Chapter 7: The Art of the Dagger
"Training" did not involve etiquette lessons or the harp. The following morning, Elara was led not to a parlor, but to a stark, stone-walled room in the townhouse's basement. Sunlight streamed through a single, high window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The room was empty save for a rack of practice swords and a single, waist-high wooden post.
The Duke was already there, waiting. He had discarded his tunic, wearing only a simple linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle and faint scars of his forearms. He looked less like a noble and more like a mercenary captain.
"Good," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the sparse room. "You're punctual."
"What is this?" Elara asked, her gaze drifting to the practice blades.
"This," the Duke said, picking up two sheathed daggers from a bench, "is your next lesson. Court is a battlefield fought with whispers and looks. The streets can be a battlefield fought with these." He tossed one of the sheathed daggers to her. She caught it, surprised by its solid, balanced weight.
"You expect me to be attacked in the streets?"
"I expect you to be prepared for anything," he countered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "A tool that breaks under pressure is useless. A weapon that can adapt is invaluable. You've shown me you have a mind. Now, I will see if you have the instinct to survive a more direct threat."
He unsheathed his own dagger, the steel catching the light. "The Prince is a blunt instrument, but he is not above using blunt instruments to get what he wants. An 'unfortunate' accident for a disgraced noblewoman would raise few questions."
The cold reality of his words settled over her. This wasn't a game. It was her life.
"For now, we start with the basics. Stance." He moved behind her, his presence enveloping. His hands settled on her hips, and she jolted at the contact. "Widen your feet. Shoulder-width apart. Lower your center of gravity."
His voice was a low murmur in her ear, his touch clinical yet utterly distracting as he adjusted her posture. "You are not a noble lady here. You are a fighter. Stability is life. Instability is death."
He guided her through the basic grips, his hands covering hers on the dagger's hilt, correcting her finger placement. The leather-wrapped hilt felt foreign and dangerous in her palm.
"Now," he said, stepping back to face the wooden post. "The human body is fragile. You don't need to be strong. You need to be precise." He demonstrated a swift, economical thrust into a painted mark on the post. "The throat. The eye. The armpit. The inner thigh. Major arteries. Your target is not his sword. It is his life."
Elara's stomach turned. This was visceral, brutal. It was a world away from the verbal sparring of the court.
"Your turn."
She approached the post, the dagger feeling clumsy and heavy. She mimicked his thrust, but it was weak, off-balance.
"Again," he commanded, his voice sharp. "You are not swatting a fly. You are ending a threat. Put your body into it. Commit."
She tried again, and again, each thrust feeling more futile. Frustration bubbled up inside her. She was an editor, not an assassin.
"You're thinking too much," the Duke said, striding forward. He positioned himself behind her again, one arm wrapping around to guide her dagger hand, his other hand splayed flat against her stomach, pulling her back firmly against his chest. The heat of him seeped through her clothes. "Stop using your head. Use your gut. Feel the motion."
His body was a solid wall of muscle behind her, his grip unyielding. He moved her arm for her, forcing a short, powerful stab into the post. The impact jarred up her arm.
"Feel that?" he breathed into her hair. "That is force. That is intent. Your words are your first weapon. This," he guided her hand for another thrust, "is your last. Now, do it yourself."
He released her and stepped back. Flustered, her heart hammering from his proximity and the violent lesson, Elara turned to face the post. She took a deep breath, pushing the editor aside, pushing the noble lady aside. She thought of the Prince's cold sneer, of Lady Seraphine's venom, of the terrifying fragility of her position.
She didn't think. She let the fear and the fury fuel her.
She lunged forward, a short, sharp cry escaping her lips as she drove the dagger into the painted mark with a solid thwack. The impact was clean, the vibration a satisfying shock up her arm.
Silence.
She turned to look at the Duke, chest heaving.
He was watching her, his head tilted. The storm in his eyes had calmed to something more thoughtful, more intense. He saw the fire she had tapped into.
"Better," he said, a single word of approval that felt more rewarding than any flattery. "Much better."
He walked over to her, stopping so close their bodies almost touched again. He didn't take the dagger from her. Instead, he reached out and gently pried her fingers from the hilt. He examined her hand, his thumb brushing over the reddening skin of her palm.
"You'll develop calluses," he stated, his touch lingering. "A good editor's hands, learning a soldier's trade." He looked from her hand back to her face, his gaze searching. "The mind of a strategist and the instinct of a survivor. A rare combination."
He released her hand, but the ghost of his touch remained.
"Enough for today. We will continue tomorrow." He turned to leave, then paused at the door, glancing back at her. "Oh, and Elara?"
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"That fire you found at the end," he said, a predatory smile touching his lips. "Do not lose it. It is far more valuable than any technique I can teach you."
He left her standing alone in the training room, the scent of his sandalwood and the cold, hard weight of the dagger in her hand. The lesson had been about survival, but the subtext had been about transformation. He wasn't just protecting an asset.
He was forging a weapon. And she was discovering a part of herself that was terrifyingly eager to be sharpened.