Page 33 of Savage Devotion
I retrieve practice shields from the forge's equipment storage, wooden rounds with iron bosses, weighted to simulate combat conditions. The leather grips show wear from countless training sessions, softened by sweat and repetition.
"Shield-wall isn't about individual prowess," I explain, handing her the lighter of the two shields. "It's about unity. Trust. Protecting the warrior beside you even when instinct screams to protect yourself."
Lessons learned in blood. Principles carved into bone through repetition and loss.
Lessons my brother never lived long enough to master.
The memory hits without warning. Jorak stood beside me in our first real battle, nineteen years old and convinced that courage could overcome inexperience. His shield angled wrong, stance too aggressive, attention focused on glory instead of survival.
"Watch my back, Kael. Don't let me do anything stupid."
Last words. Last promise.
Broken thirty seconds later when the Bloodfang axe split his skull.
"Kaelgor?"
Ressa's voice pulls me back to the present, her expression concerned rather than impatient. She recognizes the hauntedlook that crosses my face sometimes, and the memories that refuse to stay buried.
Focus. She needs to learn this properly.
Lives depend on proper technique.
"Position your feet shoulder-width apart," I instruct, moving to stand beside her. "Weight evenly distributed, knees slightly bent."
She adjusts her stance, but her right foot angles too far forward, creating instability that would prove fatal in actual combat. Without thinking, I kneel beside her, hands on her ankle and calf to guide proper positioning.
Touch. Heat. Skin warm beneath my palms.
Professional correction. Nothing more.
Liar.
Her muscles tense under my guidance, not resistance but awareness. The hypervigilance that comes from recognizing threat or attraction that demands careful handling.
"Better," I say, releasing her leg before the contact becomes something other than instruction. "Shield position next."
She raises the wooden round, grip firm but angle slightly off. The shield covers her torso but leaves her left side exposed, a gap that experienced warriors would exploit without hesitation.
Adjustment required. Physical correction.
Professional necessity.
Stop rationalizing.
I move behind her, as my chest nearly touches her shoulders, and reach around to adjust her grip and positioning. My hands cover hers on the shield rim, guiding it to the proper defensive angle.
"Feel that?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "The shield edge should align with your shoulder. Creates overlapping protection when you're standing in formation."
She's trembling. Barely perceptible, but there.
Nerves or attraction?
Both?
"Like this?" She shifts the shield slightly, the movement bringing her back against my chest for just a moment before she steps forward.
Accidental contact. Probably.
