His movements are abrupt. Clumsy. They lack the elegance of a tournament knight; they are merely strikes fueled by a resentment he doesn't know where to place. "What a great move, Maekar! You truly have enviable strength."

He stops dead in his tracks, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. There you are, sitting with a book in your lap, watching him as if you were witnessing a dance instead of a frustrated prince hacking away at wood.

"Don't talk nonsense," he snaps without turning, clenching his teeth. "You know perfectly well that was a clumsy strike. I'm just wasting my time."

But when he finally looks at you, he is met with that smile. It isn't the mocking smirk of his brothers, nor the condescending grin of the masters-at-arms. It is... genuine. You look at him as if you truly saw something valuable in the disaster that he is.

An annoying heat rises up his neck, having nothing to do with the exercise. He hates it. He hates that you look at him like that, because for a second, you make him believe he isn't just "the fourth son." You force him to lower his guard, and that terrifies him.

"Go back to your books. I don't know what you think you see, but I assure you, you are mistaken."