TO&FQ: Book 2 - Chapter 8 (RAW)

Chapter 8 - The Tutor

The Queen’s first egg was to be presented in ten turns of the seasons as a new bride. Such was the desperation of the alliance with the fate of the world on their shoulders. The Dragons in their great pride would never forget what the ‘lesser races’ had forced upon them, and their resentment would only grow with the passage of time.

After many years the great horde started their journey across the vast Untouched Seas, unmolested by the scaled leviathans of the deep. The dragons had negotiated their safe passage, securing it in the ancient way of their kind. The serpents of the sky and sea were to be bound together once more.

The great Arks, living ships of near-indestructible magical witchwood, made excellent time across the water, their massive bulk now pushed and pulled by the gigantic leviathans that made the deep places of the sea their home. Great cheers were raised when the ships made landfall on the western continent.

Spies from the alliance and divine scrying showed that the mage-king was actually no king at all. In fact, he was seen to be more of a Steward and Servant of the people and was in fact chosen by the majority of them which was a concept that was so alien and foreign to the members of the alliance. The system of government was seen as preposterous for who would ever in their right mind allow the common man to dictate the rules of power above their station?

They were met on the beaches by envoys of the unknown mage-king under the banner of peace. Their decapitated heads were sent back wrapped in spider silk and sweet-scented with Aeyory blossoms, a traditional declaration of total war in the east.

But the spies and scouts of the unknown kingdom had not been idle, and they discovered horrifying facts that only hardened the resolve of the people to resist. Many of those who were brought across the ocean were in fact slaves. Men and women who had pulled at the great oars, who had cleaned and scrubbed the decks, tended the fires, and cooked the meals that fed the armies and a thousand more labors were chattel with the hateful mark of slavery inscribed upon their bodies.

— On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar, circa 103 AC.

Morning tea was pleasant enough, but a part of Seraphina longed for the coffee of her old world. That dark, bitter brew had been a steadfast companion through many sleepless nights. Now, those nights—her past life—felt distant, almost like the fading remnants of a dream.

Captain Fanzazino, true to his word—or rather, true to his fear of the young girl and her serpent—had smoothed things over. He had personally drafted a special report for the Mayor’s office, carefully omitting certain inconvenient details. The bodies of the intruders from the Bloody Tower had been handed over to the City Guard—minus one. The loser of the game had been quietly disposed of by Miriam. Seraphina wondered how long the girl she had spared would take to crawl back to her masters and deliver the message she had so generously allowed her to live for.

Now, a score or more of City Guardsmen had been stationed around her temporary accommodations. Supposedly, they were there to protect her. In truth, they were little more than a leash. She bristled at the restriction. It was a bitter pill, but one she was willing to swallow—for now. Let them watch. If nothing else, this would serve as a bargaining chip when the time came to negotiate with the Academy authorities.

The house itself had been quite the wreck before an army of servants, carpenters, and stonemasons—rudely roused in the dead of night—had set it to rights. Seraphina cared nothing for their inconvenience; they would be well-compensated for their trouble. Their suffering was a trivial price for her comfort.

She turned her attention to drafting a letter. A small mistake in the wording caught her eye. Irritated, she crumpled the expensive parchment and tossed it aside. For some reason, frustration had been gnawing at her as of late, a slow-burning ember that refused to die.

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

Ibn entered hesitantly, eyes flitting toward her desk rather than meeting her gaze. Lately, the boy had grown almost timid around her. That would not do. She would have to correct it.

"Lady Seraphina, there is a Mister de Laney—" he began, voice uncertain.

Seraphina let out a sharp breath. "Though his family was only recently elevated, he is Lord de Laney. The forms must be observed," she corrected coolly. "I will not have people whispering that my staff is uncultured. That would be unbecoming of our noble House—of which you are a part. Do you understand, Ibn?"

"Yes, Lady Seraphina…" he murmured.

She studied him. Ibn was an investment, and an important one at that. She held her head in her hands, exasperated at the prospect of managing a mere boy. But investments needed tending.

"To think you would not know something so basic. And you are my Page, of all things. Continue to fail, and you will bring only dishonor upon me." She leaned forward, her voice deceptively soft. "Tell me, do you like me, Ibn?"

His face flushed immediately. "Of course, I—I mean, yes, Lady Seraphina!"

She smirked. How silly. Of course he liked her. It was as natural as calling water wet.

"Then why can’t you remember something as simple as proper etiquette?"

"It's just that—those lessons and stuff are so boring, miss—I mean, Lady Seraphina!" he blurted out.

Unacceptable.

"Try harder, Ibn." Her voice lowered, dangerous now. "I like you, in fact, you could say I am rather fond of you."

The boy shifted uncomfortably, eyes looking at anything but at her.

"However, you must improve. No matter how much you dislike it. I will not have savages in my service. Fail me again, and I may find myself… rather less fond of you."

She steepled her fingers, recalling that people preferred to leave an audience on a good note. Praise when used sparingly could be effective. Her gaze flickered over him critically. "The Knights say you are progressing well with the sword. That is good. However, it is nearly time for you to train with a live blade, yet you still refuse to touch one."

His throat bobbed. "Yes," he squeaked.

"Fix this problem within a week, or I will fix it for you. Now, go and inform the Lord de Laney that I will be with him shortly."

***

The recent attempt on Seraphina’s life cast doubt upon the de Laney family's ties to the Empire. After all, was not their eldest daughter, Eloise, lady-in-waiting to Seraphina herself? It helped in a minor way to dispel those rumors that just happened to actually be true. An attempted assassination on her life was not just a scandal—it was a potential spark for war. And, if she were honest, a part of her welcomed it. A war would perhaps it would give Seraphina an excuse to avoid enrolling in the Academy altogether.

No. She needed to be here. If nothing else, she had to keep an eye on someone who would soon arrive. Beyond that, the Academy was a rare opportunity—to make connections with the scions of other powerful houses, to refine her gifts, and to expand her understanding of magic, if the game’s lore was to be believed.

These thoughts swirled in her mind as she descended the rather grand staircase and entered the drawing room where her guest awaited.

Inside, she was greeted by the sight of a man seated in one of the plush chairs, conversing with Eloise. There was a slight tension between them, the kind that existed in families long separated, uncertain of how to bridge the gap of time. He was comely, a slightly more masculine reflection of Eloise’s delicate, doll-like features. But where Eloise’s hair was jet black, his was a mousy brown, and though his eyes were green, they were of a paler hue than Seraphina’s own emerald. To his side rested a pair of crutches.

A cripple.

With Eloise’s assistance, he managed to rise.

“I must apologize for my brother Beron’s tardiness, Lady Seraphina. He can be quite… distracted where his research is concerned,” Eloise offered, her voice polite, though she shot her brother a reproachful look.

“You will forgive me if I do not bow as manners dictate, Lady Seraphina,” Beron said with a small, self-effacing smile.

“Not at all, Lord de Laney… It is just that…” Seraphina trailed off, tilting her head slightly, feigning hesitation.

Beron’s brow furrowed slightly. “What is it, milady?”

Seraphina smiled sweetly, emerald eyes locking onto his with an almost playful glint. Time to take him down a peg. An old classic would do nicely.

“Well… Eloise has said so many things about you. So many wondrous things. I had always imagined that you would be a little taller,” she tittered, covering her mouth.

She saw the exact moment her barb landed. He stiffened, the smile on his face remaining, though it no longer reached his eyes.

“Well, I will allow you some time with your sister…” she mused, already turning away.

“That will not be necessary,” Eloise interjected smoothly, sensing her mistress’s displeasure.

“Oh, very well then. Shall we retire to the study, Lord Beron? I am sure you have much to teach me before the upcoming entrance exams. They are fast approaching, after all.  I expect nothing less than excellence.”

“ I am of the belief that results depend as much on the student as they do the teacher,” he replied sheepishly. “And just Beron will do. I am afraid I am still not quite used to the title.”

And you never will, Seraphina thought darkly. Your father has already chosen your younger sibling as heir, despite your many scholarly achievements. Or perhaps, because of them. You are the spare, no longer the heir. More importantly, studying with you will give me a bonus to my learning speed—though how that translates outside the confines of the game remains to be seen.

“Very well… Beron,” she said, as if testing the name, giving him one of her radiant smiles. Then, she turned to Eloise with a small nod.

Eloise responded with a deep, formal curtsy.

***

In the game, studying with Beron gave a bonus to a character’s learning speed between twenty to fifty percent, depending on compatibility. Here Beron’s bonus was expressed as him being a most skilled and excellent tutor. Despite being very young, he was knowledgeable in many different fields of academia. He did not patronize or merely lecture. Instead, he guided, drawing answers from her that she would not have reached on her own. He knew precisely how much to push, when to challenge, and when to let her struggle just enough to grow. Even the dry subject of Aranthian history took on a new life under his instruction. He wove personalities into the names, inserted small, intriguing anecdotes that made dates and events easier to remember. He had a gift for making the past feel real.

Time slipped by unnoticed, and to her own surprise, Seraphina found herself enjoying the lessons far more than she had anticipated. She found herself smiling, more out of genuine joy than simply good manners. But as much as she relished their quiet hours together, it seemed the young Beron de Laney did so as well.

Indeed, for him, teaching the young, beautiful noblewoman was hardly a chore. The atmosphere of the study was intimate, secluded. He found himself striving to be engaging, to be interesting, to be normal. For once in his life, he had a reason to shine. A reason to try harder—beyond simple curiosity or personal ambition. After all, even Beron was a young man, and Lady Seraphina was undeniably captivating.

Yet, beneath it all, there remained a gnawing, bitter truth.

He was nothing but a cripple.

Even his own family regarded him with thinly veiled disappointment. A burden. A failure. A broken thing.

But Seraphina—she looked at him differently. And that terrified him in a different way. Because the greatest of despairs blooms from the most fragile of hopes.

The only part of their lessons that he truly dreaded was the end, when he had to stand. When he was forced to remember all the ways in which he was lesser. Half a man.

He envied his sister, who spent so much time in the presence of the future queen of Aranthia, the soon-to-be mother of the nation. Another reminder that she was far, far out of his reach.

And all the while, the maid Miriam sat in the corner of the study, watching. She leafed through ledgers and reports, attending to the many businesses and ventures she managed in Seraphina’s name. But she was not blind to Beron’s gaze, nor to the pathetic flickers of admiration in his eyes. She knew her mistress’ charm was like an indiscriminate weapon, and could not fault Beron entirely. Still, his clumsy, unspoken attempts at flirtation were a constant, simmering irritation.

The Palisa Slug did not usually enjoy consuming human flesh.

But for Beron, she could make an exception.