Chapter 3: Sibling Duels

The warm afternoon sun hangs lazily over the training yard, just after finishing work for today. I fix eyes on Jenna, who is already sizing me up with that irritatingly smug look on her face. Across the yard, Dad has a conflicted smile tugging at his lips. He always seems torn during these duels, I am not sure why.
Our duels have become something of a ritual—a way to decide disputes. Today's stakes: Jenna wants to dictate my behavior around Lady Zola. "For your own good," she had said, puffing up like she was on some grand mission. Sure. And pigs can fly.

But we aren't starting just yet. Nicks has been sent to fetch Finnley, who'd insisted she couldn't miss it. We'd never hear the end of it. Taking advantage of the delay, I turn to Dad, trying my luck—again. "So, Dad, about adventuring… If we went together, just for a little while, I could—"
"Leon," he cut me off, his tone patient but firm, "we've been through this. It's not happening."
Lately, even Jenna had been trying to join my hypothetical expeditions. She'd teased me about it at first, but I could tell she was serious. Not that Dad ever entertained the idea.
I sigh and turn back to Jenna. "You know," I start, "if you're coming with me when I do leave, you'd better work on your footwork."
She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, don't worry about me, farm boy. I'll be fine. You're the one who needs help."
I open my mouth to retort but stop when I spot Nicks and Finnley heading toward us. To my surprise, Mom is with them, Baby Collin nestled in her arms.

Great. Now the whole family was here.
If everyone is watching, I have to be careful. I can't afford to show too much skill—it wouldn't do to raise questions about how I have such sharp reflexes for a 6-year-old.
Mom settles on a bench near the edge of the yard, bouncing Collin gently in her arms. Nicks leans against the fence, his usual neutral expression firmly in place. Finnley, on the other hand, was practically bouncing out of her skin with excitement. "Jenna's gonna win this time!" she calls out, her grin wide. "Not a chance," I shoot back.

Jenna rolls her shoulders, her expression shifting. She is psyching herself up, probably reminding herself of her so-called mission to "save me" from my bad habits.
"You ready, farm boy?" she asks, her smirk returning as she raises her sword.
"As I'll ever be," I reply, settling into a defensive stance.

She moves first, her wooden blade slicing through the air with surprising precision. I sidestep easily, countering with a quick feint.
"Too weak." Her tone is mocking.
"You're one to talk," I shoot back. "At least I don't grunt like a wild boar when I swing."
Her cheeks turn red, and she lunges at me. Our swords clash, the impact jolting up my arms. She presses the attack, her strikes sharp and deliberate. She has improved—there is no denying that. But I'm still faster.
I dodge her next swing and when I counter, I make sure to aim for a spot she can defend. She can win this time, maybe following her advice can help me get closer to the Zola clan.
"Not bad," I say, grinning. "For a boar." Jenna growls under her breath, her swings growing faster but sloppier. I know that look—she is pushing herself too hard, trying to force an opening where there isn't one.
Let's end it. Leaving a deliberate gap in my defense, I watch as her eyes lit up. She lunges forward, her sword landing a blow against me.

"Point to me!" she declares, stepping back with a triumphant grin.
I groan, clutching my side dramatically. "Fine, fine. What do you want?"
Jenna lowers her sword, crossing her arms. "You're going to behave properly in front of Lady Zola. No scowling, no snide comments, and definitely no glaring." "You're asking a lot," I mutter, straightening up. "But I'll try."
Mom chuckles from her spot on the bench, bouncing Collin lightly. "Well, that's a start,"her smile soft but amused.

Nicks shakes his head, muttering something under his breath. Finnley, however, throws her hands in the air and cheers.
"Jenna won! I knew it!" she cries, her excitement infectious.
I shoot her a mock glare but can't help the small smile that creps onto my face.

Even as I walk off the training yard, rubbing my ribs, I can't help but feel a flicker of warmth.

Later that evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, Zola and her children arrive. Her visits always bring a strange tension to the house, like a storm brewing just beyond the horizon. Dinner is a private affair tonight, with only Zola, her kids, Dad, and my sisters present.
Mother, Nicks, and I are uninvited, as usual.
It's her one "show meal" for each visit, where she eats exclusively with what she considers the true Family Bartfort. An olive branch, she'd likely call it. A chance for her to play the role of a gracious noblewoman, while reinforcing the lines she's drawn between us.
The rest of the time, she takes her meals only with her own children, leaving Dad to dine with us. If I'm being honest, I think he prefers it that way. The strained look on his face after just one meal with her says more than words ever could.

The next day, I spot Rutart alone in the courtyard, with no watchful eyes on him. He's clearly enjoying himself, swinging a wooden sword with exaggerated flair. His movements are wild, flashy, and utterly impractical—more like a performance than actual training.
Nice chance, no one's around to stop me. Grinning, I stroll over.
"Lord Rutart," I call, emphasizing the title with mock respect. "How about a duel? Me and Nicks against you. We should be no match for you, our noble heir. Or…" I tilt my head, smirking, "are you scared?"
Rutarts face twisting into an indignant scowl. "Scared? Of you? As if! You're barely better than peasants." He straightens his back, puffing out his chest. "Fine. I'll show you just how outmatched you are."
Got him. I´ll have to scope out how to get closer to him. Let's just try stuff and see what sticks.
Dragging Nicks to the training yard takes some effort. He groans audibly when I ask, shaking his head. "Why do you always drag me into these things?"
"Because I'm not a hundred percent sure if he's strong enough to be a problem for me," I reply, grinning. "Come on, Nicks. Let's take him down a peg."
Nicks eventually agrees, sighing like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He stands beside me, his sword dangling loosely in his hand as if he's already bored.

The match begins, and it's over almost before it starts. Rutart charges at us, his strikes a bit powerful but completely unrefined. His stance is terrible, and his swings so wide that Nicks and I have years to dodge. We practically dance around him.
"Stop running away and fight me properly!" Rutart yells, his voice cracking with frustration. "We're not running, big brother," I say, emphasizing the last words just enough to needle him.

Nicks barely puts in any effort, halfheartedly parrying Rutart's attacks while muttering under his breath about how ridiculous this all is. I, on the other hand, have a little fun with it, sidestepping Rutart's wild swings and poking at his defenses just enough to keep him spinning in circles.
It doesn't take long for him to wear himself out. His breathing grows heavy, his strikes slower and sloppier. So sloppy that we disarm him without a body hit.

"You cheated!" Rutart huffs, his face red with exertion and indignation. "It wasn't fair—two against one!"
I shrug, twirling my sword lazily. That's not what he said before, well… "Then how about a one-on-one? If I win, I get to call you 'big brother.'" Maybe breaking with formalities gets us closer?
His eyes narrow, his lips curling into a sneer. "Fine. I'll crush you myself."

Rutart's arrogance is his downfall. Fueled by pride, he swings harder, his strikes reckless and easy to predict. I evade each one with practiced ease, waiting for the right moment. With a quick feint and a low sweep, I send his sword flying.

The yard falls silent, save for Rutart's labored breathing. I plant my sword on the ground, grinning. "I get to call you big brother now."
Rutart glares at me, his jaw tightening. "Don't you dare—" Nicks cuts him off with a groan. "Just don't call him that when Zola's around. Else it'll be trouble for all of us."
Rutart looks less than thrilled as he mutters under his breath about "ungrateful peasants." Still, he doesn't argue further, instead stomping off to sulk near the edge of the yard.

After a while, though, he seemed eager again. When we trained together later, he actually tried and even improved a bit. Near the end, he manages to catch me off guard once or twice, heralding his win loudly enough for everyone to hear.
It's a small change, but I'll take it.

When we got back, Zola was livid. The moment she heard about our little "game," she declared that Nicks and I were to stay outside the main house from now on. Honestly, it didn't bother me much—being out of her sight was more of a relief than a punishment. I don't know if I really want to try and get along with her…
Rutart's punishment, though, was something weird. He was forced to join us for dinner in the garden, since he missed out on the lavish meal the servants had prepared for Zola, Merce, and himself. The look on his face when he realized he'd be eating with us instead of basking in Zola's extravagance? Priceless. Bonus for playing into my cards.

Dinner in the garden is a simple affair, but Mom has outdone herself, preparing a hearty stew with fresh bread and roasted vegetables. The smell alone makes my mouth water.
Rutart's posture is rigid as he tries—and fails—to look authoritative. His eyes dart around the table like he's still trying to figure out how he ended up here.

"Big brother, can you pass the bread?" I ask casually, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. Mom glances at me, her brow furrowing. "Big brother?" she echoes. Jenna shoots me a pointed look. "What's wrong with you? Remember your promise?"
Rutart, for his part, stiffens even more, his hand frozen halfway to the breadbasket. "Don't call me that!" he snaps.
"You lost the duel, and this is my price, remember?" I reply, winking at Jenna.

Finnley, sitting beside me, immediately perks up and joins in. "Big brother, can I have some too?" Her tone is bright and innocent, her grin wide.
"Finnley, no," Jenna leans toward her, her voice sharp. "Don't do that in front of Zola. She'll—" She stops abruptly, her eyes darting toward Mom. "Just... don't, okay?"
Finnley frowns, her shoulders slumping. "Why not? It's fun!" "Because I said so," Jenna hisses, her tone brooking no argument.

Rutart clears his throat loudly, his expression an awkward mix of embarrassment and frustration. "Ahem. I—uh—command you to stop calling me that," he says, his voice gaining volume as he pushes forward. "It's improper!" Seems like I got under his skin.
Mom raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, focusing instead on feeding Collin. I notice the faint smile tugging at her lips, though—it's clear she's more amused than concerned.
"Big brother, can you pass the vegetables?" I ask again, not missing a beat. "Stop it!" Rutart barks, his face turning red as he grabs the dish and thrusts it toward me. "Thank you, big brother," I reply smoothly.
"You're the worst," Jenna mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose like she's already exhausted.
Rutart glares at me, clearly flustered, but I can see him struggling to hold onto his composure. He straightens his back, determined to reclaim some authority.
"Everyone!" he announces suddenly, standing up and puffing out his chest. "I want to make it clear that, as the heir to the Bartfort family, I expect proper behavior during meals. That means—"
"Sit down." Mom says gently, not even looking up from Collin. The quiet authority in her voice deflates him instantly. He sinks back into his chair without finishing his sentence, his face a mix of defeat and irritation.

The rest of the meal passes with Finnley gleefully copying me, much to Jenna's mounting frustration, and Rutart's continued but unsuccessful attempts to assert control. By the time we're finished, the tension has mostly melted away, replaced by something strange—something almost like familial warmth.

Rutart still doesn't quite fit, his discomfort as obvious as ever, but for a brief moment, it almost feels like he belongs. Almost.

A short while after he left, my curiosity got the better of me. The soft glow of lamplight spilled from a window in the main house, and I found myself crouching outside, peeking in. Rutart's voice drifts out, carrying the unmistakable mix of arrogance and unease that always seems to follow him.
"…the meal was terrible," he's saying, though his tone lacks its usual bite. He shifts awkwardly, his hands fidgeting at his sides. Zola sits across from him, her posture as regal as ever, watching him with cold, calculating eyes. "Terrible?" she prompts, her voice smooth and low.
"Yes," Rutart says, but the word feels hollow. Then he blurts out, louder this time, "I hate being around them!" There it is. The sharp, petulant edge to his words that I've come to expect. Still, something about the way he says it feels off. He hesitates, his shoulders slumping slightly before he continues, quieter now. "But… I want to train more. I can use Leon and Nicks as training dummies."
Zola's lips curl into a wicked smile, her eyes gleaming in the lamplight. "Excellent idea," she purrs, her voice dripping with approval.

I slip away before I can hear anything more, my mind churning. Lying in bed, I stare at the wooden beams above me, the echoes of their conversation playing over and over in my head. Have I made things better or worse?
My intentions were good. I wanted to nudge Rutart toward something better, to build even a thread of connection between him and the rest of us. But did it work?

Shit. Let's just see what tomorrow holds.

A/N

23.12.24 - Minimal changes, adding more of Leon's thoughts.
Please comment if there is anything on your mind. All non shitposts are appreciated.