Fated Eclipse: The Illegitimate Princess And Her Alpha Suitors

Chapter 313: The Art of the Punch

Lyria’s POV

Earl Hawthorne stood still for a long moment after the four gentlemen departed, his gaze fixed upon the closed doors as though he half expected them to burst open once again.

When they did not, he let out another breath.

This one was softer than the first and carried a note of relief.

”Now then, Your Highness,” he said, turning to face me, ”where were we?”

I smiled at him.

”I b-believe you were a-assessing my m-muscles,” I reminded him.

”Ah, yes,” he replied, a hint of amusement flickering across his features. ”So I was.”

He closed the distance between us once more, his hands coming to rest lightly upon my shoulders.

”Forgive me for the interruption,” he said softly. ”I had not anticipated such an audience.”

”It is q-quite all right,” I assured him. ”I found it r-rather... educational.”

”Educational?” he repeated with a raised brow. ”And what, pray tell, was educational about that?”

A quiet laugh escaped me.

”I-it showed me e-exactly how you a-all interact. That was... e-educational.”

He sighed, though there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

”Your Highness, that was a nuisance. I cannot agree with your assessment.”

”W-well,” I admitted, ”y-you are n-not entirely w-wrong about t-that.”

He chuckled before stepping back, allowing his hands to fall from my shoulders.

”Now then,” he said, ”let us begin properly. I shall teach you how to throw a punch.”

I blinked at him.

”A p-punch?” I repeated.

”Indeed,” he confirmed. ”It is among the simplest forms of self-defence, and yet, when executed correctly, it is remarkably effective. The secret lies not in brute strength but in proper form and technique.”

He positioned himself before me, his feet set shoulder-width apart, his body angled slightly to one side.

”Observe carefully,” he instructed. ”Your stance must be balanced. Your weight should be distributed evenly between both feet. Your dominant foot ought to remain slightly behind the other. It provides both stability and power.”

I watched as he demonstrated the stance with effortless precision.

He then raised one hand, curling his fingers into a loose fist while keeping his thumb neatly along the outside.

”Your fist should be formed in this manner,” he explained. ”Should you tuck your thumb beneath your fingers, you are liable to injure it upon impact. The strength of the strike comes from the rotation of your hips and shoulders, not merely from the arm itself.”

He threw a punch.

It was swift.

Controlled.

His fist stopped just short of the empty air before him.

Even without striking anything, the movement carried remarkable force.

”Now,” he said, turning back to me, ”your turn.”

I stepped forward and attempted to imitate his stance.

Earl Hawthorne circled me slowly, studying my posture with the careful eye of a seasoned instructor.

”Your feet are rather too close together,” he observed. ”Separate them a little more.”

He reached out, gently repositioning one of my feet.

”There,” he murmured. ”Much better.”

His hand rose to my shoulder.

”You are carrying too much tension here,” he continued. ”Relax. Your strength ought to flow through your body rather than remain locked within it.”

I inhaled slowly, trying to follow every instruction he offered.

Yet the more I thought about each movement, the more awkward I became.

”Very good,” he said encouragingly as he stepped back once more. ”Now, throw the punch.”

I did.

It was...

Rather pitiful.

My fist barely travelled forward before my confidence abandoned me entirely.

The strike lacked conviction.

Earl Hawthorne tilted his head before shaking it gently.

”Not quite,” he said. ”You are hesitating.”

I lowered my hand.

”I a-am?”

”You are,” he confirmed. ”A punch must be decisive. Yours felt...” He paused, searching for the proper words.

”...as though you were offering someone a compliment rather than striking them.”

I frowned.

”A c-compliment?” I repeated.

He gave an apologetic shrug.

”I fear I cannot explain it any better than that. It is simply the impression it gives.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

”H-how does one t-throw a c-compliment?”

He laughed as well.

”With far too much gentleness,” he replied. ”As though you are terribly afraid of hurting the other person.”

I considered his explanation.

He was not entirely wrong.

I had thrown that punch as though I feared causing pain.

”Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, ”we should try a different approach.”

I looked at him curiously.

”S-such as?”

He smiled.

”It worked remarkably well with my sisters whenever I taught them.”

I tilted my head rather curious.

”When they were learning to defend themselves,” he explained, ”I encouraged them to imagine that the person standing before them was someone they desperately wished to strike.”

He paused before meeting my gaze.

”Is there anyone who comes to mind, Your Highness?”

I fell silent.

There were.

Far more than I wished to admit.

The Queen.

Jacinta.

The King.

And...

Corvin.

The man who had, for the first time in my life, made me believe I might truly deserve happiness.

Only to shatter that belief with his own hands.

I closed my eyes.

I imagined him standing before me.

His easy smile.

His false kindness.

Those eyes that had once looked upon me with warmth before revealing themselves to be filled with betrayal.

My fingers tightened into a fist.

I shifted into the stance Earl Hawthorne had shown me.

I relaxed my shoulders.

Then...

I struck.

My fist cut cleanly through the air with a swiftness and force that startled even me.

Earl Hawthorne let out an impressed sound.

”There it is,” he said, genuine approval colouring his voice. ”That is precisely how a proper punch ought to feel.”

I blinked, my arm still extended before me.

”R-really?” I asked.

”Really,” he replied with a warm smile. ”Now, once more.”

I nodded.

This time I did not hesitate.

The second punch carried just as much conviction as the first.

”Excellent,” he praised. ”You see? Sometimes the body understands before the mind does. Should you ever find yourself in danger—frightened, angry, or desperate—your body may remember this movement before your thoughts have caught up.”