White Thorn | On Hold

Chapter Nine: Bonebreaker

The gap between their skills was noticeable in an instant and it was a big one. Arya could barely blink, dodging punches by the skin of her teeth and then Jacob smiled and it was over. She tumbled back, winded and out of breath, silently promising herself she was going to up her training. Against anybody else, she'd be a force to be reckoned with—but it wasn't anyone else. It was him. A man who'd been taught the same techniques as hers... and he was ten times better at using them.

"I... prefer... not to be... called that," she puffed, wincing as she stumbled back yet again from another heavy blow to her stomach.

"You have some serious height issues, eh?" He paused on his attack, looking around the corridor.

Lydia was plastered against the wall, terror written across her face, and the two boys were well and truly unconscious. Arya was standing in front of them all without a single trace of fear written across her face, despite the beating she'd just taken.

She was stubborn.

Annoyingly so.

A fact that seemed to endear her to Flynn, amuse the blonde duo, and annoy the hell out of everyone else. Arya smiled faintly, wiping at her mouth before she charged back into the fray. "Shut up," she growled, leaping towards him yet again.

He ducked out of the way, laughing as she sailed past him. "So..." He spun around to face her. "Who was insane enough to teach a kid the Art of Bone Breaking?"

She winced. "That's none of your business."

"Aww," he moaned, pouting at her as her fist glanced past his cheek. "Don't be a spoilsport..."

"What are you? Five?" she asked.

He caught her wrist. "You're an amusing one..."

"Why thank you," she hissed, her eyes widening as they stayed locked together. His grip tightened on her wrist and she winced yet again.

"Now... who trained you?" he asked. "I'd answer before I break your wrist, if I were you..."

"A wandering monk," she said, hissing in pain as he threw her back with ridiculous ease. "He's dead now, so don't bother searching him out for a pis—"

His hand slammed into her gut with the force of a battering ram, and for once Arya was glad she'd practiced taking so many of the monk's punches.

It made the pain slightly more bearable.

Only slightly, though.

"Ah, ah... You kiss your mother with that mouth," he said.

Her eyes darkened, her legs trembling, her voice barely more than a croak as she spoke. "She's dead."

"Your father?"

"Never met him, otherwise I'd happily do this!" she yelled, punching him in the stomach, twitching slightly when he didn't even flinch.

"Hmm? I thought I felt a kitten paw at me for a second there..."

"You..." Her hands shook—out of fear or sheer annoyance she didn't know. All she knew was that the man in front of her was really getting on her nerves. That and the fact she really wanted to punch him, but apparently she wasn't quite skilled enough to do that just yet.

Jacob grinned. "Back to what you were going to do to your father... what was it exactly?"

"Beat him to a bloody pulp," Arya said, her expression murderous as she continued to stare at him. "Just like I'm going to do to you."