Surprise and irritation flinched through Franz, bunching his muscles. He’d thought he was practicing with the fencing master—the lack of conversation a normal part of their peaceful routine since Franz had asked him to skip the formalities. But this voice was not the low, calm cadence of the fencing master. It was too sharp for that. Sharp enough that it could only belong to Franz’s little brother: Maxi.

But since when was Maxi back at the palace? The least reliable Habsburg had been away for months doing who-knows-what with who-knows-whom. Franz had sent him on a scouting mission to Italy, but he’d neglected his correspondence again, so there was no telling where he’d actually been.

Franz tightened his jaw. Of course, Maxi would come out to needle him at the one time Franz could just be. Maxi couldn’t just leave him alone. And today of all days—when Franz needed his composure more than ever.

Franz’s feet moved urgently, almost without permission, as he lunged forward. Maxi would be unbearable if he won the match. Winning was suddenly more important than good form.

The swords clashed, the two brothers locked in a complicated dance: two steps forward, back, back, forward, back. Franz pushed, attacked, almost stumbled. And then—

He had him. Finally, Franz’s épée found its mark at Maxi’s heart, the dulled tip denting the cloth on his brother’s chest.

“Match.” Franz stepped back, breathing hard, and lifted his mask.

Maxi’s shoulders dropped and he let his mask fall to the grass, casually running a hand through his sandy-blond hair. Maxi appeared unfazed, and Franz wished that he could look so carefree. If Franz didn’t know Maxi better, he’d think his brother didn’t care about the loss. But Maxi always cared. They both did. Competition was the lifeblood of young men. That’s what their mother believed, and it’s how she had raised them. Now neither of them could stand to lose.

“You haven’t been neglecting your training, Brother.” Maxi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I see rumors of your demise were overblown.”

“It’s nice to see that those rumors sent you rushing back in concern for my health all those months ago.” The edges of the comment were sharp. Franz knew better than to be hurt by Maxi, his unreliability all too familiar. But he was hurt. Franz had been on his deathbed, and his brother hadn’t come home.

Maxi waved a hand, dismissive. “Alas, I was delayed, and anyway, you rose from the ashes like the damn phoenix, like I knew you would.”

It was true. The doctors had been shocked by how quickly Franz recovered. A knife to the neck, yet he’d been out of bed, walking, exercising, and governing long before the doctors thought he would.