can make blades stick, I can fight—but what I want is precision. The kind much of my family seems to breathe without thinking.
When she holds out one of her daggers, my eyes widen just a fraction. I can’t help the little smile that softens my face as I take it, careful and almost tender, like it might vanish if I’m not gentle. The blade feels different in my hand—perfectly balanced, wicked and gleaming like it knows more than I do. I step back to give her room, watching as she flicks her wrist, casual as a shrug, and buries the dagger dead-center between my crooked attempts. My lips purse, narrowing at her with a good-natured glare, before twisting into a dry smile. “Sure. Nothing to it.”
I square my stance, squinting at the tree, and do my best to mimic exactly what she told me. Keep the wrist straight, guide, don’t muscle it. The motion doesn’t feel natural yet, too light compared to the weight I usually put behind a throw. The blade flies almost true, close enough to make my heart leap—but it only clings to the bark for a breath before sliding off, thudding into the ground. I grit my teeth.
The dagger shimmers back into my hand, mocking in its weight. I inhale, reset, and try again. This time it sticks, at least, though it still skews just enough off-center to remind me it isn’t clean. My eyes flick sidelong toward Flora as the knife reappears once more, and I cringe a little, shoulders tensing. “What am I doing wrong?” I ask, frustration creeping beneath the words.
When she holds out one of her daggers, my eyes widen just a fraction. I can’t help the little smile that softens my face as I take it, careful and almost tender, like it might vanish if I’m not gentle. The blade feels different in my hand—perfectly balanced, wicked and gleaming like it knows more than I do. I step back to give her room, watching as she flicks her wrist, casual as a shrug, and buries the dagger dead-center between my crooked attempts. My lips purse, narrowing at her with a good-natured glare, before twisting into a dry smile. “Sure. Nothing to it.”
I square my stance, squinting at the tree, and do my best to mimic exactly what she told me. Keep the wrist straight, guide, don’t muscle it. The motion doesn’t feel natural yet, too light compared to the weight I usually put behind a throw. The blade flies almost true, close enough to make my heart leap—but it only clings to the bark for a breath before sliding off, thudding into the ground. I grit my teeth.
The dagger shimmers back into my hand, mocking in its weight. I inhale, reset, and try again. This time it sticks, at least, though it still skews just enough off-center to remind me it isn’t clean. My eyes flick sidelong toward Flora as the knife reappears once more, and I cringe a little, shoulders tensing. “What am I doing wrong?” I ask, frustration creeping beneath the words.
[ training 1/4 ]
Theea
growing up is a pain
