As promised, our etiquette tutors arrived the next morning, punctual and dignified, each bearing the airs of their craft. Since Celia and I were expected to master different social graces, we were assigned separate tutors tailored to the roles we were destined—or at least expected—to fill.
My tutor, a tall, silver-haired man named Viscount Durand, wasted no time. With a discerning eye and impeccable posture, he led me through a maze of customs, mannerisms, and turns of phrase. The finer points of formal greetings, the precise angle of a bow, the subtle nuances of a well-timed smile—these were the foundations upon which I would be judged in noble society.
It was easy, really. I found that recalling the etiquette I'd observed in my past life made this training straightforward. Durand often paused mid-lecture to nod approvingly, a faint glimmer of surprise in his eyes. By midday, he'd dismissed me, his approval conveyed in a single, elegant nod.
Afterward, I went in search of Celia, who had her own tutor—a lady named Viscountess Rivelle. I found my sister in the courtyard, sitting on a bench beneath a flowering tree, her chin resting in her hands. Her usually bright expression was marred by a deep frown.
"Trouble with the courtly curtsies?" I asked, taking a seat beside her.
She sighed, looking up with a pout. "It's not just the curtsies, Lance! It's all of it. Viscountess Rivelle keeps telling me I must glide, but when I try, I stumble, or my dress catches, or my arms are too stiff." She shook her head, visibly frustrated. "How am I supposed to learn all these tiny rules? I'm just…not made for it."
I chuckled softly, nudging her shoulder. "You're giving it too much power, Celia. Those 'tiny rules' are just tricks—play-acting, really. Remember, etiquette isn't who you are. It's a costume, a set of movements."
She looked at me, brows furrowed. "How did you manage it, then?"
I shrugged. "It's easier when you treat it as a game. Think of it like pretending to be someone else for a little while. The real you can always come back once the formalities are done."
Celia's pout softened, though she still looked unsure. "I don't know…I'd much rather practice sword forms than curtsies."
"Well, then, you're in luck," I said with a grin. "Our sword and spear tutors will be here in a few days. Just imagine—Viscountess Rivelle's strict glides will feel like nothing when you're swinging a sword around."
Her eyes lit up, the frustration fading. "Really? Sword training in just a few days?"
"Really," I affirmed. "So endure Viscountess Rivelle's gliding lessons for a bit longer. Soon, you'll be learning how to stand your ground with a sword in hand."
Celia gave a small smile, her spirits lifting. "Thank you, Lance."
"Anytime," I replied, ruffling her hair, much to her dismay. As she swatted my hand away with a laugh, I felt a surge of warmth. For now, at least, we were both making our way through these new steps—one curtsy and bow at a time.
Before long, our tutors for weapon training arrived, each with the distinct air of seasoned warriors, their movements sharp and deliberate, their eyes assessing. The household had been abuzz since morning, with maids bustling to make ready for these new arrivals as if they carried the weight of an impending battle in their very presence.
My tutor, Baron Toren, was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a quiet strength about him, the sort of man who spoke as little as possible and allowed his actions to fill in the gaps. His gaze met mine briefly, a flicker of approval in his otherwise stoic expression, and I felt a hint of excitement. Here, finally, was someone who could help me turn theory into skill.
Celia's tutor, however, left me with a different impression. He was Baron Cedric, a remarkable man by some means—tall in height, confident, and clearly put in the effort. However, he had pale eyes that seemed too quick to dart about, and a voice that oiled its way through the air. Something about him felt wrong, as if he were playing at something he didn't quite believe in.
I watched him with a quiet wariness as he greeted Celia, his smile too wide, his gaze lingering a second longer than it should. I felt a small, instinctive prickle of unease.
But I pushed the thought aside. Mother had chosen these tutors herself, after all, and if she trusted them, I could trust her judgment. She had proven time and again that she could be as discerning as she was powerful. Still, I resolved to keep a close eye on him, if only for Celia's sake.
Celia, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of my concerns, her face alight with excitement as she introduced herself and eagerly prepared for her first lesson. Seeing her enthusiasm melted away some of my doubts, and I gave her a small nod of encouragement as we prepared to take our first steps under our tutors' watchful eyes.
Baron Toren, as I quickly discovered, was a man of few words and fewer wasted movements. As we walked to the training grounds, he didn't speak once, simply gesturing for me to follow, his gaze forward, unyielding. He had the bearing of someone who had seen battlefields far beyond the comforts of noble halls, and something in his silence spoke of restraint and precision—a man whose every action was measured and purposeful.
At the training grounds, he finally turned to me, his expression impassive, though his eyes were sharp. "The spear," he began, holding his own weapon out with practiced ease, "is the weapon of range and precision. Those who think it a tool of simple reach misunderstand its purpose." He extended the spear toward me, offering it handle-first. "Your spear must be as much a part of you as your own limbs."
Taking the weapon from him, I felt its balance, light but grounded, a weight that encouraged fluidity. I nodded, absorbing his words. I had trained with swords before, mastered them even, but the spear was a different beast—one I knew could add another layer to my understanding of combat.
"Your stance," he instructed, and I adjusted my feet, testing for balance.
He observed me critically, adjusting my grip with the slightest of touches, guiding my elbow until it aligned correctly. "The spear thrives on fluidity, but it requires stability. A misplaced step, a loose grip—these small mistakes echo through the weapon, costing you control."
As I shifted my stance, he walked me through the basics: thrusts, jabs, and sweeps, each movement a lesson in precision. He made me repeat them until the motions became smoother, until I could sense when a strike was off-balance, or a sweep too wide.
After hours of drilling, he finally took a step back, allowing me a moment to catch my breath. His silence stretched, almost contemplative, as if he were assessing not just my skill, but something deeper. When he spoke again, his words were as measured as his movements.
"The spear rewards patience, Lancelot," he said quietly, his gaze fixed somewhere in the distance. "Many rush to wield its reach but lack the discipline to master it. In time, if you endure, you may come to understand its strength."
I nodded, absorbing his words.
After finishing my training, I went to find Celia, expecting her usual burst of post-bath energy, the kind that had her bouncing around like a restless sprite. Yet today, she seemed oddly subdued, her steps lighter, as if weighed down by something unspoken.
'Was swordsmanship proving less fun than she'd imagined?' I wondered, tilting my head in thought as I approached her.
"Hey, Celia," I said, giving her head a playful pat. "You alright?"
She looked up, her smile brightening as though burning away whatever had dulled her spirits. "Of course!" she declared, brushing my hand away with a familiar swat. "And don't forget, I'm your big sister, you know!"
She crossed her arms with a mock-serious look, turning her head with a dramatic air that only made me grin wider.
"Oh, my apologies, big sister," I replied, barely suppressing a laugh.
Celia huffed, glancing sideways to see if I'd take her seriously. But, catching my wide smile, she gave in, laughing too, and her energy returned, her spirit bright once more.