Page 14 of Her Orc Protector

"Standing," he answered.

I frowned. "I know how to stand."

"No," he said. "You don't. Not for this."

He moved to the center of the yard, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced evenly.

"Like this," he said, gesturing for me to copy him.

I did, aware of how awkward I felt. My shoulders were too tense, my spine too rigid. Beside me, Ellie rolled onto her back, kicking her feet in the air, utterly unconcerned with my discomfort.

"Relax your shoulders," Uldrek instructed. "You're not carrying the weight of the world."

When I didn't immediately adjust, he stepped closer. "May I?"

I hesitated, then nodded once.

His hand settled on my right shoulder. "Down," he said. "Let it drop. Natural, not forced."

I tried. My body was stiff with memories I couldn't quite shake—of hands that corrected too harshly, of a voice that had grown colder with each perceived flaw.

Uldrek seemed to sense my tension. He stepped back, giving me space.

"You're not a tree," he said, his tone lighter. "Don't root yourself. You need to be able to move."

I exhaled slowly and tried again. This time, I felt something ease in my upper back, a softening I hadn't realized I needed.

"Better," he said. "Now, your hands."

I looked down at my clenched fists.

"If you grip that hard, you'll break your own wrist before he does," Uldrek observed dryly.

A surprised laugh escaped me—short and rusty, as if I'd forgotten how. The sound startled me more than it did him.

Uldrek's mouth quirked slightly at the corner. "Relax your fingers. Keep them curled, but not tight. Like you're holding something precious but not fragile."

I thought of Ellie's small hand wrapped around my finger when she was just days old. How I'd marveled at the perfect miniature of her nails, the delicate creases of her knuckles. How I'd held her firmly enough that she wouldn't fall, gently enough that she could still move.

My fingers uncurled naturally with the memory.

"There," Uldrek said. "Now you're standing."

"I thought you'd start with something more... aggressive," I admitted.

He shook his head. "Fighting starts before the first punch. It starts with how you carry yourself."

For the next hour, he showed me basic stances. How to shift my weight without telegraphing the movement. How to keep my balance when pushed. I stumbled more than once, my body clumsy with years of careful stillness rather than deliberate motion.

"You're thinking too much," Uldrek told me after my third misstep.

"I'm trying to get it right," I countered, frustration edging into my voice.

"There is no 'right.' There's only what works." He demonstrated the movement again—a simple pivot that seemed effortless when he did it. "Your body knows how to move. Trust it."

I bit back a retort about how little I trusted anything, especially my own judgment. Instead, I tried again, focusing on the feeling rather than the form.

This time, when he pushed lightly against my shoulder, I shifted my weight smoothly, absorbing the pressure without losing my footing.

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