Silas watched the ink drip slowly from his pen as he pondered maybe spilling the inkwell over his notebook.

He could claim it was an accident. That he had been too eager to complete the writing exercises for the day. Then maybe he might be freed from his torture.

He looked up at the grandfather clock in the left corner of the room. It was half past 11 in the morning. 

He glanced at the empty seats of the other desks in the room. His brothers had already completed their work well before him, eagerly bounding out of the room after having gained their freedom. Today was important to them.

“They never apply themselves,” he grumbled disapprovingly.

He paused. There were worse places he could be right now.

 “You have done this before Silas. You asked for this,” he chided to himself, once again attempting to attack his work.

His brother’s exercises were much easier in comparison to his. They had already learned a sufficient mastery of language to make them competitors even to the most politically conniving. The continental language Castan was easy enough to learn. But Silas had higher motivation than impressing those in the noble courts or the allure of freeing himself for his leisure. He had asked their tutor Caius to give him extra lessons in Xedda, the language of the ancients. Never mind that it would finally give him a skill where he was better than his brothers, but his hard work would finally let him decipher the parchments he had found hidden in his father’s study.

Silas had a great love of reading, particularly anything that told epic fantasies and adventures, often picturing himself being the one in the role of the lead. It was motivating to him, knowing that the more he studied the more he could visit different worlds. It was something he could keep for himself, something that was undeniably his.

At birth, Silas had been born a bit sicklier than his brothers. He could hold his own in the basics of sword fighting and would often go out on rides with them, but when seasons changed it was almost certain that he would fall ill with something. If he stayed out in the rain too long, sick. If he stayed out in the sun, again, sick. His brothers always poked fun at him for this, calling him “Siras.” His name was similar to the Xeddan word for willow, often also used to describe those more worn or frail. Like branches that swayed easily in the wind. His brothers took full advantage of the similarity and eventually it stuck. He had spent many of his sick hours indoors, and reading became his only escape and comfort when he couldn’t join them.

But this morning’s exercises were proving tougher than he expected. He longed to be able to visit the tale hidden within the frayed pages of the secret parchments. From what he could make our, it was a folklore about an ancient dragon. A tale of evil and grave disaster. 

But to narrate the scenes in his head he needed to overcome the tongue twisters in front of him.

As he stared out into the flower garden from the window to his left, he couldn’t help but feel his current assignment was daunting at best. Caius employed a unique approach to teaching compared to most tutors. He would not tell the boys how to correct their errors outright. Most times his face would remain impassive at their questions. He would occasionally give them thinly veiled hints and simply send them back to their desks until they eventually corrected themselves.

 If he was ever extensively silent, it was a good indication of an incorrect answer. However, he would also rarely praise correct answers. New curriculum would only be taught once they had demonstrated mastery. Silas had heard his brother whispering once that it was reflected in his eyes. That there was a slight change in their maple amber, glinting ever so slightly when he was pleased or when he eased into relaxation. Each of them had murmured in agreement, leaving Silas at a loss. “Wonderful” he had thought, “Another skill I have to work on.” He doubted the notion for a time, but the repeated early release of his brothers from their lessons said otherwise.  

The longer he stared at the notebook with the strange letters and phrases, the more tired he became. “This is hopeless,” Silas sighed under his breath, defeated. As much as he wanted to be better than his brothers, he was beginning to get discouraged. It didn’t seem his brothers struggled as much to learn the things they loved like the sword and the steed as much as he did with languages. And they already excelled in the language as much as was needed for their education.

Just then, a voice spoke from behind him.

“Has the gibberish finally made my master lose it? I hear you talking to yourself again.” 

Silas turned abruptly towards the voice, though he already knew he would find a sly grin plastered on the face of his attendant and best friend, Matthias.

“Perhaps I, Matthias, should help this poor, insane, unfortunate soul. I am an erudite of great reputation, you know.”