Page 10 of Tracking Shadows

I take a deep breath, plant my feet firmly on the grass, just like he taught me, and raise my fists. The backyard is quiet; the only sound is the distant chirping of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. It’s peaceful here, away from the noise of the town, but I can’t afford to let my mind wander.

I glance over at Ivan, sitting on the porch steps with his sketchpad balanced on his knees. He’s focused on his drawing, completely absorbed in whatever he’s working on. His pencil moves quickly, with the precision of someone who’s done this a million times. He doesn’t even look up when I block Dad’s first strike.

“Eyes on me, Irina,” Dad snaps, pulling me from my brief distraction.

“Sorry,” I mutter, bringing my attention back to him.

I block another strike, then another, my movements more automatic now, driven by muscle memory. Dad is faster than me, stronger, too, but I know his patterns. I’ve been doing this for years, after all.

“Better,” he says approvingly. “But don’t let your guard down.”

“I won’t,” I promise, even as my arms start to tremble from the effort.

I shift my stance, trying to anticipate his next move. He steps forward, aiming a low kick at my legs, but I’m ready this time. I sidestep, catching his arm and using his momentum against him, just like he taught me. He stumbles, just for a second, and I take the opportunity to press my advantage, pushing him back.

“Nice,” he says breathless with the exertion but full of pride. He’s grinning now, that rare smile that makes the grueling hours of practice worth it. “You’re getting stronger, Irina. Faster, too.”

I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. Praise from my dad is hard to come by, so when it happens, it feels like I’ve just won a gold medal. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies, though his words have no real bite. He steps back, signaling the end of the session. “You’ve still got a long way to go.”

I straighten up, wiping the sweat from my brow. “I know.”

“Good,” he says, and his tone softens as he ruffles my hair, the way he’s done since I was a kid. “You’re doing great. Keep it up, and you’ll be tougher than anyone out there.”

I laugh, pushing his hand away. “Tougher than you?”

“Definitely,” Ivan chimes in, looking up from his sketchpad with a teasing grin. “But that’s not saying much. Dad’s getting old.”

“Watch it, kid,” Dad growls, but there’s a playful gleam in his eye as he strides over to the porch. “I can still take you down.”

“Sure you can,” Ivan replies as he closes his sketchpad. “Right after you catch your breath.”

Ivan’s always been like that, quick with a joke. He never takes anything too seriously. At nineteen, he’s already taller than Dad, but he’ll always be the baby brother in my eyes, even though he loves to pretend he’s the one protecting me.

“Come on, let’s head inside before your mum yells at us for being late,” Dad says, slinging an arm around Ivan’s shoulders and giving him a playful shake.

“I’d like to see her try,” Ivan jokes, but he’s already standing, tucking his sketchpad under his arm. “She’s too nice to yell at me.”

“Don’t count on it,” I say, smirking as I join them. “She’s got a mean glare when she wants to.”

“Only when you’re involved.” Ivan nudges me with his elbow. “You’re the troublemaker, not me.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the warmth that spreads through my chest. This is how it always is: teasing and joking but with a foundation of love as strong as steel. It’s something I never take for granted, even if I pretend not to notice.

As we head inside, the scent of roasting chicken hits me like a wall, making my stomach growl in anticipation. The smell of my mum's cooking alone makes my mouth water. I can already hear her bustling around in the kitchen, the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the soft hum of her favorite radio station.

“About time you three got here,” she calls out as we enter the kitchen, her back turned as she pulls a tray of perfectly roasted chicken from the oven. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“We were just finishing up.” Dad leans over to kiss her cheek. “Irina’s getting stronger every day.”

“She’s got a good teacher,” Mom replies, warm with affection, as she sets the tray down on the counter. She turns to face me, a smile tugging at her lips. “How was practice, sweetheart?”

“Tough,” I admit, though there’s a note of pride in my voice. “But I’m getting better.”

“I’ll bet you are.” She gives me a nod of approval. “Your father doesn’t go easy on anyone.”

“Not even himself,” Ivan adds with a grin, earning a mock glare from Dad.

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