Chapter 46: Ch 46: Pokes, Laughter, and Courage

Ch 46: Pokes, Laughter, and Courage

Aster’s instruction was patient.

"The grip," he said, standing in front of Orion. He held up an identical wooden dagger. "Not like you’re holding a quill. You’re not signing a treaty. You’re trying to put a hole in something that doesn’t want a hole."

He demonstrated. His large, scarred hand closed around the hilt, fingers tight but not white-knuckled, thumb locked along the side. It looked natural. Effortless.

"Now you."

Orion mimicked the grip. It felt awkward. The wood was too thick for his slender fingers.

Aster stepped closer. He didn’t take the knife from him. Instead, he placed his own hands over Orion’s, adjusting his fingers one by one.

"Index finger here. Thumb here. The rest support. Feel it? The blade is an extension of your arm. Not a separate thing."

Orion nodded, feeling the new alignment. It felt more secure.

"Good," Aster said, stepping back. "Now, stance."

This was harder.

"Feet apart. Shoulder-width. No, wider." Aster nudged Orion’s right foot with his boot, pushing it further out. "One foot slightly back. Which is your strong side?"

"I... I don’t know."

"You write with your right hand?"

"Yes."

"Then your right foot goes back. Turn your body a little. Like this."

Aster put his hands on Orion’s hips and turned him gently.

"You present less of a target. Your balance is here, in your center."

He tapped Orion’s stomach lightly. "Not up here." He tapped his forehead.

Orion tried to settle into the pose. He felt ridiculous. Ungainly.

"Now," Aster said, moving behind him. "The motion. It’s not from the shoulder. It’s from here."

He placed his palm flat against Orion’s lower back.

"You twist. You push. You follow through."

He stepped in closer.

Much closer.

Orion stiffened as he felt the solid warmth of Aster’s chest press against his back. The captain was taller, broader, his frame enveloping Orion’s slighter one. This wasn’t the distant, respectful space of the manor. This was the intimate proximity of a training yard.

"Relax," Aster murmured, his voice a low rumble near Orion’s ear. "Tension makes you slow."

Before Orion could process the command, Aster’s arms came around him.

One large, calloused hand closed over Orion’s wrist, the one holding the practice dagger. The other hand settled firmly on Orion’s waist, just above his hipbone, holding him steady.

Orion’s breath hitched. He was surrounded. Caged in by strength and intent. The clean, sun-warmed scent of Aster—leather, steel, and simple soap—filled his senses, momentarily overwhelming Abel’s lingering cedar-and-honey.

"Feel the movement," Aster instructed, his voice calm and focused, devoid of anything but purpose. He guided Orion’s arm forward, slow and controlled. "From the core. Twist."

His hand on Orion’s waist pressed, encouraging the rotation. "Extend." He pulled Orion’s wrist forward smoothly. "Follow through. Don’t stop at the end. Imagine the blade going through the target."

He moved Orion’s arm through the motion several times, a slow-memory pantomime of violence. The heat from Aster’s body was immense. The pressure of his hands was absolute. Orion felt every shift of muscle, every point of contact. It was terrifying and, in a strange way, profoundly safe. Here, in this hold, nothing could reach him.

Across the clearing, the soldiers were pretending not to watch.

They were failing spectacularly.

Their drills had devolved into a silent, fascinated pantomime. Two men were supposed to be sparring. Instead, they were gently tapping their swords together while staring openly, mouths slightly agape.

Another soldier had abandoned all pretense. He lay on his side on the ground, propped up on one elbow, chin in his hand, watching the lesson with the rapt attention of a theatergoer. His feet kicked idly in the air behind him, like a maiden listening to a romantic ballad.

Seeing this, his friend nearby gave up too. He plopped down cross-legged next to him, following his gaze.

A third wandered over and leaned against a tree, arms crossed, a slow grin spreading on his face.

"Wish the Captain would show us like that," the first soldier on the ground whispered dreamily. "So nice. Gentle."

The one leaning against the tree snorted. "Gentle? The other day he caught me napping on watch. Didn’t say a word. Just tied a rope to my ankle and hung me upside down from the old pine for an our. Said it would improve my circulation and my vigilance."

The cross-legged soldier chuckled. "He yelled at me for a week after I used the wrong parry. My ears are still ringing."

"Yelled?" said the dreamy one, still watching as Aster adjusted Orion’s stance again, his hands moving from waist to shoulder. "He’s not yelling now."

"That’s ’cause the student ain’t us, you idiot," the tree-leaner said, but there was no malice in it.

Just then, Jax lumbered over. The gentle giant had been guarding the ginger cookies with solemn duty, but even he couldn’t resist the pull of the spectacle. In his massive arms, he carried a training dummy.

It was the standard stuffed canvas sack torso on a pole. But someone had taken liberties.

The dummy’s "head" was a bundle of straw, meticulously arranged into a shock of messy, *blond* straw hair. Two dark stones had been shoved in for eyes, giving it a perpetually arrogant squint. Most damning of all, someone had used a bit of charcoal to sketch a thin, cruel, smirking line for a mouth.

It looked suspiciously like Ashford.

Jax planted the pole firmly into the soft earth of the clearing, right in Orion’s sightline. He gave the dummy a pat on its straw head, then walked back to his cookie-guarding post without a word, his face perfectly innocent.

Silence fell, heavier than before.

All eyes swiveled from Orion and Aster to the smirking straw effigy, then back.

Orion stared at the dummy.

He looked up at Aster, horrified, expecting immediate reprimand, for the captain to order the thing taken away.

Aster, still standing close behind him, had gone very still. He looked at the dummy. Then he looked at his men, who were suddenly very interested in the dirt at their feet, the sky, their own boots—anything but their captain’s face.

Aster’s jaw worked. He took a deep breath through his nose.

And then, the most unexpected thing happened.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Once. Then twice.

He fought it, his stern expression warring with something else. He looked at the wicked straw smile, then at Orion’s wide, uncertain eyes.

He cleared his throat. The sound was rough.

"Well," Aster said, his voice dropping into a low, dry murmur meant only for Orion. "The dummy is here. Might as well use it."

He stepped back, releasing Orion from the encompassing hold. The sudden absence of his warmth and support made Orion feel oddly unmoored.

Aster walked over to the dummy. He stopped in front of it, studying the charcoal smirk. He reached out and straightened a stray piece of blond straw hair almost thoughtfully.

Then he turned to face Orion.

"The target is here," Aster said, tapping the dummy’s canvas chest, right over where a heart would be. "Same motion. Grip. Stance. Twist. Extend. Aim for the center."

He demonstrated. It was no longer the slow, guided motion. It was sharp, efficient, devastatingly direct. His wooden dagger shot forward, stopping just an inch from the dummy’s chest. A perfect, controlled killing blow.

He stepped aside and gestured for Orion to approach.

Orion’s legs felt like water. He walked forward, the wooden dagger heavy in his sweaty palm. He stopped before the dummy. The dark stone eyes seemed to mock him. The smirk dared him.

He raised the knife, adopting the stance Aster had drilled into him. Feet apart. Right foot back. Body turned.

He looked at the spot Aster had indicated.

He imagined Ashford’s sneering face. The shove. The dizzying fall. The crack of his skull on marble.

His grip tightened.

He twisted his core, just a little.

He pushed his arm forward.

The blunt wooden tip of the dagger poked the canvas with a soft *thup*.

It was less a stab and more a hesitant nudge.

Orion blinked, startled by the anticlimactic result.

From behind him, Aster’s voice came, calm and encouraging. "Go on."

Orion swallowed. He pulled back and tried again. A little more force this time. Another *thup*, slightly louder. A tiny, tentative poke.

He glanced at Aster, seeking... something. Approval? Permission to stop?

Aster’s face was a mask of professional neutrality, but his eyes held that same steady encouragement. "Again."

Orion poked again. And again. Each time was a small, pathetic impact. He wasn’t driving the blade home. He was testing the water. Tickling the enemy.

A strange sound began to ripple through the clearing.

It was the sound of two dozen men trying desperately not to laugh.

It started as muffled coughs. Then snorts. Then choked-back wheezes.

The soldier lying on the ground had buried his face in his arm, his shoulders shaking violently. The cross-legged one had doubled over, forehead pressed to his knees. The tree-leaner had turned around, his back to the scene, but his entire frame was trembling.

Jax, by the cookies, was biting his fist, his eyes squeezed shut in an effort to maintain his guard-duty composure. Even Kaelen had paused his knife drills, a rare, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips as he watched the consort give the hated heir what amounted to a series of gentle prods.

Loren lost it first. A high-pitched giggle escaped him, which he immediately tried to cover with a loud, fake cough. "Dust! So much... forest dust!"

The dam broke.

The clearing erupted into suppressed, snickering laughter. It wasn’t mean. It was helpless. The sight of the elegant, serious Omega delicately poking the ridiculous, smirking dummy was simply too much.

Orion froze, the wooden dagger halfway to another poke. Heat flooded his cheeks. He felt foolish. Childish.

He started to lower his arm, shame burning in his chest.

Aster’s hand landed on his shoulder. Not the guiding, encompassing touch from before. A firm, grounding squeeze.

"Stop," Aster said, his voice cutting through the laughter. It wasn’t angry. It was final.

The laughter died instantly, replaced by guilty silence.

Aster looked at his men, his gaze sweeping over them. They flinched under it.

"You find this funny?" he asked, his tone deceptively mild.

No one dared answer.

He turned his attention back to Orion, his hand still on his shoulder. "They’re laughing," Aster said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "because they remember their first time. Every single one of them."

Orion looked up at him, unsure.

Aster released his shoulder and pointed at Jax. "Jax. First day. Tried to punch a dummy. Missed. Fell over and took the dummy with him. Knocked himself out cold."

A wave of fresh, but now sympathetic, chuckles went through the men. Jax turned beet red, rubbing the back of his neck.

Aster pointed at Loren. "Loren. First knife lesson. Got excited. Threw it. It stuck in the Captain’s tent. Ables tent."

Loren grinned, unrepentant.

"Kaelen," Aster continued, "was the only one who didn’t look like a fool on day one. He looked like a corpse. Fainted from holding his breath too long during a simple block."

Kaelen’s almost-smile vanished into a flat stare, but a faint pink tinged his ears.

Aster looked back at Orion. "You are not failing. You are learning. The poke is the beginning. Everyone starts with a poke."

He stepped back. "Now. Forget them. Forget me. Forget everything but the target. You are not poking canvas. You are stopping the thing that wants to hurt you. You are protecting what is yours."

His voice dropped, low and intense. "What does it want to hurt, Orion?"

The use of his name, raw and unadorned by title, struck Orion like a physical blow.

What did it want to hurt?

*Abel.*

*Happiness.*

*Safety.*

*Me.*

A cold clarity washed over him, burning away the shame and the self-consciousness.

He looked at the dummy. He didn’t see straw and charcoal. He saw the cold marble floor rising to meet him. He saw Abel’s devastated face. He saw a future of being powerless.

His grip on the wooden dagger changed. It wasn’t awkward anymore. It was determined.

His feet settled into the stance, roots digging deep.

He twisted, the motion coming from his stomach, from that place where his fear and his love churned together.

He extended his arm, not with a hesitant push, but with a sharp, committed thrust.

The wooden dagger shot forward and struck the canvas chest with a solid, satisfying ***THWACK***.

The sound echoed in the silent clearing.

The dummy rocked back on its pole from the force.

Orion stood there, arm extended, breathing hard, the impact vibrating up through his wrist and into his bones.

For a second, there was no sound at all.

Then Aster said, softly, "Again."

And Orion did.