Bitter Brotherly Prince

Two weeks into his lessons with the newly appointed Royal Tutor, Maximilian Vilent had come to the conclusion that there were few things more tedious than being taught how to become a better person. Dancing, apparently, was now another contender for the title.

The second prince stood in the middle of the royal ballroom, looking as though he would rather be attending a military tribunal than participating in a lesson on courtly dance. His green eyes followed the tutor with their usual sharp, assessing stare.

“Remind me again,” he muttered, adjusting his cuffs, “why I must learn a dance I have no intention of enjoying?”

It was a rhetorical question. Maximilian rarely asked anything he didn't already have an opinion about.

“Ah, yes. Appearances. Heaven forbid a prince should stand at a formal gathering without knowing how to shuffle around a ballroom while an orchestra plays at him.”

Despite his complaints, he had listened to the instructions. He always listened, even when he pretended otherwise. Discipline had been drilled into him from childhood, and while he might resent a lesson, he would not willingly perform poorly at one. If the King expected him to learn something, then he would learn it. And, as it turned out, Maximilian was a rather capable dancer. His posture was impeccable, his steps measured, and his movements carried the same controlled elegance. He had clearly been taught the basics years ago, though the memory of those lessons had apparently been buried beneath more important pursuits. Once he stopped grumbling long enough to concentrate, he followed the rhythm with surprising ease.

“There,” he remarked after completing a sequence without a single misstep. “A remarkable achievement. I have managed to move my feet in time with music. Shall we inform the royal physician? I suspect I may be dying of boredom.”

His expression remained perfectly serious, though the faintest flicker of amusement betrayed him. Then came the instruction to practice with a partner. Maximilian's expression soured immediately.

“You cannot possibly be serious.” He stared at the offered prospect for several seconds, his jaw tightening as though he were being asked to sign away a considerable portion of his inheritance. Unfortunately, refusing would accomplish little beyond providing the tutor with another example of his stubbornness. With a quiet, long-suffering sigh, he extended one hand. “Very well. Let us get this over with.”

His fingers closed around the tutor's hand, initially with the same firm precision he applied to everything else. He positioned himself correctly, placed his other hand where the dance required, and straightened his shoulders. His face settled into its familiar mask of cool indifference, giving no indication that he found the arrangement even remotely uncomfortable.

“Now, if you step on my foot, I shall be forced to reconsider your qualifications as an instructor.” The words were dry, but his grip shifted ever so slightly, becoming more careful than necessary.

The music began. For the first few moments, everything proceeded perfectly. Maximilian guided the dance with a confidence that suggested he had been doing this all his life. His steps were smooth, his timing excellent, and his attention unwavering. He even managed a turn without looking down at his feet, which was more than he had expected of himself when the lesson began. Unfortunately, there was one rather inconvenient detail he had failed to account for. The proximity. It was difficult to maintain his usual air of indifference when he was suddenly so aware of the tutor's presence. Every adjustment of his hands, every change in their position, and every moment in which he was required to draw closer seemed to demand an unreasonable amount of his attention. It was absurd. He had faced hostile diplomats, demanding nobles, and political arguments. Surely, he could survive a dance. And yet, the tips of his ears had begun to turn a rather unmistakable shade of pink. Maximilian became acutely aware of it when a strand of hair fell against his forehead. He resisted the urge to brush it away, unwilling to relinquish his hold merely to hide a little embarrassment. Instead, he lifted his chin and fixed his gaze somewhere over the tutor's shoulder.

“Your technique is acceptable,” he announced stiffly. “Though I would appreciate fewer unnecessary corrections. I am perfectly capable of—” A turn interrupted his sentence.

He attempted to adjust his footing, only to become momentarily distracted by the closeness of their joined hands. His boot caught awkwardly against the polished floor, and his carefully maintained rhythm vanished in an instant.

“Wait—”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Maximilian Vilent looked genuinely caught off guard. His fingers tightened instinctively around the tutor's hand, while his other arm reached out in an attempt to steady them both. Unfortunately, his efforts were rather less graceful than the dance itself. He stumbled sideways, tried to recover his balance, and promptly discovered that stubbornness was of little use against gravity. The next moment, both of them were tumbling toward the floor. Maximilian managed to twist at the last second, attempting to keep his full weight from landing on the tutor. His shoulder struck the polished wood with an unpleasant thud, followed by a brief silence in which the only sound was the fading music. He lay there for a moment, one arm braced against the floor and the other still holding firmly onto the tutor. His ears were burning. Slowly, very slowly, his green eyes shifted toward the person beside him. His expression had settled into an almost unnervingly blank stare, the sort that usually preceded one of his more cutting remarks. Only the pink spreading across his ears betrayed how thoroughly his composure had abandoned him.

“...Well.” He swallowed, then attempted to sit up, only to realize that he was still clutching the tutor's hand. He released it immediately, as though the contact had suddenly become an intolerable inconvenience, and straightened the front of his coat with as much dignity as a man sprawled across a ballroom floor could reasonably muster. “Before you say anything,” he began, his voice clipped, “I am perfectly aware that was not part of the choreography. And if you intend to laugh, I would advise you to reconsider.”

His gaze darted away for half a second before returning, sharp and defensive. “I was distracted. The floor is polished to an utterly ridiculous degree, and the turn was unnecessarily complicated. Any competent instructor would have anticipated the possibility of—”

He stopped himself, lips pressing into a thin line. Blaming the floor was a rather pathetic excuse, even by his standards. With a frustrated exhale, Maximilian dragged a hand down his face. “Fine. I lost my footing.”

The admission appeared to cause him more suffering than the fall itself. He glanced toward the tutor again, his expression softening by the smallest fraction as he checked for any obvious sign of injury. It was a brief, almost reluctant consideration, gone so quickly that it might have been mistaken for simple scrutiny.

“Are you hurt?”

The question came out quieter than his previous remarks. After a moment, he cleared his throat and hastily added, “I would prefer not to explain to my father that I managed to injure the royal tutor during a dancing lesson. The resulting lecture would be insufferable.”

There it was again: an excuse masquerading as concern. Maximilian shifted, attempting to regain his feet while preserving whatever remained of his dignity. His ears were still pink, and he steadfastly refused to acknowledge the fact that his hand had lingered around the tutor's for considerably longer than necessary before the fall. He glanced toward the ballroom doors, then back at the tutor.

“We are not finished,” he declared, as though the decision had never been in question. “I refuse to let a dance lesson defeat me.” He hesitated, his gaze briefly dropping to their hands. “...Though perhaps we might begin with something less complicated. And for the record, if you repeat this incident to either of my brothers, I will deny it ever occurred.”

His mouth tightened, but a faint, reluctant hint of amusement tugged at one corner. “Now, are you going to help me up, or must I endure the indignity of remaining on this floor for the rest of the afternoon?”

Two weeks later, the royal tutor's lessons had once again undergone a rather suspicious change of location. This time, the palace was no longer involved. Two weeks later, the royal tutor's lessons had once again undergone a rather suspicious change of location. This time, instead of taking place within the palace walls, the lesson had been moved to a private estate owned by Maximilian Vilent, the second prince of Virellia. Naturally, Maximilian insisted the change was purely practical.

"The palace is an atrocious place to conduct a proper lesson," he remarked as he led the way through the estate's immaculate corridors. "Too many interruptions, too many nosy courtiers, and far too many people who mistake eavesdropping for a respectable pastime. Here, we might actually accomplish something."

He made no mention of the fact that he had arranged the relocation himself. The estate was spacious and elegant, surrounded by carefully maintained gardens and furnished with understated extravagance. Maximilian had personally ensured that a comfortable drawing room was prepared, complete with refreshments, a lit fireplace, and strict instructions that the servants were not to interrupt without good reason. The room overlooked the rose gardens, offering a quiet atmosphere far removed from the palace's endless commotion. His short, light-brown hair was neatly arranged, and his tailored black coat, embroidered with dark green and gold, sat flawlessly upon his lean frame. The old scar across his lightly tanned cheek only added to his stern appearance. As usual, his muted green eyes held a sharp, assessing quality, and his expression suggested that the world had already given him several reasons to be disappointed.

"Sit wherever you please," he instructed, removing his gloves and setting them beside his chair. He poured himself a cup of tea before briefly glancing toward the tutor. "Would you care for some?"

The offer was stiff, almost businesslike, but it was an offer nonetheless. Maximilian was hardly a naturally affectionate man, and simple courtesies often came from him sounding more like obligations than kindness. Still, he had been making an effort to improve himself, however begrudgingly. Today's lesson concerned conflict resolution—a subject he found both irritating and, unfortunately, relevant.

"Apparently, a ruler must learn to correct people without making them feel like imbeciles," he remarked, opening the folder of notes he had brought along. "An unfortunate expectation, considering the number of imbeciles one is likely to encounter." He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I understand that a ruler who inspires loyalty may accomplish more than one who inspires fear. What I question is the assumption that kindness and competence are always compatible. There are times when a person must be reprimanded, when leniency encourages further incompetence, and when being liked is considerably less important than being obeyed."

His gaze settled upon the tutor, expectant and challenging. Maximilian disliked being criticized, but he despised insincere flattery even more. He wanted an actual argument, something substantial enough to challenge his convictions rather than another rehearsed lecture about patience and understanding. The palace had become predictable, he explained, with every disagreement turning into gossip and every conversation filled with people eager to tell him what they thought he wanted to hear. Here, at least, they could speak privately.

"Besides," he added, lifting his tea with an air of studied indifference, "I own the estate. If I am to be lectured about my character, I see no reason not to do so somewhere comfortable."

A perfectly reasonable explanation. Certainly, it had nothing to do with wanting more time away from the palace with the tutor, nor with his growing appreciation for their conversations. Maximilian was simply a man who valued privacy and efficiency. That was all. He set his cup down and folded his hands over the notes.

"Now, shall we begin? I've cleared the morning for this, and I would rather not waste it." His stern expression softened by the smallest fraction before he added, "And do try to be honest with me. I have little patience for flattery. Especially when I'm paying someone to tell me what I'm doing wrong."

...