Page 27

One, she would continue studying magic.

Two, she would agree to learn his way.

And three: she couldn’t complain about condition one or two.

Sensing she didn’t have much of a say in the matter, Thicket conceded.

Marcellus wasted no time, crossing the clearing and snapping a branch from one of the overgrown trees hanging above the fence line. Tucking it under his arm, he proceeded to tear a strip of cloth from his tunic.

“What are you doing?”

He wrapped the cloth around the stick and handed it to her. “So you don’t get splinters.”

Thicket eyed the stick. “I thought you were going to teach me how to use a sword?”

“Like I’m going to give you a weapon,” he grunted. “Once I’m confident you won’t slice your hand off, I’ll consider letting you use a real blade.”

Thicket glowered but took the stick. Despite its knobby appearance, it had some weight to it, though the balance was all wrong. She gave it a good swish, testing the feel of it in her hands. Her fingers slid against the fabric wrapped around its base, but with how rough the bark was she was grateful for it.

She glanced up to see Marcellus, still empty-handed and staring at her with mild amusement, as though she were a mere child who thought swinging around a twig made her a warrior.

“Where’s yours?” she asked, wanting to see how confident he felt holding one of his own.

“My what?”

“Your stick. I thought we were, you know, sword fighting.”

Marcellus reached out and smacked the makeshift sword. It flew from her hand and toppled into the dirt. He smirked at her bewildered expression. “If you cannot hold a sword correctly, there is no point in sparring with you.”

Thicket crossed her arms. “Then do you care to tell me how?”

Marcellus retrieved the stick from the ground and held it out in front of him. “I use a longsword, which requires two hands. You place your dominant hand right under the hilt, which would be about here.” He shifted his hand about a quarter way up the stick. “And your other hand should be down here, by the pommel.” He wrapped his fist just a few inches below the first then handed the stick back to her. “You try.”

Thicket’s brows pinched as she tried to remember what he had done. “How’s this?”

He stared at her. “That is… perfect.”

“Really?” She eyed her hand positioning. It felt natural, like this was how they were born to rest.

“Next we will work on footing.” Marcellus demonstrated the position, and just like with the hand placement, she found it comfortable, as though slipping into a second skin.

She shot him a gloating look. “See? I can hold a sword correctly.”

“Let’s see you swing it then,” he said.

Thicket raised the stick above her head and swung it down with enough force it made her stumble. Her cheeks burned.

“You have to step with your swing,” Marcellus told her. “Your body leads the sword, not the other way around. Try again.”

Thicket did. This time, it felt stable. Secure.

“Good,” Marcellus said. “Now we’ll go over the basic stances and movements to attack and defend.”

Thicket planted her feet, going slow at first and paying attention to every shift in her muscles, letting her body adapt to the paths carved by the makeshift sword. Slowly, her movements grew surer, quicker, and more confident—as did her own sense of self-assurance.

Thicket remembered how she had fought during her duel with Lavender. She had dominated Lavender’s movements. Her sister had not stood a chance—which was why she cursed the knife.

“Not bad, Princess,” Marcellus said as she finished the last of her sets.