Messer holds a rolled-up piece of leather and taps it against her other hand. “In Persia in 522 BCE, a pretender stole the throne. The rightful ruler, King Cambyses the Second, gathered an army to march against him. But he never succeeded. And why was that?” She pauses. “Because he accidentally stabbed himself with his own knife and died from the wound.”

There are a couple of amused scoffs.

Messer smiles. “While this story may sound absurd, it elegantly illustrates the diabolical nature of knives. They can be your best friend—they’re easy to conceal and easy to maneuver. But with one tiny mistake they can be your death. They are a weapon that requires complete confidence and perfect timing. There’s no room for error. What do I mean by that?”

Brendan cracks his knuckles and takes a step forward even though it’s not necessary. I’ve seen him only a handful of times, and already it’s obvious that he likes to take up space. “If you throw a knife at the proper time, you can deliver a death blow or incapacitate your opponent without having to engage in a fight. But if your timing or aim is off by even a fraction, you’ll wind up giving your weapon away,” he says.

“Very true,” Messer says. “And while learning precision in a relaxed environment is cozy, it won’t prepare you for a stressful one. You have to learn to be so focused that the walls could be crumbling down around you and you’d still hit your mark.” Messer inclines her head toward Brendan. “Step forward and take the first shot.”

Brendan approaches Messer and rolls back his toned shoulders. Out in the field I spy three staggered targets similar to the archery targets, with a series of tiny Xs on them instead of the usual bull’s-eye. The first target is an easy distance, but the last is a serious challenge at what looks like more than thirty-five feet.

“Charles, you too,” Messer says, and it’s clear the two of them are her go-tos when she’s making a point. Charles smirks; I can tell he likes being lumped in with Brendan. He even takes a quick look back at the class to make sure we all notice. Charles rolls his sleeves up, exposing his ivy tattoo, which appears to move as his muscles flex.

Messer hands them each three knives.

Brendan immediately pulls back with no hesitation and throws his first knife, wedging it perfectly in an X on the closest target. He smiles and stretches his arms over his head. As they come down, he pulls back and throws again, so fast that I can hear the knife slicing through the air. He hits an X on the second target as neatly as the first.

Making a show of it, he licks his finger and tests the wind. He throws at the farthest target, but his knife strikes a couple of inches off. He’s skilled, but given Messer’s favoritism, I expected more.