Viola planted her wooden sword into the dirt and crossed her arms, still giving him that sharp, suspicious glare.

“You’re so weird,” she muttered. “Who suddenly decides they want to learn how to teach? Normal people just… learn and fight. Not…” She waved vaguely at him. “…whatever this is.”

Ludger smirked, unbothered. “So, is that a no?”

Viola huffed through her nose, tapping her foot against the ground. After a moment, she sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll ask Luna. She keeps track of everyone who’s ever tutored me. If anyone’s still around, she’ll know how to reach them.”

“That’ll do,” Ludger said with a nod.

Viola leaned closer, frowning. “But don’t blame me if you end up sitting through boring lectures on how to correct posture or pronounce old poems. Teaching isn’t glamorous, you know.”

Ludger’s smirk widened. “Good. If it’s boring, no one will expect me to be interested. Easier that way.”

Viola groaned, dragging her sword free from the ground. “I don’t get you. At all.” But she still turned toward the house. “I’ll talk to Luna later. Don’t make me regret this.”

Ludger watched her go, his grin fading into something sharper. Step one: access. Step two: experience. Step three… the Teacher job.

The plan was already moving.

Later that evening, the house had gone quiet. Lanterns flickered along the hallways, the faint smell of oil and steel hanging in the air. Ludger lingered outside the training.

“…he’s up to something,” Viola’s voice drifted from around the corner, sharp as always. “Don’t ask me what, but he’s plotting again.”

Luna’s reply came calm and measured, like she’d been carved from stone. “You think so, My Lady?.”

Viola let out a frustrated growl. “He’s weird. Wants tutors, of all things.”

“I see,” Luna said. Footsteps shifted, closer now. “I still keep the records from your training. Some instructors have retired, others moved. A few still take noble students for coin or reputation. Do you want me to approach them?”

“Yes,” Viola muttered. “But—make it sound like it’s for me. Not him. If it’s for Ludger, they’ll laugh in my face. Well, he said that he only wants to have a few lessons, so this won’t be a problem.”

“Understood.”

A few days later, Ludger was in the training yard when the one of Viola’s old instructors arrived.

The man all but stumbled through the gate, missing the last step of the stone path and half-tripping onto the packed dirt. He caught himself with a flail of his arms, papers spilling from the satchel clutched against his chest. Not exactly an inspiring entrance.

He looked to be in his early forties, though the permanent shadows under his eyes and the wild, uncombed hair streaked with gray made him seem older. His scholar’s robe had once been blue, but the fabric was sun-faded and patched at the elbows. Ink stains marked the cuffs, smudged like he’d been using his own sleeves as a handkerchief.

The man’s belt carried no weapon, just a cluster of chalk pieces tied with string, a cracked ink vial corked with a scrap of cloth, and what looked like half of a broken quill. His boots didn’t match—one was a sturdy leather boot, the other a softer shoe clearly meant for indoors.

He adjusted his round spectacles, cracked at one corner, and gave the yard a grand sweep of his gaze, as if he’d arrived to deliver wisdom. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined when his spectacles slipped down his nose, forcing him to shove them back up with a distracted finger.

Ludger frowned. Viola had promised him tutors, and this was what she delivered? A scholar who looked like he’d lost a fight with his own laundry.

Still… unreliable didn’t mean useless. Sometimes the best cracks in the wall let the right kind of schemes slip through.

Viola stood near the edge of the yard, wooden sword resting on her shoulder, watching the man wobble back onto his feet with a grimace. Her cheeks flushed red, but not from training this time.

“…ugh. Of course it had to be him,” she muttered, then raised her voice. “Ludger, don’t laugh.”

Ludger raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “I haven’t said a word.”

“Your face said enough,” she snapped, stomping forward. She cleared her throat with exaggerated formality and gestured at the man, who was still dusting his patched robe like the fall hadn’t happened. “This is Master Yvar. He was my math, language, and history instructor.”

The man—Master Yvar—straightened as much as his crooked posture allowed. His spectacles wobbled dangerously on his nose as he forced a wide, awkward smile. “Ah… Lady Viola, so good to see you again. And this must be…” His eyes settled on Ludger.

What unsettled Ludger wasn’t the gaze itself but the complete lack of surprise behind it. The man studied him like he’d been expecting him here all along, then nodded once as if checking a box on some invisible ledger.

“Ludger, was it?” Yvar said, tone mild, almost absentminded. “Yes. I thought I might find you here.”

Viola frowned. “Wait—how do you even know his name?”

Yvar gave her another strained smile, tugging at the ink-stained cuff of his robe. “Teachers keep track of… promising people, Lady Viola. I also heard about a young boy with Lady Viola in the recent conflicts, a young healer that saved a lot of lives. Considering what I already heard of him, it made sense..”

Ludger frowned back, sharp and suspicious. Promising, huh? Or just convenient timing?

Yvar cleared his throat and bowed stiffly, though the gesture lost dignity when his mismatched boots squeaked against the dirt.

“I am… or was… Instructor Yvar,” he said, voice a little too fast, as though he were catching up to his own words. “Mathematics, languages, and the finer points of historical record. These days, however, I’ve been working as a scribe—translating a few tomes, copying others by commission. Old habits die hard, I suppose. I am also writing a few personal ones.”

He lifted his satchel as if to prove his point, revealing the bulging mess of parchment stuffed inside, edges curling and stained with ink. One corner poked out, scrawled in neat, tight handwriting—proof at least that he could write cleanly, no matter how sloppy the rest of him appeared.

Viola looked mortified. “He used to drill me on declensions and dates until my ears bled. Now he… copies books for coins.” She scowled, but there was a flicker of respect buried under the embarrassment.

Yvar gave her a lopsided grin that never quite reached his tired eyes. “And you remember more of it than you admit, Lady Viola. That’s all an old teacher can ask.”

Ludger watched carefully, arms crossed, weighing the man. The robes were patched, the ink stains fresh, the mind distracted—but his voice carried that peculiar cadence of someone who’d spent years organizing knowledge for others. Scribes were boring to most people. To Ludger, they were potential gatekeepers.

Yvar adjusted his cracked spectacles and looked at him again, that same lack of surprise lingering in his gaze. “And you, young master… you’re not here by accident either, are you?”

Ludger smirked faintly. “Depends. Do accidents usually involve tutors tripping into the yard with half a library in their bag?”

Viola groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”

Ludger tilted his head, studying the man with that fox-like patience that always made Viola itch. “You said you taught her math, language, history. And now you copy books. Fine. But what I want to know is—how did you teach?”

Yvar blinked, thrown by the bluntness. “How… did I…?” He adjusted his spectacles again, buying time.

“Yes,” Ludger pressed. “What makes someone a good teacher? Not just in books. In anything. Fighting, magic, cooking. Whatever.” His tone was calm, deliberate, but his eyes were sharp. “What do you think the basics are?”

Viola groaned loudly, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re seven, no… eight. Who even asks questions like that?”

Yvar, however, did not laugh. His tired eyes actually sharpened, as if the ink-blotted mask had slipped and something keener watched from underneath. He scratched his chin, thoughtful.

“The basics… hm. A good teacher must first know how to break things apart.

 To take a whole—say, a problem of numbers, or a sword form—and cut it into steps that can be grasped one by one.”

He lifted a finger, ticking off points.

“Second, patience. Not the kind where you wait quietly, but the kind where you repeat yourself a dozen times without letting your frustration poison the lesson. Students remember anger more than knowledge.”

Another finger.

“Third, adaptability. No two pupils think alike. Some learn by repetition, others by challenge, others by stories. A teacher who insists on only one road loses half his students.”

He lowered his hand, a faint spark in his gaze now. “And last—humility. The best instructors remember that teaching isn’t about themselves. If the student surpasses them, it means they’ve done their job.”

The yard went quiet for a moment. Viola looked faintly impressed despite herself.

Ludger’s smirk grew slow and deliberate. Break things apart. Patience. Adaptability. Humility. A recipe. And recipes could be followed, twisted, improved. Exactly what he’d needed to hear.

“Interesting,” he said. “Maybe you’re not as clumsy as you look.”

Yvar gave him a dry smile, one corner of his mouth twitching. “And maybe you’re not as much of a child as you look.”

Ludger didn’t blink. He studied the man the same way he studied an opponent’s stance—looking past the shabby robes and nervous ticks to the sharper pieces hidden underneath.

It was obvious, though: he couldn’t act like a child, not convincingly. Even when he tried, it came out stiff, uncanny, almost creepy. Better to lean into what he was—too calculating for eight, too sharp around the edges. And Yvar, unlike most adults, didn’t dismiss it. He was interested.

Suspiciously so.

“You’re not just a scribe,” Ludger said finally. His voice was quiet, level, cutting through the warm breeze. “You said you copy books, but what do you really write in your free time?”

The question landed like a thrown dagger. Yvar froze, hand halfway to adjusting his spectacles. His throat bobbed with a hard swallow, and for a moment his gaze flickered toward the satchel at his side. He tried to look away, but Ludger’s stare pinned him like an insect on a page.

“I…” Yvar coughed, voice low. “I keep notes. Catalogues.”

“Catalogues of what?” Ludger pressed.

“…of the empire’s figures. The noteworthy ones.” His shoulders slumped, as though the words weighed him down once spoken. “I like to trace their lives, their choices. Record their achievements, their failures. I—” He hesitated, then let out the truth in a rush. “I like to guess which of them will leave their mark. Which names will survive a hundred years from now, carved in marble or written in ink.”

Viola’s brows shot up. “You… predict history?”

Yvar winced at her tone but nodded. “It’s a childish indulgence, I know. Scribes aren’t supposed to speculate. We preserve, not predict. But it’s a habit I’ve never shaken.”

Ludger’s smirk was slow, deliberate. So that’s why he wasn’t surprised. He already watches people like pieces on a board. And he thinks I might end up on one of his lists.

The thought didn’t bother him. If anything, it thrilled him. Because if Yvar had already put his name among the empire’s future figures… then he was further along than he realized.

“Not childish,” Ludger said at last. “Useful.”

Yvar looked at him sharply, surprised.

Ludger leaned forward, chin resting on one hand, watching Yvar squirm. “So you catalogue the greats and the soon-to-be-greats, hm? Then tell me something.” His tone sharpened. “Do you actually know as much as you look like you do? Or is it just scribbles in a book?”

Yvar straightened, stung, his spectacles sliding down his nose again. “I know enough to recognize the currents beneath the surface, young master. A scribe records names, but a historian must understand why those names matter.”

“Good,” Ludger said flatly. “Then tell me this: what do you know about the barbarians who attacked the border town? What about the noble houses in the area that didn’t send help?”

The question dropped like a stone in a pond. Viola blinked, looking between them. “Ludger—”

But Yvar’s eyes sharpened in a way that made Ludger’s smirk curl again. The man wasn’t surprised—he was ready.

“They are not a single people,” Yvar began, his tone taking on that lecture cadence. “They call themselves tribes, but in truth they are splinters of older clans, scattered from the northern tundras after their ancestral wars. Half of their strength comes from sheer ferocity; the other half from how quickly they adapt to the lands they raid. They remember grudges longer than they keep warlords.”

He adjusted his satchel, voice lowering. “And as for your second question… which houses failed to send aid—” Yvar glanced at Viola, then back to Ludger, lips pressing thin. “That is… delicate.”

“Delicate doesn’t mean useless,” Ludger said coolly. “Names.”

Yvar hesitated, then gave a quiet sigh, like a man peeling away his own skin. “Very well. The Houses of Ferand, Albrecht, and Doren remained silent. Ferand claimed its levy was still recovering from famine. Albrecht swore its retainers were tied to a wedding pact. Doren…” His mouth twisted faintly. “…Doren simply sent nothing. No excuse given. They gambled that others would bleed in their place.”

Viola’s jaw clenched, anger flashing hot. “Those cowards—”

Ludger, meanwhile, leaned back with a faint, satisfied grin. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You do know things worth writing.”

And more importantly, now Ludger knew Yvar wasn’t just some washed-up tutor. He was a man with eyes on history as it unfolded—and ears sharp enough to catch what most people ignored. Exactly the kind of resource he could use.

Ludger let the silence hang just long enough for Viola’s outrage to cool into muttering. Then he leaned forward again, his tone matter-of-fact.

“How much do you charge for a lesson?”

Yvar blinked, startled. “Pardon?”

“A lesson,” Ludger repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “But not math or history. I want you to give me a full course on how to teach. Everything you just said—breaking knowledge apart, patience, adaptability. I want all of it. I want you to train me to be the kind of teacher who can dissect skills from any field and hand them to others.”

Yvar stared at him like he’d grown horns. Then he gave a short, nervous laugh. “That’s… an unusual request. And a course of that scope would be… extensive. Weeks, perhaps months. You’re certain you wouldn’t rather—”

“How much?” Ludger cut him off, flat as steel. “Let’s make it end in a few weeks as well instead of a few months. I will pay extra.”

The tutor fidgeted, rubbing his ink-stained cuffs. “Lessons for noble children usually range from two to five silver a week, depending on the subject, but—” His brow furrowed. “You’re seven. Do you even have—”

Ludger didn’t bother answering. He slipped a hand into his pocket and let a few coins jingle just loud enough to cut through the evening air. Not coppers. Not even silvers. The glint of gold flashed in the torchlight as his fingers toyed with them, careless and deliberate.

Yvar’s words died on his tongue. His eyes locked on the coins like a starving man on a roast. The tired scholar’s gaze, so worn and cautious moments before, transformed into naked hunger.

“…ah,” Yvar said slowly, throat dry. His smile returned, this time far less awkward. “Well. A tailored course of study… for a pupil with such unusual goals…” His spectacles gleamed as he adjusted them, voice oily with sudden enthusiasm. “I believe we can come to an arrangement.”

Viola groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s actually doing it. He’s buying lectures.”

Ludger smirked, pocketing the coins again before Yvar could start drooling. “Good. Then consider me your student.”

Step two: experience, officially underway.

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