Page 94 of The Fifth Heir

He lifted my left glove, positioning it closer to my cheek, then adjusted the right below my chin.

“Protect your face.”

“I assumed the goal was to avoid being hit.”

“Everyone assumes that. Then they get hit.”

He stepped back and raised his hands. “I’m going to reach for your shoulder.”

“Which one?”

“The injured one.”

“That seems unfair.”

“Attackers are known for it.”

He moved.

I tried to block him with my left arm.

His fingers touched my right shoulder before my glove reached his wrist.

“Again.”

The second attempt ended the same way.

On the third, I stepped back rather than blocking. He followed easily and tapped my shoulder.

“You’re taller than I am.”

“So will many people trying to kill you.”

“How reassuring.”

“Again.”

We repeated the exercise until I stopped watching his hands and began following the movement of his shoulders. The first time I successfully turned away from his reach, satisfaction rushed through me.

There was a language to this too, I realized—not written in ink or carved into stone, but carried in the tightening of a muscle and the angle of a body before it moved. Once I began reading it that way, Torren’s reach stopped seeming impossibly fast.

On the next attempt, I slipped aside before his fingers reached me.

The runes flashed gold.

Torren nodded. “Better.”

“Only better?”

“You want praise after avoiding one hand?”

“I want an accurate assessment.”

“Better is accurate.”

He reached again.

I moved too soon.