Lessons From Flesh and Bones

Two days pass without meeting anyone except Liza and Mrs. Greyson. Food arrives at my door each time. Nothing written. No messages. From the west wing, nothing comes - but it feels heavy, sharp, like noise. Again I go back to the hall, to how he sounded broken, looked wild, said only one word so deep it cuts when remembered. Leave.

It struck me how out of place I seemed. That moment, standing there, reminded me I did not belong.

By day three, the visitor isn’t Mrs. Greyson. Captain Alex Starwood appears instead. In the doorway he stands, face composed like always. Yet his gaze doesn’t rest. Watchfulness lives behind his steady look.

“Good morning, Miss Rimestone. His Grace has asked that I attend to you this morning. Would you come with me?”

Tension grips my gut. Could this be retribution? Or just another teaching moment? The question comes: "What's the destination?"

“The old riding hall,” he says, turning to lead the way. “It’s empty this time of day. And the floor is padded with sawdust.”

A wide room stands close to the stables, its walls holding back silence broken only by distant hoofbeats. Leather hangs in the air, mixed with warm animal scent and old timber. Light cuts down from above, showing specks floating like tiny stars. Nothing moves inside. Empty benches wait without purpose.

Facing me now, Alex steps into the middle of the room. His jacket is off, left somewhere out of sight. What remains - shirt, pants - is neat, simple. A quiet tension hums beneath how still he holds himself, calm on the surface, alert just below.

“His Grace is concerned for your safety,” he says, his voice echoing slightly in the space. “The world is not kind to those who cannot defend themselves. You have knowledge. Now you need strength. Or at least, the beginnings of it.”

“A few basic things. How to break a hold. How to create space. How to use your size against a larger opponent.” He says it plainly, as if listing items for a market. “It is not about winning a fight. It is about creating one moment of surprise, one chance to run. That chance can be the difference between life and death.”

Facing something real feels easier now, after everything that shook up my head lately. Here’s one thing I actually get. Something I could practice. “Alright,” I speak, moving my head down slowly. Let’s go through it

One hour passes while he stays calm - more than I thought possible. Not rushing, he guides my stance, shifts my weight slowly, shapes my posture into something steady rather than shaky. His hands correct without grabbing. A quiet strength comes through his voice when explaining small movements. Each tip lands gently, like it was meant to fit exactly where confusion sat before.

“Most attackers expect panic. They expect you to be soft,” he says, adjusting my stance with a light touch on my shoulder. “Be hard. Be a rock. Then be a rabbit. Run.”

Start by moving your wrist like it's slipping out sideways. His fingers close around my arm, showing the hold. Most people yank backward right away. That just helps them squeeze harder. Twist instead - sudden, small motion. Think of jamming a lock open. Pressure goes to the base of their thumb. One fast turn, then shift your weight and shove with your elbow. Feel how that works? Now go ahead

Trying comes first. The beginning tries feel awkward, lacking strength. Instead of laughing or showing irritation, he simply begins once more. "Once more. Focus on how it moves, not what powers it. That part works like a handle."

That time, on number five, something clicks. My wrist snaps inside his grasp, just enough that - right then - the pressure slips. A small win, sure. Yet it hits like fire under the skin.

He nods slightly, eyes crinkling at the edges. A quiet yes forms on his face. Repeat it. Let it come without thinking

Fingers grip tight, going over each move till muscles scream and skin sticks to metal. Sweat traces down, slow, cold on my temple. This tiredness helps. Clears out the jittery thoughts, that heavy weight from being watched too close. Time passes - sixty minutes where names don’t stick. Not gifted, not used, not unwanted. Just breath, motion, staying upright.

Breathing slows when the work stops. A post holds me up, rough wood pressing into my back. From somewhere, Alex brings water - sloshing in a metal pail, lifted with a dented spoon. The cup passes over. Cold hits my lips, spreads through my chest, better than anything before.

Sunlight hits the glass, and Alex speaks without turning. What he says sits heavy in the air - he points it out like it’s something noticed, not felt. The thing was set in motion by him, that much is clear now.

“Yes. Personally. Detailed instructions. What to teach first. How often to train. The need for discretion.” Alex looks back at me, his gaze knowing and somber. “He’s never cared about someone’s physical safety like this before. Not like… this. Not with this level of detail.”

A pause comes, like he weighs each word before speaking. A bit of straw lifts into his hand, turning slowly under his touch. Planning covers every angle, one backup after another woven tight. Yet this - your well-being - has shifted past strategy in his mind

Our eyes lock. In that quiet look, something real shows up - something he keeps silent about. Alex speaks low, almost to himself: "That bothers him." The words hang there, soft but heavy.

A whisper floats through still space. Hard times.

What bothered him wasn’t irritation. What mattered was the break in pattern. An unpredictable factor inside calculations built to never fail. Teaching me wasn’t assigned for tactical reasons alone. It rose from something beneath alliance terms, something that unsettled a man known for steady calm.

A shift comes across my tongue, metallic, strange. That quiet pride from mastering something slips away, swapped for heat pooling deep inside. Anger flashes in him because I noticed the hurt beneath. One cold word sent me far from reach. Still, even then, he begins arranging every detail to stop harm from touching me.

One moment he's stacking barriers between us. The next, those same hands tighten the enclosure around me.

Faces shift when Alex studies mine, still under that hush. A tiny nod slips out, like an answer formed without words. Off he moves from the wooden beam, done with whatever needed saying.

“Alright,” he says, his tone shifting back to the pragmatic instructor. “Let’s work on what to do if someone grabs you from behind. The principle is the same. Create a moment. Then run.”

A shadow shifts at my back, then stillness grips my muscles. Yet while joints and angles fill my thoughts, something else pulls attention. A figure stands isolated down a blackened hall. That same face later sits hunched over paper, mapping moves for someone learning to hold her ground.

A single person, tangled in opposite truths. This one individual feels something shift inside when imagining my pain, though why that should matter so much remains unclear.