Fugitive of Death

8

 Nearly three weeks passed and my leg was almost healed. In spite of my injury, I forced myself to wake every morning before dawn to train with Markos, and occasionally, even Iris would join us. It took excessive convincing but she was the only person training with knives that didn't want me dead.

"I'll come before dawn," she finally said one night after dinner. "Less of a chance of being spotted with you two."

Morning and night I was exercising until one day, it no longer hurt to exist. I monitored my weight, noticing how my ribs and collarbones no longer stuck out, replaced with firm muscle. I was eating more, devouring food like it was going to run out. Never in my life had I envisioned this version of Beyla Rianda.

I was starting to like her.

Once Markos felt I had put on enough mass, he introduced me to the throwing knives.

"Now, there are two different ways you can throw them," he said, handing me the short piece of metal hilt first. "Spinning and not spinning."

"What are the benefits of either?" I asked. I grasped the knife, feeling its weight in my hand. It was balanced well enough but I wasn't sure how I was meant to grip it.

"Spinning is more forgiving," Markos said, adjusting my hands. His skin was rough, his body close enough that I could feel its heat.

I did my best not to focus on it.

"It's important to get the spin right, though," he added, stepping away. "If you spin it wrong, you'll hit your target with the hilt, not the blade. More spin means more speed but it also requires more force and accuracy."

"And not spinning?"

"You have to know exactly where you want the knife to go and supply enough power to propel it." He moved my fingers so that I gripped the hilt with all except my forefinger, which rested along the back of the blade. "Like this."

I gave him a sharp nod before readjusting my grip. "I'll try spinning first."

I stared down the wooden target several meters away, flexing my wrist a few times before letting go.

It didn't spin.

Instead, it clattered to the ground.

"Your wrist is too tight," Markos said. "Loosen it up. Let the knife almost roll out of your hand."

I swallowed hard then picked up another. I loosened my grip, aiming the knife before releasing it once again.

This time, it sailed through the air and embedded itself in the upper right of the board.

I stared.

Markos let out a long whistle. "I expected that to bounce. Not bad, Bibi."

My cheeks flushed from the compliment so naturally, I had to bury it with a sarcastic remark. "I'm so glad you have so much faith in me."

He stood from the perch he had been lounging on and slapped another knife in my hand. "Beginner's luck."

I narrowed my eyebrows. "You willing to bet on that?"

"Maybe," he said. "What's the stakes?"

I thought for a moment, then spoke. "Half your breakfast tomorrow. And if you're right, you get half of mine."

"Deal," he said, sitting back down. "I hope you enjoy sitting through the Captain's debrief hungry."

I scoffed, spinning the knife in my hand. I stared down at my target, the hastily painted circle on the board. The longer I looked, the more the world seemed to tunnel around me and my focus sharpened. Arching my arm back, I tossed the knife.