Theea
takes blood, sweat, and tears to look natural
His almost feral, half-second smile sends a bright, electric thrill through me—and I almost let it tug my focus. Almost.
The shove jolts me off-balance, my blade cutting air. The miss snaps heat through my chest; my face twists before I can stop it. He steadies, laughs—taunting—and I am too easy to bait. I don’t miss. I can hear my parents in my ear, picking apart the mistake. The damn shield throws me off; I’m used to freedom, to slipping hits instead of shouldering them.
I bite down on the frustration and let it sharpen me. "You’ve hardly seen anything."
I break right on a quick V-step, then cut back across his front—fast enough to blur, close enough to feel the warmth of him. My shield snaps low to bait his guard, then I hook its inside rim under the edge of his, levering up just enough to make a gap. I drop my shoulder and slip through that doorway, tight to him, breathing his winter-cold air.
My boot bumps his lead foot to stall his turn. I twist sideways into his space, hip brushing his, my shield now jammed against the back of his to keep it flared. The shortsword flips to a near-reverse grip and drives in short and mean toward his centerline—aimed right for the gut like I’d open him, the blade turning flat at the last instant as I try to plant it across his stomach.
[ training 2/4 ]
The shove jolts me off-balance, my blade cutting air. The miss snaps heat through my chest; my face twists before I can stop it. He steadies, laughs—taunting—and I am too easy to bait. I don’t miss. I can hear my parents in my ear, picking apart the mistake. The damn shield throws me off; I’m used to freedom, to slipping hits instead of shouldering them.
I bite down on the frustration and let it sharpen me. "You’ve hardly seen anything."
I break right on a quick V-step, then cut back across his front—fast enough to blur, close enough to feel the warmth of him. My shield snaps low to bait his guard, then I hook its inside rim under the edge of his, levering up just enough to make a gap. I drop my shoulder and slip through that doorway, tight to him, breathing his winter-cold air.
My boot bumps his lead foot to stall his turn. I twist sideways into his space, hip brushing his, my shield now jammed against the back of his to keep it flared. The shortsword flips to a near-reverse grip and drives in short and mean toward his centerline—aimed right for the gut like I’d open him, the blade turning flat at the last instant as I try to plant it across his stomach.
that's how it's done
