Knowledge Is Power: The Last Reader

The King looked at them and said, "Fine. Do it the hard way. See if I care."

And then he started punching.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t strategic. It wasn’t anything like the careful, measured approach Aria had come to expect from him. It was pure, unfiltered violence—the kind of violence that came from years of suppressed frustration finally finding an outlet.

His fist connected with Lord Harwick’s face, and the noble’s head snapped back with a sound like a melon hitting stone. The King didn’t stop. He moved to the next one, and the next, and the next, each punch landing with devastating precision.

Right. Left. Right. Left.

Most of them were ended with one punch. One punch was all it took. The King’s strength, which he’d spent years hiding and apologizing for, was finally unleashed in its full, terrible glory.

And as he did, Aria watched something shift in his expression. The tightness around his eyes eased. The tension in his shoulders relaxed. His jaw, which had been clenched so hard she’d worried he might crack his own teeth, finally loosened.

He was enjoying it.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. He wasn’t just defending himself. He wasn’t just protecting his kingdom. He was enjoying the feeling of destroying them—reducing them to shapes that could never possibly stand again, to rubble and ruin and the kind of permanent silence that no amount of money or power could ever undo.

It felt good.

She could see it in the way he moved, the way his body finally seemed to belong to him. For the first time since she’d met him, he wasn’t holding back. He wasn’t apologizing. He wasn’t trying to be the bigger person.

He was just... being.

And the more his frustration faded, the more frustrated the necromancer standing in the corner became.

Aria had almost forgotten about him—the tall, thin man with the silver tongue who’d been orchestrating the whole thing from the shadows. He’d been watching the King’s rampage with growing alarm, his face cycling through expressions of disbelief, horror, and something that looked suspiciously like fear.

With each noble that fell, the necromancer’s confidence crumbled. His hands, which had been clasped behind his back in a gesture of superior calm, began to tremble. His lips, which had been pressed into a thin line of contempt, began to twitch.

And his silver tongue—the one thing that had made him think he was all that—began to fail him.

He opened his mouth to speak, but only a strangled sound came out. He tried again, and again, and again, each attempt more desperate than the last. The words were there, Aria could see them in his eyes—the smooth, elegant phrases that had convinced dozens of people to betray their King. But they wouldn’t come.

He’d lost his silver tongue. Literally. It had retreated somewhere deep inside his throat, terrified into silence by the sheer, overwhelming weight of the King’s fury.

And then the first punch hit him.

The King’s fist connected with the necromancer’s face, and the man went down like a sack of flour. But the King didn’t stop there. He grabbed the necromancer by the collar, hauled him back up, and delivered a second punch that shattered the upper half of his head like an egg.

Aria looked away. She couldn’t help it. The sound was too much.

When she looked back, the King was staring into the gaping ruin of the necromancer’s skull with an expression of mild curiosity. His fist was still buried somewhere inside the man’s head, and he was poking around like he was searching for something in a particularly messy drawer.

"Funny," he said, his voice conversational. "I thought you lost it. That’s why you stopped talking, right? You lost your silver tongue?" He pulled his hand free, and Aria caught a glimpse of something glistening and metallic between his fingers. "But somehow it’s still there. Right there, at the back of your throat. Guess you just forgot how to use it."

The necromancer’s eyes—the one that was still intact—fixed on the King with a mixture of hatred and despair. What left of his lips moved, forming words that barely made it past the blood in his throat.

"My child," he wheezed. "My child will avenge me."

The King smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was the smile of a man who had stopped caring about being nice.

"Fine," he said. "I’ll go for him too."

And then he finished the job.

---

The King walked out of the hall with the casual stride of a man who’d just finished a particularly satisfying chore. His clothes were splattered with blood. His hands were coated in it. His face was calm, relaxed, almost peaceful.

"Right," he said. "Now where’s the son? What’s his name? Boddly? Something like that?"

Aria stared at him. Payro Mance stared at him. Web, who had been hovering nervously in the corner, stared at him.

"Your Majesty," Web said, his voice high and strained, "I really think we should—"

"Should what? Kill him? That’s what I’m doing. That’s the whole plan."

"But he’s not—I mean, he’s not like his father. He’s actually a decent person. A good person. He doesn’t deserve—"

"I don’t care."

"Your Majesty, please. Just listen for a moment—"

"I said I don’t care." The King was already walking toward the door, his stride purposeful and unyielding. "He’s the necromancer’s son. He’ll want revenge. He’ll come for me eventually. Better to deal with it now, while I’m still in the mood."

Web scrambled after him, his robes flapping. "But he doesn’t want revenge! He hates his father! He’s been trying to get away from him for years!"

"Don’t care."

"He’s also a ghoul! His father turned him into one! Against his will! He didn’t ask for any of this!"

"Really don’t care."

"And he’s not even blood-related! His mother cheated on the necromancer with a traveling merchant! The necromancer doesn’t even know! He thinks Boddly is his son, but he’s not! He’s not even a real necromancer’s son!"

The King stopped walking. Web’s face lit up with hope.

"Your Majesty?"

The King turned to look at him, his expression perfectly blank. "I still don’t care."

Web’s face fell. "But—"

"Look." The King started walking again, his voice rising slightly. "I’ve been holding back my whole life. My whole miserable, pathetic, worthless life. I’ve been the submissive son. The weak son. The son who didn’t deserve anything and was grateful for scraps. And now, for the first time ever, I’m doing something that feels good. I’m punching things. I’m making problems go away. I’m actually, for once in my existence, enjoying myself."

He stopped and turned to face Web, Payro, and Aria, who had all followed him into the corridor.

"So yes, I’m going to kill the necromancer’s son. I’m going to punch him until he stops moving. And then I’m going to find the next person who tried to kill me and punch them too. And I’m going to keep punching until the kingdom is safe or I’m too tired to lift my arms, whichever comes first."

He resumed walking. "Now are you coming with me, or do I have to go alone?"

---

The journey to Boddly’s quarters was a study in contrasts.

The King walked at the front, his strides long and purposeful, his blood-soaked robes billowing behind him like a banner of war. His expression was one of grim determination, the look of a man on a mission.

Behind him, Aria, Payro Mance, and Web followed in various states of distress.

"Your Majesty, please," Web said for the fifteenth time. "I know him. I’ve known him since he was a child. He’s not bad. He’s not even a little bit bad."

"Then why didn’t he stop his father?"

"He tried! He tried dozens of times! His father just—he was too powerful. Too manipulative. Boddly couldn’t—"

"Should have tried harder."

"He’s a ghoul! He’s been a ghoul since he was fourteen. His father turned him because he thought it would make him more obedient. It didn’t work. It just made him miserable for the rest of his undead existence."

"Tragic. Still going to punch him."

Aria fell into step beside Payro Mance, who was walking with his usual silent composure, though she could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Are you enjoying this?" she asked him, keeping her voice low.

Payro Mance considered the question for a moment. Then he produced a single word in smoke: PROFOUNDLY.

"Me too," Aria admitted. "I think I might be a terrible person."

JOIN THE CLUB, the smoke spelled out, followed by a small, cheerful flame that looked suspiciously like a wink.

---

They found Boddly in the eastern tower, sitting in a small, spartan room that looked nothing like the luxurious quarters a necromancer’s son should have had. The furniture was simple, the decorations minimal. There was a single bookshelf filled with well-worn volumes, and a small desk covered in papers and half-finished letters.

Boddly himself was... not what Aria had expected.

He was young—perhaps mid-twenties—with the kind of gaunt, hollow-cheeked appearance that came from a diet of whatever he could scavenge. His skin had the pale, slightly greenish tint of a ghoul, but his eyes were kind. Warm. The kind of eyes that had been used to disappointment so many times that they’d simply stopped expecting anything better.

And when he saw the King standing in his doorway, covered in blood, his first response wasn’t fear.

It was surprise.

"My King," he said, rising from his chair with the kind of automatic respect that came from years of careful training. "I—what brings you here?"

The King didn’t answer. He just walked forward, his fists clenched, his expression resolute.

"My King?" Boddly’s voice was uncertain now, a flicker of something that might have been fear crossing his face. "Is everything all right?"

The King swung.

Boddly moved.

It was faster than anything Aria had ever seen—faster than the Bound Knight’s desperate attacks, faster than the Warren Mother’s thrashing limbs, faster than she would have believed possible from someone who looked so fragile. He ducked under the King’s fist, rolled to the side, and came up in a defensive crouch that spoke of years of practice.

"My King, please," he said, his voice steady despite the sudden violence. "I have no beef with you. If we could simply have a healthy form of communication, I’m sure we can solve whatever problem—"

The King swung again. Boddly dodged again.

"My King, I’m begging you. Just tell me what’s happened. Whatever my father has done, I—"

"He’s dead," Web interjected, stepping into the room. "The King killed him. About ten minutes ago."

Boddly froze. His eyes went wide. His mouth fell open.

"He’s... dead?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"Very dead," Web confirmed. "The King punched him until his head exploded. It was quite graphic, actually."

Boddly stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face—a huge, unrestrained, joyful smile that transformed his gaunt features into something almost beautiful.

"I love you," he said to the King.

The King’s fist, which had been winding up for another punch, froze in mid-air. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"What?"

"I love you," Boddly repeated, his voice overflowing with genuine gratitude. "I’ve been trying to kill my father for years. Decades. I couldn’t do it myself because of some old necromantic bonds, but I’ve been praying—literally praying—for someone else to do it. And you did. You actually did. I can’t even—" He laughed, a sound that was half sob, half exultation. "You have no idea what this means to me. No idea. I’m free. I’m finally free."

The King’s arm lowered slowly. His face, which had been set in grim determination, was now cycling through expressions at a dizzying rate.

"I just... I can’t believe it. You actually killed him." Boddly crossed the room and grabbed the King’s hands before he could pull them away. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I will never, ever forget this. I will serve you for the rest of my existence, and I have a very long existence ahead of me. I will—"

"Wait, stop." The King pulled his hands free, holding them up in a gesture of surrender. "You’re not angry?"

"Why would I be angry? He tortured me. He turned me into this—" he gestured at his own gaunt form, "—and then kept me locked in this tower for years. The only time he let me out was when he needed me to do his dirty work. I hated him. I’ve been hating him since I was fourteen years old."

The King stared at him. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"So you’re not going to try to avenge him?"

"I’m going to throw a party. A huge party. Do you like parties? I can organize a party. I’m very good at organizing things. I had to be, to survive around him. I can—"

"I punched your father’s head into pieces."

"And I love you for it. Genuinely. Completely. You’ve given me the greatest gift of my existence."

The King took a step back. Then another. His face had gone pale, which was quite an achievement given the amount of blood currently decorating it.

"Your Majesty?" Aria asked, stepping forward. "Are you all right?"

"I need a moment," the King said, his voice faint. "I just—I need a moment."

He turned and walked to the window, staring out at the gray sky. His shoulders, which had been so square and confident moments before, were now hunched. His hands, which had been so steady, were trembling.

"I just killed an entire hall full of people," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I came here to punch a man to death. A man who I thought was going to be my enemy. A man who was supposed to hate me. And instead, he said—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "He said he loved me."

The silence stretched.

"I think," Aria said carefully, "that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to you."

The King turned to look at her, and his eyes were wet.

"I don’t know how to process this," he said. "I really, genuinely don’t. I came here to do violence. I was going to feel good about it. It was going to solve all my problems. And now I have a ghoul who loves me and wants to throw me a party, and I—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I don’t know what to do with that."

"Maybe," Web said, stepping forward carefully, "you could just... not punch him? And see how that feels?"

The King was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Fine," he said. "No punching Boddly."

"Excellent decision," Boddly said, beaming. "Now, about that party—"

"Web," the King said, his voice carrying a note of desperation, "make the ghoul stop. I’m begging you. I’ve been told I was loved for the first time in my entire existence, and it was by a ghoul. A ghoul I was going to punch to death. I’m having a crisis of faith here, Web. A full crisis. Do something."

Web patted his shoulder awkwardly. "There, there. It’ll be okay."

"It won’t be okay. Nothing will ever be okay again. I’m going to be haunted by this moment until the day I die."

"Think of it this way," Aria offered, trying to be helpful. "At least you have a ghoul who loves you. That’s more than most Kings can say."

The King stared at her.

"That," he said, "is the opposite of helpful."

Aria shrugged. "I’m a cook’s daughter. Wisdom isn’t really my department."

Payro Mance produced a single word in smoke: CONTEXT.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

YOU ARE NOT STUPID, the smoke spelled out, painfully slowly, YOU JUST WORK WITH WHAT YOU HAVE.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

YES, the smoke confirmed. IT IS.

The King opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. Then, without warning, he started laughing.

It wasn’t a nice laugh. It was hysterical, unhinged, the laugh of a man who had reached the absolute limits of his sanity and decided to just keep going. He laughed until tears streamed down his face, until his sides ached, until he had to grab the windowsill to keep from collapsing.

Aria watched him, something shifting in her chest. He looked absurd—blood-soaked and hysterical, surrounded by the bodies of his enemies and the genuine affection of a ghoul he’d been about to murder.

She should have found it funny. She did find it funny, in a way. But underneath the absurdity, there was something else—something real and raw and heartbreaking.

"Maybe," she said softly, "you could start by just... letting it happen. Letting someone love you without trying to figure out what the catch is. Without assuming you don’t deserve it."

The King stopped laughing. He looked at her, his eyes wet and red-rimmed.

"F*** that," he said. "I’ve spent so long being the unwanted one. The mistake. The third son who wasn’t supposed to exist. I don’t know what it’s like to be wanted."

"Then maybe," Boddly said, stepping forward with that same gentle, earnest expression, "you could let me teach you. The first lesson: ghouls give excellent hugs. It’s the whole ’undead warmth’ thing. Very comfortable. Would you like a hug?"

The King stared at him.

"Absolutely not," he said.

But his voice was softer now. Less certain.

And Aria could have sworn she saw the corner of his mouth twitch—just a little—toward something that might have been a smile.

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