Page 41 of Quest

Darcel’s eyes lingered on the dawn’s cascading colors a moment longer. “As much as the night taught us to fear and to survive, the dawn teaches us to hope and thrive. Though there is much to do, we must push forward and make every day count.”

As if to affirm his words, the light of the dawn enveloped us, warming the morning’s frostiness and illuminating the path ahead. As the sun climbed higher and cast golden hues across the landscape, we turned towards each other with a renewed sense of purpose. I watched as Darcel shifted fluidly into a crouched stance, keeping his weight on his non-injured leg. Whether the position was for fighting or something else I wasn’t sure, but I instantly felt out of my depth.

The reverence of the moment became entirely forgotten in the face of his wicked grin. “Are you ready to be strengthened?”

I felt a sense of foreboding, but whatever horrors I imagined when he first woke me with the news of my training couldn’t have prepared me for the torture that awaited me.

After putting me through a series of lunges and stretches to warm up, the training began with a brisk jog. Darcel’s injury prevented him from joining the exercise himself, so instead he directed me along paths through the dew-laden grass; the chill of the morning bit at my cheeks, my only reprieve to the sweat lining my face as the sun rose higher. The cheerful twitter of birds mingled with the less sonorous sounds of my labored gasps as I stumbled to the end of my course, where I dropped down beside Darcel, who watched my struggle from his place on a large stone, looking as princely as though it was a throne.

I dearly hoped I’d be granted a chance to rest, but instead he set me on a brisk walk with intermittent stops to practice balance and precision on uneven terrain. “Strength isn’t always about speed or force,” he explained. “So now we'll work on maintaining stamina over an extended period of time.”

My legs trembled slightly as I began. The path started out with deceptive ease, weaving through a gently rolling meadow. Darcel limped alongside me, his own endurance allowing him to keep a steady pace despite his injury. He stopped several times to correct my posture and remind me that even in this terrain, it was important to maintain proper form.

We paused as the path took an abrupt turn upward, ascending into more challenging, rocky outcrops that waited to test my agility. I groaned as I forced myself onto the twisting path. My legs ached from the slow, deliberate climb and the concentration required to maintain balance, the burn different from the fierce fire of a run but just as effective.

“Use the environment to your advantage,” Darcel called from below. “Every rock, every change in slope can teach you something about handling real situations.”

I pushed through the deep burn in my muscles, driven by a mix of pride, the desire not to show any weakness, and motivation to match Darcel’s resilience.

After I returned to where Darcel waited, he only allowed a brief rest. He showed me basic combat moves, correcting my stance and demonstrating each sweep and block with precise, fluid motions, his voice firm but encouraging. We practiced the moves until my arms trembled from fatigue, each repetition embedding the skills deeper into my muscle memory.

By mid-morning, the training session took a sudden turn from exhausting to intensely personal when Darcel decided it was time I learned how to properly wield a sword.

I warily eyed the weapon before shifting my uncertainty towards his bandaged leg. “I can’t fight you while you’re injured.”

A smile toyed at his lips. “I’m sure you could use the handicap.”

His teasing ruffled my annoyance and sense of competitiveness, making it impossible to resist the enticing bait his taunting had dangled in front of me. I lifted my chin and smirked. “Challenge accepted.” I swung my sword with all my effort, a poor blow he easily blocked midst his laughter, the sound a welcome break in his usual stoicism.

Slightly embarrassed but undeterred, I tried again, but my determination was no match for my inexperience. Each initial attempt was awkward, the heavy sword too unbalanced and unyielding in my hands. Observing my struggle, Darcel stepped closer, his presence immediately filling the space around me that had to remain free of handsome princes for the sake of my concentration and sanity.

I stiffened instinctively, my stomach already aflutter with nerves and anticipation. “What are you doing?” I squeaked.

He rolled his eyes. “You certainly are jumpy. Relax, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to show you.” The warmth of his body enveloped mine as he closed the distance between us and moved behind me, with no consideration of the damage his proximity rendered on my poor heart. It took every ounce of willpower not to jolt away.

As much as I tried to conceal my body’s reaction, I couldn’t stop the blush that engulfed my cheeks. Worry filled Darcel as he eyed my flush and the sweat dripping down my face. “If you’re getting overheated, perhaps we should take off our shirts?—”

“Absolutely not.”

My harsh refusal seemed to stir his own memory of the last time that had happened. He gave an awkward cough but thankfully didn’t press the matter.

My heart thudded erratically as he reached around me, covering my hands with his own to adjust my grip on the sword’s hilt. His guiding touch was firm, but all I could focus on was the heat radiating from his body, the brush of his chest against my back with each small adjustment he made.

His breath tickled my ear. “Hold it like this. You need to feel the balance—let the sword become an extension of your arm.”

The low timbre of his voice sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. I tried to focus on his words and on the weight and feel of the sword now steadied by his guidance, but my senses were overwhelmed by his closeness. The way he moved with me as we practiced a few swings felt almost like a dance, his body anticipating and mirroring my own movements, an intimacy that stirred a tumult of emotions within me.

Every touch and correction he made felt amplified, sending waves of awareness through me that I struggled to suppress. I was acutely conscious of my disguise and the necessity to remain as ’Ren’ in his eyes, but this moment made the already incredibly challenging pretense utterly impossible. My breathing grew shallow in a futile attempt to control the fluttering in my chest and the warmth spreading through me that it was imperative he didn’t detect.

As we continued, his hands occasionally corrected my posture or grip, each touch another jolt to my composure. “Good, you’re beginning to get it. Now, try to strike with intention.” Darcel finally stepped back to give me space to practice the move independently.

I swung the sword with as much focus as I could muster given his lingering proximity, grateful for the opportunity the physical activity granted to help channel the tumult inside me. Every swing dissipated a bit of the tension, but Darcel’s eyes on me—watchful and discerning—kept the butterflies that had invaded my stomach captive.

Apparently the current torture on my heart wasn’t nearly enough for him. As our session progressed, Darcel decided to practice grappling—a technique useful for close combat situations. Despite my efforts to focus intently on his instructions, I scarcely heard his explanation about leverage and understanding my opponent’s movements, my attention entirely eclipsed by the way the muscles tightened beneath his shirt as he demonstrated a basic hold.

We squared off, and he showed me how to break a hold by shifting my weight and using the opponent’s momentum against them. As we grappled, our bodies inevitably came close once more. Even amid my fluster, I managed to apply the technique he’d just demonstrated, twisting to escape his grip.

I broke free more forcefully than I intended, causing Darcel to stumble backward; in an attempt to stabilize himself, his hand reached out, inadvertently brushing against my chest.

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