The family armory smelled of old leather and whetstone oil.
It was Theodore's favorite place in the world.
Marcus was there because Theodore had insisted on "bonding time."
Apparently, watching your brother meticulously polish a sword for two hours counted as bonding.
"You're using too much oil," Theodore said without looking up from his work.
Marcus looked at the household accounts he was trying to organize.
He wasn't using any oil. "I'm doing paperwork, Theo."
"I was talking to myself." Theodore held his sword up to the light.
"The blade needs to breathe. Too much oil suffocates it."
"Right. Suffocates the sword."
Marcus made a note to order more wine for the estate.
His own personal supply was running dangerously low.
"It's been a strange week," Theodore commented, still focused on his sword.
"Oh?"
"Yes. A lot of people have been asking about you."
Marcus's pen froze. "What kind of people?"
"Professor Ashwood, for one." Theodore began polishing again with a soft cloth.
"She asked if you'd be visiting the academy next week. I told her you probably would be."
"Did she say why she was asking?"
"No. Just asked about your schedule. She's been much friendlier lately.
Smiled at me once. I think your advice is working."
My advice?
Marcus's brain immediately supplied the image of him giving Theodore terrible advice about flowers.
Advice Theodore had never followed.
"That's... good," Marcus said carefully.
"I suppose." Theodore frowned. "But she mostly asked about you."
"To understand you better! Family context! Very important!"
"If you say so." Theodore switched to a different polishing cloth.
"Then there are the letters from Duchess Roselle."
Marcus's stomach dropped. "What about them?"
"There are a lot of them. Three this week alone."
The ducal courier had started giving Marcus a familiar nod.
"They're all addressed to you, but they have the official Roselle seal. Father thinks it's about the military alliance."
"It is! We're discussing... troop logistics."
"You don't know anything about troop logistics."
"I'm learning!"
"The letters seem very long for logistics."
Theodore set down his sword and picked up another.
"And the handwriting in the postscripts is different."
He noticed the handwriting.
"That's just... a different style of logistical notation."
"It looks like she's asking for book recommendations."
"Military strategy books!" Marcus said, a little too quickly. "Very advanced stuff."
Theodore shrugged. "If you say so."
He examined the second sword. "This one needs sharpening."
Marcus tried to breathe normally.
This was fine. Theodore was just observant.
He didn't understand the implications.
"And then there was Damien's mother,"
Theodore continued, completely oblivious to Marcus's internal meltdown.
"Countess Blackthorn? What about her?"
"She sent a messenger yesterday. Wanted to know which social events you planned to attend this month."
Marcus felt the room get smaller. "Why?"
"She said she was 're-engaging with society' and wanted to ensure she saw 'familiar, friendly faces.'"
Theodore paused his work. "Her definition of friendly must be broad if it includes you."
"Hey."
"Just an observation. Your reputation isn't exactly 'friendly.'"
"I'm working on it."
"Clearly." Theodore went back to his sword.
"It's strange though. She's never shown interest in social events before."
"Maybe she's turning over a new leaf."
"Maybe." Theodore didn't sound convinced. "Or maybe she just wants to talk to you."
No. No, she's just being polite.
Following up on our very professional conversation about her life's purpose.
"And finally," Theodore said, "there's the new transfer student."
"Lady Iris?"
"Yes. The elf." Theodore set down the second sword. "She's very... curious."
"Elves are known for their scholarly pursuits."
"She's pursuing information about you."
"Me? She's supposed to be observing you! The Child of Destiny!"
"I told her that. She said I was a 'completed data set' and that you were an 'interesting variable.'"
Theodore picked up a whetstone. "Then she asked what your hobbies are."
"What did you tell her?"
"That you used to enjoy drinking and gambling but now you mostly worry and read books."
"Thanks, Theo. Really selling me."
"It's the truth." He started sharpening a blade with methodical strokes.
"She seemed fascinated. Asked what kind of books. What kind of worrying. She's very thorough."
"So, to summarize," Marcus said, his voice dangerously calm.
"My brother's teacher is asking about my schedule."
"Yes."
"My brother's fiancée's sister is sending me multiple personal letters a week."
"Yes."
"My brother's rival's mother is inquiring about my social calendar."
"Yes."
"And the ancient elf sent to observe my brother is now studying me instead."
"That seems to cover it."
Marcus put down his pen. He stared at his brother's back.
At the methodical, focused, completely unconcerned way he sharpened his sword.
This couldn't be happening.
All four of them. All four of Theodore's destined love interests.
All of them were focused on him.
It wasn't just one accidental connection.
It was a pattern. A disastrous, world-ending pattern of accidental seduction.
The sound of the whetstone scraping against steel filled the silence.
It was rhythmic, steady, completely at odds with the storm in Marcus's head.
Theodore paused his work.
He set down the whetstone and the sword carefully.
He wiped his hands on a clean cloth.
Then he turned around.
Theodore looked at Marcus, his expression one of pure, guileless curiosity.
There was no accusation in his eyes.
No suspicion. Just a simple, honest question forming on his lips.
"Brother," he asked, tilting his head slightly.
"Yes, Theo?" Marcus braced himself.
The question that followed was not "What have you done?" or "Why are they all interested in you?" It was something far simpler, and infinitely more devastating.
"Are you popular?"
The world seemed to stop.
The quiet scraping of the whetstone was gone.
The only sound was the frantic beating of Marcus's own heart.
Are you popular?
The question was so innocent. So Theodore.
He wasn't accusing Marcus of anything.
He was just connecting the dots in the only way his sword-focused brain knew how.
Professor asks about Marcus.
Duchess writes to Marcus.
Countess wants to see Marcus.
Elf studies Marcus.
Conclusion: Marcus must be popular.
It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't anger.
It was just a simple, logical deduction from an illogical premise.
And it was the single most damning piece of evidence Marcus had ever received.
"I... what?" Marcus stammered.
"You seem popular," Theodore repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"A lot of important women are interested in you. I didn't know you had so many friends."
Friends. He thought they were Marcus's friends.
Marcus wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry.
He wanted to bang his head against the stone wall until he forgot everything.
"I'm not popular, Theo," Marcus managed to say.
His voice sounded strained. "It's all a misunderstanding."
"A four-part misunderstanding?" Theodore frowned. "That seems statistically unlikely."
"You know what 'statistically unlikely' means?"
"Professor Ashwood taught us in our military strategy class. It's about probability."
Theodore picked up his sword again, a thoughtful look on his face.
"It's improbable that four separate, high-status women would all suddenly take an interest in my formerly disreputable brother for unrelated reasons."
"You've been thinking about this."
"Yes. During sword practice. It helps me focus."
Marcus stared at his brother. The dense protagonist.
The man who would rather date a sword than a person.
The same man who had just systematically dismantled Marcus's entire wall of denial with the simple, innocent logic of an outside observer.
He wasn't stealing his brother's harem.
He had already stolen it.
And now, even his dense-as-a-rock brother had noticed.
"So, are you?" Theodore asked again, his curiosity unsated. "Popular?"
Marcus couldn't answer.
He just stared as Theodore went back to polishing his sword, completely unaware that he'd just delivered a critical blow more devastating than any sword strike.
The world was doomed.
And Marcus was the idiot who'd doomed it.
.
.
.
A/N:
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