27# A demonic etiquette tutor - Part 2

The marble hall of the east wing had been entirely repurposed for Clint's training. Tall mirrors lined the walls, golden frames reflecting his exhausted figure with every mistake, every hesitation. Instructor Miralda watched with hawk-like eyes, arms crossed, while her daughter, Iris Vossen, stood with flawless posture, waiting for the next step in the choreography.

— "Lighter on your feet, less strength with your hands, young master," Miralda said with her cutting voice. "A lady is not a sword for you to wield."

Clint huffed, sweat clinging to his forehead. Dancing was hell. Unlike swords, monsters, or even Darius — this demanded something he had never trained: lightness, grace...

Iris, only 14 years old, danced with absolute precision. So small and quiet, almost as if she floated. Her expression was neutral, trained, but there was a glimmer of curiosity in her eyes when she looked at Clint. Even when he made mistakes, he adapted quickly, observed, understood the steps, and started again. Clint now moved like a noble, even if the visible anger in his eyes betrayed him.

— "Again," Miralda ordered for what felt like the hundredth time. "If a lady invites you to dance at the ball and you refuse, it will be seen as an insult. That could stain your reputation more than any scandal."

Clint clenched his teeth, holding Iris's hand more carefully.

— "And what if I just say I don't know how to dance?"

Miralda scoffed with disdain.

— "Ignorance is uglier than error. And you won't have that excuse when the ball begins."

The training went on for weeks. From early morning until nightfall. Dance, etiquette, formal speech, the study of noble house genealogies. Clint learned how to greet a duke, a marquis, a knight. When to kiss a lady's hand, when to simply bow. He learned that etiquette was far more than good manners — it was manipulation, and more than that, it was politics.

— "You need to hide who you are," Miralda said during a practice dinner. "Etiquette is a disguise. It's how nobles fight each other without swords. Use your body language to conceal your true intent. Ladies will appear with almost genuine smiles pretending to be interested, the sons of nobles will try to befriend you. All of it using etiquette as a mask — but you must know them better than they know themselves, know when they're lying, know when they want to use you. And no one — absolutely no one — should sense what lies behind your eyes."

Clint listened and learned in silence.

Despite the difficulty, his progress was remarkable. Even Miralda — rarely out loud — admitted that in 30 days, he had become something presentable.

---

Meanwhile, in Duke Ravenhart's office, the conversation was far tenser.

Eduard stood by the fireplace, listening to the duke as he observed the political maps hanging on the wall.

— "Do you really think she tried to push her daughter onto him?" Eduard asked.

— "Of course she did," Leonard replied. "They all do. The influence of my house is worth more than gold. And to her, a betrothal between families would be a dream. But it doesn't matter."

Eduard frowned.

— "Are you going to allow it?"

— "The boy needs to marry soon. Stabilize the internal power of the house, avoid disputes, and raise fewer suspicions about his origins."

— "Aren't you afraid other families will question it?"

The duke turned slowly, his eyes hard.

— "I don't care what they think. As long as they don't challenge me. But one thing is certain, Eduard — a marriage with another kingdom would be worse. It would create obligations I have no interest in taking on."

— "So... the tutor's daughter would be the lesser evil."

Leonard nodded silently.

— "Even so, we'll keep watching. The boy is smart enough to choose his own path, if given the freedom. We just can't let anyone question his origins. And for that... the time has come."

Eduard's eyes widened slightly.

— "The woman?"

— "Yes. It's time to officially introduce her to him."

---

On the afternoon of the thirtieth day, Clint was seated in the library, reviewing the names and crests of noble families when Eduard entered, followed by a woman with a simple yet well-groomed appearance. Dark hair tied in a bun, equally dark and calm eyes. There was a lightness in her steps — servile, but now trying to carry the air of newly acquired nobility.

Clint looked up, confused.

Leonard appeared right behind her.

— "Clint, I need to introduce you to someone important. This is Elara."

Clint stood up immediately.

— "She's...?"

— "Your mother."

The silence that followed was thick. Maelys bowed — not with emotion, but with rehearsed formality.

— "It's a pleasure to finally see you… son."

Clint didn't respond. He simply stared at the duke and saw in his eyes that there was no room for questions. This was part of the theater. Part of the role.

— "You have three days before the presentation ball," Leonard said. "From now on, treat her with the same respect they expect you to show your real mother."

Clint only nodded, coldly.