Chapter 3 : First Lessons at Court

Dawn broke over Vienna, but the Hofburg Palace had been awake for hours. Oliver stood in his chambers as two servants dressed him in court attire—a deep blue tunic embroidered with the Habsburg double-headed eagle, black hose, and leather boots polished to a mirror shine.

"Your first lesson begins after morning mass, Your Highness," said the older servant, a man named Gottfried who had been assigned as Oliver''s valet. "Master of Ceremonies von Aachen will instruct you in court protocol."

Jasper stood by the door, already fully armored except for his helmet. He''d been up before dawn, Oliver knew, checking the corridors, speaking with the palace guards, establishing his presence. The knight''s vigilance was both comforting and a constant reminder of the dangers surrounding them.

The walk to the palace chapel felt like a procession. Nobles in rich fabrics nodded or stared as Oliver passed, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility. Jasper walked half a step behind and to Oliver''s right, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt.

Inside the chapel, Archbishop Siegfried presided over the mass. The old man''s voice filled the vaulted space, rich with authority and piety. Oliver knelt when others knelt, stood when they stood, but his mind was elsewhere—watching Charles, who sat in the front row with other high-ranking nobles, watching Siegfried, whose eyes seemed to linger on Oliver with particular intensity.

After the service, as the congregation filed out, Siegfried approached. "Prince Oliver. I trust you found the mass... enlightening?"

"It was conducted with great reverence, Your Grace." Oliver answered carefully.

"Reverence is the foundation of faith." Siegfried''s gaze swept over Oliver, then shifted to Jasper. "Sir Jasper. I understand you were once a Templar. Do you still observe the monastic hours?"

"My duties to Prince Oliver take precedence, Your Grace." Jasper''s answer was neutral.

"A pity. The Templars were a noble order, before their... unfortunate dissolution." Siegfried''s smile didn''t reach his eyes. "Well, I''m sure Master von Aachen awaits. The court has many rules, Prince Oliver. Best learn them quickly."

With a nod, the archbishop moved away, his red robes sweeping the stone floor.

---

Master of Ceremonies Leopold von Aachen was a thin, precise man who looked at Oliver as if he were a particularly challenging puzzle. They sat in a small study lined with books on heraldry, genealogy, and protocol.

"Your first lesson," von Aachen began without preamble, "is understanding that everything here has meaning. The color of your clothing, the placement of your seat at table, the order in which you greet people—all of it communicates."

For the next two hours, Oliver learned about precedence, titles, forms of address. He learned that he should bow to electors but only nod to counts, that he should never turn his back on the emperor, that certain families were to be avoided while others should be cultivated.

"It''s like a dance," Oliver said at one point, frustration creeping into his voice. "But no one tells you the steps until you''ve already stumbled."

"Precisely." Von Aachen didn''t smile. "And every misstep is noted, remembered, and used against you when convenient."

During a break, Jasper brought Oliver water. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and Oliver felt that now-familiar jolt of awareness. Jasper''s eyes met his, and for a moment, Oliver thought he saw something—understanding? sympathy?—before the knight''s usual reserve returned.

"The afternoon will be spent with Chancellor von Starhemberg," von Aachen announced. "Politics. I suggest you pay close attention. The chancellor does not suffer fools."

---

Chancellor Gundakar von Starhemberg was everything von Aachen was not—large, loud, and apparently amused by Oliver''s presence. His office smelled of ink, parchment, and the faint scent of wine.

"So," the chancellor boomed, "Frederick''s bastard returns. And they''ve been stuffing you with protocol all morning, eh?"

Oliver glanced at Jasper, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Yes, Chancellor."

"Protocol is important," Starhemberg said, pouring two glasses of wine and pushing one toward Oliver. "But politics is what keeps you alive. Tell me, what do you know of the current situation?"

Oliver took a careful sip of the wine. "Prince Charles has Wittelsbach support. Archbishop Siegfried is his grandfather and controls much of the church''s influence. Other electors are divided."

"Not bad." Starhemberg leaned back. "But incomplete. You''re missing the key piece: the emperor himself."

"My father?"

"Your father," Starhemberg said slowly, "is playing a game only he understands. He brought you here for a reason. Charles has been heir apparent for years, but Frederick has never formally named him successor. Why do you think that is?"

Oliver considered. "He''s not satisfied with Charles?"

"Or he wants competition." Starhemberg''s eyes gleamed. "A single heir grows complacent. Two heirs... they must prove themselves. And in proving themselves, they reveal their true nature."

The lesson continued, Starhemberg outlining the major factions, their interests, their weaknesses. Oliver listened intently, asking questions, making connections to what Sterling and Elliott had taught him about strategy and human nature.

As they left the chancellor''s office hours later, Jasper spoke quietly. "He was testing you."

"I know." Oliver rubbed his temples, headache beginning to form. "Everyone is testing me."

"Starhemberg is powerful but unpredictable. He supports whoever he believes will win."

"Then I''ll have to win." Oliver said it with more confidence than he felt.

They walked in silence for a time, then Oliver asked, "What do you think of him? Starhemberg?"

Jasper considered. "Clever. Dangerous. But not necessarily an enemy. He values competence above loyalty."

"Like you," Oliver said before he could stop himself.

Jasper''s step faltered almost imperceptibly. "My loyalty is to you, Your Highness."

"I know." Oliver wished he could take back the words, or at least their tone—too personal, too revealing. "I just meant... you value competence too."

"Yes." Jasper''s answer gave nothing away.

---

Back in his chambers, Oliver collapsed into a chair. The day had been exhausting—not physically, but mentally, emotionally. Every interaction felt like a battle, every word weighed and measured.

Gottfried helped him change into simpler clothes, then brought a light supper. Oliver ate alone at a small table, Jasper standing watch by the door. The silence between them felt different now, charged with everything unsaid.

After eating, Oliver moved to the window. Night had fallen, torches lighting the palace grounds below. Somewhere out there, Charles was likely dining with supporters, Siegfried was plotting, Starhemberg was calculating.

And somewhere far to the south, in the Alps, Blackstone Keep stood under the same stars.

---

The great hall of Blackstone Keep was quiet, the evening meal finished, most of the household retired for the night. Sterling sat by the fire, a map spread on the table before him, but his attention wasn''t on the parchment.

Elliott stood at the window, looking out at the moonlit mountains. He''d been quiet all evening, a faint line between his brows that Sterling knew meant worry.

"Come here," Sterling said, his voice soft in the quiet room.

Elliott turned, the firelight catching in his golden hair. He crossed the room and let Sterling pull him down into his lap. Sterling''s arms wrapped around him, holding him close, chin resting on top of Elliott''s head.

"You''re thinking about him," Sterling murmured.

"Always." Elliott leaned back against Sterling''s chest. "I had a vision today. Not clear, just... shadows. Danger."

Sterling''s arms tightened. "Jasper is with him. He''s the best."

"I know." Elliott turned in Sterling''s lap, facing him. His hands came up to frame Sterling''s face. "But I still worry."

Sterling kissed him then, a slow, deep kiss that spoke of three years of love and familiarity. Elliott responded immediately, fingers tangling in Sterling''s dark hair, body pressing closer.

When they broke apart, Sterling stood, lifting Elliott with him as if he weighed nothing. He carried him up the stairs to their chamber, the castle silent around them.

In their room, Sterling set Elliott down gently beside the bed. His hands went to the laces of Elliott''s tunic, fingers moving with the ease of long practice. The fabric fell away, revealing pale skin that glowed in the candlelight.

Elliott''s hands were just as busy, unbuckling Sterling''s belt, pushing the leather aside, then working on the ties of his shirt. When they were both bare, Sterling guided Elliott onto the bed, following him down, their bodies aligning with the perfect fit of lovers who know each other intimately.

Sterling''s mouth found Elliott''s again, then trailed down his throat, his chest, lower. Elliott gasped, back arching, fingers clutching at the sheets. "Sterling..."

"Let me love you," Sterling murmured against his skin. "Let me remind you we''re here, we''re together, we''re safe."

He did, with hands and mouth and body, until Elliott was trembling with pleasure, whispering Sterling''s name like a prayer. When Sterling finally entered him, it was with slow, deep thrusts that felt like coming home.

Their rhythm built gradually, a dance they knew by heart. Sterling watched Elliott''s face—the parted lips, the closed eyes, the expressions of pleasure that flashed across his features. This was his anchor, his reason, his heart outside his body.

As they moved together, Elliott let his mind drift from worry to sensation to memory. Three years ago, he''d been a prisoner in a monastery, his "gifts" seen as either heresy or useful tools. Then Sterling had come—a knight with a reputation for being ruthless, but who had looked at Elliott and seen a person, not a prophet.

That first night after his rescue, Elliott had been terrified—of Sterling, of freedom, of everything. Sterling had given him space, time, kindness. The love had grown slowly, like a plant in rocky soil, but once rooted, it had been unshakable.

Now, with Sterling moving inside him, Elliott felt that love as a physical force. It was in Sterling''s hands, gentle despite their strength. It was in his eyes, which watched Elliott with a focus that made him feel like the only person in the world. It was in the way Sterling always, always made sure Elliott found pleasure before taking his own.

*My north star,* Elliott thought as Sterling''s pace quickened. *My safe harbor.*

For Sterling, these moments were both escape and reaffirmation. The world outside was full of politics, violence, complexity. But here, with Elliott, everything was simple. There was love, there was trust, there was this perfect joining of bodies and souls.

He thought of Oliver in Vienna, facing the court alone. Sterling had taught the boy strategy, swordplay, leadership. But he hadn''t been able to teach him how to navigate the particular poison of court politics—the smiles that hid daggers, the compliments that were insults, the alliances that shifted like sand.

*Be strong, boy,* Sterling thought as he felt his climax approaching. *Be clever. And remember you have a home to return to.*

Their release came together, as it often did—a crashing wave of pleasure that left them breathless and clinging. Sterling collapsed beside Elliott, pulling him close, feeling the rapid beat of Elliott''s heart against his own.

After a long silence, Elliott spoke softly. "We should go to him. To Vienna."

Sterling sighed, fingers stroking Elliott''s hair. "Not yet. He needs to stand on his own first. But soon. If the danger grows..."

Elliott turned to look at him. "You saw it too? In the vision?"

"Shadows," Sterling admitted. "But yes. Something''s coming."

They lay together in the quiet, the fire crackling in the hearth, the wind sighing around the castle walls. Two lovers in a mountain fortress, watching over a prince in a gilded cage, waiting for the storm they both knew was coming.

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