27# A Demonic Etiquette Tutor. - Part 1

The morning sun was already pouring through the windows of the Ravenhart mansion when Clint was summoned once again to the Duke's study. The room was quieter than usual, without Darius or any other subordinates present. Leonard was standing, arms crossed, beside a woman Clint had never seen before.

She looked to be in her mid-forties to early fifties, dressed in a modest yet impeccable and elegant outfit. Her graying hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her dark brown—almost black—eyes scanned everything with sharp precision. Her lips were tight, as if smiling were a waste of time.

— "Clint," the Duke began in his firm voice, "This is Lady Miralda Vossen. She will be your etiquette instructor starting today."

The woman turned her gaze to Clint, her eyes cutting through him like blades. She took a step forward, examining him from head to toe in a silence that made Clint instinctively stand straighter, like he was still under Darius' cold gaze during their duels.

— "Hmph," she muttered harshly. "Sunburnt skin, slouched shoulders from crawling through alleyways… clumsy walk and eyes too sharp for a noble youth."

She crossed her arms and let out a slow sigh.

— "Only one month…" she muttered to herself. "One month to turn him into something remotely presentable before Kamira's nobles."

Clint felt like laughing but held it in. She didn't look like someone who tolerated humor.

— "It's a difficult mission," she continued with even more acidity, "Almost impossible, if I may say so. But…" she finally tilted her chin upward slightly, her eyes shifting to the Duke, "What wouldn't I do to earn a favor from the Ravenhart family?"

Leonard remained expressionless.

— "You said you were the best. Now's your chance to prove it."

— "And I will," she replied without hesitation. She turned back to Clint. "You won't smile at the wrong moment. You won't stare people in the eyes like you want to slit their throats. You won't walk like an armed mercenary. And above all, you won't open your mouth to speak filth without using your damn head first."

Clint raised an eyebrow. She was far more intense than she appeared at first glance.

— "Alright. What do I need to do?"

— "Everything," she snapped. "We begin now. Posture training, vocabulary, facial expression, tone… and dressing appropriately. You're going to stop looking like a wild dog."

She waved a hand toward a maid standing nearby, who stepped forward with a noble outfit neatly folded.

— "Get dressed. After that, we head to the hall." Her eyes gleamed with both challenge and excitement. "And I hope you know how to hold a spoon properly. If you mix up the sides of the knife, I'll chop off your fingers."

Clint looked at the Duke, who only shrugged.

— "Good luck," Leonard said with a faint smile. "You'll need it."

---

Hours later...

The grand hall had been turned into a noble torture chamber. Stacks of books, dining utensils, mirrors for posture correction, and long strips of noble fabrics hung as examples of proper attire.

Miralda circled Clint like a hawk in slow flight, correcting even the slightest movement with the sharp crack of a ruler on the table.

— "Back straight. Don't tilt your chin. Nobles read weakness in every motion. Do you want to look like a street mutt begging for scraps? Or like an heir who commands respect?"

— "An heir," Clint replied firmly, adjusting his grip on the fork.

— "Then stop holding it like a dagger, for heaven's sake!"

The training stretched on for hours. Miralda was neither gentle nor patient. But Clint, hardened by Darius' merciless training, adapted quickly. He watched, mimicked, and self-corrected. He made fewer mistakes with every attempt.

And for the first time in days, by nightfall, she seemed... satisfied.

— "Not horrible," she commented. "Still far from good, but... I can work with this."

Clint took a deep breath. Coming from her, that was practically a compliment.