Chapter 196: Anchor Steps

The morning air was sharp with snow, the sky a pale wash of blue that hinted at the rising sun.

Orion stood before his group. They were the smallest among the divisions scattered across the training field. Spear shafts caught the light beside short wooden blades, held upright in disciplined silence.

The others—Tobias with the archers and Garron with the axe and longsword bearers—had already started training. Orion had told Tobias and Garron what he wanted to teach the trainees, and he was sure they would do a fine job at it.

Orion’s gaze moved across his group. They were no more than a dozen—but the range of skill was broader. Some barely knew how to hold their weapons. Sophia stood near the front with Nia and Laia, her gloves tight against the hilt of her short swords, face steady but focused.

Orion clasped his hands behind his back. "Just because you’re the smallest group," he said, voice spreading through them, "doesn’t mean your training will be lax. If anything, it’ll be the hardest. Most of you are using these weapons for the first time, and that means there’s more to break down before we can build you up."

No one dared to speak. A few nodded in understanding.

"Before we move on to today’s main lesson," Orion continued, "there is something I want to teach you guys."

His gaze swept over the line before it stopped on Sophia. It lingered for half a heartbeat longer than it should have.

"Anchor steps."

A murmur rippled through the group. The words meant little to most of them—but not to Sophia. Her fingers tightened slightly on her hilt. She remembered his voice the previous night as he’d explained it, but she didn’t understand what it was about. She couldn’t fully grasp it.

From the back, Dren’s voice broke the quiet. "I know what those are!" he said, dropping his spear and wooden short sword at once.

Orion raised a brow. "Do you now?"

The boy nodded quickly, chest puffed with a hint of pride. "Yes, sir. They’re steps you use when you lose balance. You plant your feet to steady yourself again."

Orion nodded. "True. Can you show us what it’s about?"

"I can try," Dren told him as he moved forward.

"Then show me."

The field went still. Dren swallowed, then dropped the wooden spear he held.

He took in a deep breath and began the pattern. His steps were quick—light on the ground, pivoting from heel to toe in practiced rhythm—but his balance wavered at the midpoint, one foot dragging just slightly.

Orion’s voice cut in. "Stop."

Dren froze mid-turn.

"You’ve got the idea," Orion said to him, "but anchor steps aren’t about planting your feet and freezing when you slip. It’s about redirecting the fall into rhythm."

He stepped behind Dren, adjusting the boy’s stance by nudging his heel with his boot. "You felt the weight shift here, right?"

Dren nodded.

"Instead of stopping, let the ground take the weight, then let it give it back. You fall forward slightly, then pivot into your next step. It’s a rhythm, not a pause. Do it again."

Dren did—and this time, the motion flowed smoother.

"That’s it," Orion said as he stepped back before addressing the group. "Anchor steps are the bridge between chaos and control. When a warrior loses rhythm or when their footing breaks, they don’t just stop. Stopping will mean giving up, which gives the opponent the opportunity to attack. Instead, they redirect. They make the ground their ally. And you should too—every step you take should speak to the ground and not fight it."

"But how? I haven’t even gotten the flowing thing down, and now I have to speak to the earth?" Laia cried out.

Orion smiled at her. "Believe me, when you start using these steps, you’d understand what I mean. You don’t have to just take in the theory; you have to understand both the theory and the practical."

He crouched slightly, pressing a boot to the ground. "In simpler terms, for anchor steps, your momentum hits the ground and draws strength from it. You listen. The ground will always tell you where your weight should be if you stop trying to control it and start working with it."

Sophia’s eyes followed the movement, the explanation tugging at the memory of his words from the night before: It’s a conversation between your body and the earth beneath you.

"Do you at least understand just a fraction?" Orion asked them.

"I think I do," Laia told him, her brows scrunched in concentration. "It’s like knowing how to work with your weight and bouncing back when you misstep, right?"

Orion smiled at her. "Yes, but that’s your interpretation. Others may understand it differently," he told her.

They all nodded, ready to put the steps into practice, and Orion smiled at their eagerness.

"Now," he said, standing. "Weapons down. Drop the wooden blades and spears. For now, your body is your weapon."

There was the sound of wood meeting earth as everyone obeyed.

"Spread out. We’ll do this together."

The group obeyed again, forming a loose semicircle. Orion positioned himself in the center. The early light caught the faint sheen of frost on his hair and the rigid focus in his eyes.

"Watch carefully," he said. "Anchor steps aren’t about speed or strength. They’re about control. The moment you lose rhythm, you recover without hesitation."

He demonstrated—a fluid motion that began with a step forward, then a slip, then a quick redirection. His right foot slid back, grounded like an anchor, while his left pivoted with a smooth, flowing recovery. It was fast, precise, and beautiful to watch.

The shift of weight, the seamless transition from imbalance to strength—it was rhythm turned into movement.

"Are you sure that’s the same thing Dren did?" Nia whispered to her sister.

"Dren looked like a chicken learning the act of laying, but this..."

"...is a miracle..." Dren spoke up, interrupting Laia.

His eyes were wide with awe from seeing Orion demonstrate the steps.