Chapter Four: The Lesson Reversed
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Tutor Halbrecht's polished boots clicked along the corridor tiles as he approached the eastern tower. The summons had arrived at dawn—neat script on vellum, embossed with the imperial crest—ordering him back to instruct "His Highness, Prince Killian." He had nearly tossed it aside, certain some faction of the court had grown bored enough to champion that half-breed wretch. Nevertheless, a man of his station did not refuse an imperial mandate, however distasteful.
Stepping into the walled garden, Halbrecht expected rot and ruin. Instead, he found roses in bloom, prim green shrubs, and a trickling fountain he knew had run dry for years. He paused. This place was supposed to be a prison, yet every stone gleamed; every pathway was swept clean. The air carried the faint sent of jasmine—a luxury the palace kitchens seldom provided.
A small servant girl, Silla, emerged from the tower door, bowing so low her fingertips kissed the cobblestones. Her eyes, wide and hollow, fixed on the ground. "Your Highness awaits in the study, Master Halbrecht." Her voice trembled with an unfamiliar note: terror.
Halbrecht hesitated. His Highness. A sunless prince who'd never merited a title. He sniffed, annoyed, and climbed the winding stone staircase. Torches glowed along each landing, casting dancing shadows on walls scrubbed nearly bare of the mildew he remembered. He thought of every beaten bruise he'd delivered over the years—how the boy shrank each time he raised his strap. No more, the emperor had once declared, no tutor shall tolerate disobedience from that creature.
Yet here he was, summoned again.
The study door swung open at Halbrecht's push, revealing Killian seated at the carved oak desk, shoulders straight, uniform crisp. The boy's black hair was combed back, and the golden eyes—the same eyes that had haunted Halbrecht's nightmares—lifted with clinical calm.
Halbrecht's hand itched toward the leather strap at his belt. He recalled the first time he'd taught the boy, a half-dozen lifetimes ago. Killian had misread the Latin for "eternal crown," and Halbrecht had cracked the strap so hard across the child's back that he'd collapsed in tears, begging for mercy. In that moment, even the tutor had felt a twinge of guilt—but only for an instant. Half-breed filth deserved no kindness.
"Master Halbrecht," Killian said quietly. "Thank you for coming."
Halbrecht sneered. "Save the pleasantries, bastard. We have wasted months." He flicked his strap.
Instead of cowering, Killian gestured to the chair across the desk. "Sit."
Shock froze Halbrecht's tongue. This was not how these meetings went. He glanced at Silla on the threshold—her knuckles white around the doorframe—and back at the boy. An order from a child. Impossible.
Halbrecht sank into the chair, leather protesting under his weight. He tried to regain the upper hand. "Let us begin," he snarled. "Translate this passage from the Codex of Sovereigns." He tossed a parchment across the desk.
Killian's hand closed around it with ease. He read a line, murmured an answer—and then corrected Halbrecht's own transcription. "You omitted the footnote on Tax Law Revision VII, Section three. The correct translation demands 'levy' not 'tribute.'"
Halbrecht's heart thundered. No pupil had ever caught his mistake. "You—"
Killian's gaze shifted, cool as marble. "Do you understand why I called you here?"
The tutor found his voice. "To learn basic court protocol."
"Wrong," Killian said softly. "To correct your arrogance."
His tutor's whipping strap lay on the desk. Halbrecht touched it reflexively. Memories flashed behind his eyes: the boy's little bruised hands, ten years old and trembling; the towers of exile where Killian had once begged for scraps; the nights he'd spent shivering, afraid to sleep because any slumber invited another murder attempt. In each of those lifetimes, Halbrecht had been one among many who'd inflicted pain without consequence.
Now, the student would become the teacher.
Within moments, the strap was in Killian's hand. He rose, looping it once around Halbrecht's wrist. The tutor's scream was immediate and hoarse when Killian cracked the leather across his own shoulders. The strike was controlled—precise enough to draw blood without incapacitating him.
"Lesson One," Killian whispered, "is that cruelty begets power." He pulled the strap again. Time slowed. Every crack echoed in the hush of the study. Halbrecht's back grew hotter, drenched. On the third strike, the tutor's mind reeled—not from pain, but from the horror of losing control.
Halbrecht collapsed forward, chest heaving. He tasted blood and bile. Through the haze, he saw Killian's face close to his, golden eyes shining with grim satisfaction. "You believed yourself above me," the boy said. "That my blood meant nothing. That I was less than scum."
Halbrecht tried to speak, but only a strangled wheeze emerged.
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Killian lingered in the study doorway for a moment, savoring the chaos of Halbrecht's ruin. The tutor's ragged breaths echoed off the polished walls, his trembling form half-slumped on the floor. Golden light from the open window danced across the boy-prince's serene features, illuminating the faint curve of pleasure on his lips.
Yet even as the tutor whimpered, Killian found the moment growing thin. His amusement flickered, replaced swiftly by a cool, detached boredom. With a soft exhale—part sigh, part chuckle—he stepped forward.
"Enough."
He snapped his fingers once. In an instant, the room reversed itself: bloodstains dissolved into pale marble, the tutor's broken chair remended, shattered parchments restored. Not a speck of crimson remained. The air smelled faintly of lavender and dust-polish.
Halbrecht huddled against the desk, eyes wide, skin pale as chalk. Killian approached, boots silent on the gleaming floor. He crouched, placing one hand lightly on the tutor's shoulder.
"A final warning," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Speak of today to no one. Not a whisper. Understand?"
The tutor's body shook, wet tracks of tears glittering on his cheeks. He managed a strangled nod, lips moving soundlessly. At the sight of Killian's hand tightening on his shoulder, he began to shiver uncontrollably, terror wreathed in relief.
Killian straightened and looked to the door. "Fetch Mirelle, and have her ready tea and pastries in the garden. I will be there shortly." He paused, then added, "You—" he nodded at Halbrecht, "—are dismissed. Be back at your usual hour tomorrow. Don't be late."
Halbrecht tried to rise but collapsed again, his mind reeling. Killian turned to Silla, standing like a statue in the corner, and leveled her with a calm gaze. "See Master Halbrecht to his carriage," he instructed. "Your duties here are done for the day."
Silla's knees wobbled, but she nodded and darted to the tutor's side. With trembling arms, she helped him to his feet and guided the ruined scholar out of the study, past scrubbed corridors and through the vibrant garden gate. Killian watched them go, the soft clink of carriage harnesses behind them, the flurry of skirts as Mirelle hurried away to prepare his tea.
Alone once more, he inhaled the scent of fresh blooms and warm stone. A small, satisfied smile curved his lips. He brushed a lock of hair from his eyes, then turned toward the garden path, already anticipating the next game.
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