Page 142 of Ashborne: Defiance

“Grace here is a natural. You’re better at this than me. I thought it would be good for them to see your form. They both want to learn to throw.”

Voski nodded and his expression didn’t change, but he moved stiffly as he shifted position to face the tree—several paces further away from the tree than we’d been.

Bren and I backed away, so we weren’t in his way. My belly fluttered, because for once I had an excuse to just watch him. And he wasn’t angry.

All the men here moved with that easy grace and confidence that came with strength and certainty in their own abilities. But Voski had a savage grace the other lacked. He was leaner than Gil, though still very broad-shouldered and strong. He was a prowling mountain lion to Gil’s proud stallion.

The comparison made my heart thud.

Voski checked his feet, positioning them shoulder-width apart, one slightly ahead of the other as Gil had shown Bren and me, then raised his head and stared at the leaf on the trunk, hands loose at his sides.

Where Bren and I had raised our free hands toward the target to assist with aim, then used it to counterbalance the movement of the throw, Voski simply stood.

“Who hit the center?” he asked casually.

“Grace,” Gil said and there was a strange undercurrent to his tone.

Voski’s brows rose and he pursed his lips, nodding. “Interesting.”

“I thought so.”

“We stood much closer,” I said, looking at Bren. But her brows were high, looking back and forth between the two men, so it was clear she didn’t understand the subtext, either.

“Does he—” I started to whisper to Bren but cut off as Voski twitched. I didn’t know how else to describe the spasm of movement. There was so little to it, at first I thought he was simply loosening muscles, or preparing for the throw. Yet, in a blink, the tree rang with a thunk, thunk-thunk.

Gil cursed and Bren’s mouth dropped open. Voski’s body had barely moved, though I’d caught the blur of his arms, but now there were three knives quivering in the bark. One precisely at the sharp tip of the leaf, the other two pinning the bottom corners, just below where Gil had wrapped it with twine to keep it on the tree.

“How did you do that?” Bren breathed.

Voski frowned one second longer at the knives, then patted a hand to his lower abdomen. “Your power isn’t in your arms, it’s in your hips. Don’t try to throw hard—use your body to… well, come here and have a try. Show me what you’re doing.”

“You did three though!” I blurted.

Voski’s eyes slid slowly—reluctantly?—to meet mine as Bren trotted over. “Practice,” he said. “The more you practice, you’ll find the best positions for your blades where you can use the follow through to grab a second blade and wind up to the next.”

I looked at him, but apart from the harness blade the Furyknights all wore at their hips, I didn’t see any sheaths on him.

“But…”

Bren had already reached Voski, who urged her to take her stance and draw her knife without throwing, while he watched. Gil murmured to me to join them. And before long, the trunk of the tree was thunking irregularly with our throws.

I’d just managed to pierce the center of the leaf again when warm breath fluttered at my neck and goosebumps rushed in a wave down my arm, which I’d left extended because he told me to freeze at the end of the throw.

“See, you’ve got natural aim, so don’t even think about it. Just do what your body tells you about direction. Your problem’s going to be power. You’re already losing strength with the few extra feet standing back here. You’re capable of throwing effectively at twice this distance.”

I was about to argue, but then Voski slipped in front of me as Gil jogged to the tree and grabbed our blades to bring them back.

Voski was so tall, he blocked my view. I swallowed before looking up at him.

Our eyes locked.

“You’re waiting too long to release. Over-extending.” He reached out, pressing fingertips against each of my shoulders until they were straight. “Your shoulders should be square to the target when that knife leaves your fingers.”

“But, I have to throw.”

He nodded. “Stop seeing your arm as the source of your power—you’ll end up hurting your shoulder.” He stepped to the side, but leaned in to look down the length of my arm like it was an arrow, then tsked. “Drop your arms and stand as you would before you throw.”

I did as he asked. “Now, think of it as if your hips and stomach are the propulsion of the rest.” Then he flattened a hand on my belly, just below my belt-buckle, and my breath rushed out of me as a thrill sizzled through my core and zipped into my lungs.