Knowledge Is Power: The Last Reader

The King slept like the dead.

It was, Aria reflected, probably the most peaceful sleep he’d had in years. He’d taken a bath at Boddly’s quarters—a long, luxurious soak that had turned the water a concerning shade of pink—and then collapsed into the first bed he’d seen without even bothering to check for assassins.

"Should we post a guard?" Web had asked, hovering nervously by the door.

Payro Mance had simply shaken his head and taken up a position in the corner. His presence alone was enough. Anyone foolish enough to try anything would find themselves dead before they’d taken three steps into the room.

"He doesn’t even care if someone kills him," Aria observed, watching the King’s chest rise and fall in the steady rhythm of deep, dreamless sleep.

CORRECT, Payro spelled in smoke. BUT I DO.

"Because you’re a professional."

BECAUSE I’M A PROFESSIONAL, the smoke confirmed. AND BECAUSE HE’S FINALLY STARTING TO BE INTERESTING.

Aria snorted. "That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever heard."

Payro Mance shrugged, the gesture somehow conveying deep satisfaction.

---

The King woke the next morning to breakfast in bed.

A tray appeared at his bedside—fresh bread, butter, honey, a selection of cheeses, and a pot of steaming tea that smelled like it had been imported from somewhere far more civilized than this kingdom. There was also a letter, folded neatly and sealed with a small, nondescript wax stamp.

He stared at the tray for a long moment, as if unsure what to do with it.

"Breakfast," he said slowly. "In bed. For me."

"Boddly insisted," Web said from the doorway, where he’d been hovering with the anxious energy of a man who was still adjusting to the fact that he hadn’t been murdered yet. "He said you deserved to sleep in and have a proper meal when you woke. I tried to tell him you might not be used to this sort of treatment, but he just... kept insisting. He’s very insistent. It’s one of his more endearing qualities."

The King picked up the letter and broke the seal with a careful, almost reverent touch. He read it once, then again, his expression shifting through several complicated stages.

"It says," he said slowly, "that what is wrong in this world is not me. It’s the world itself."

He looked up at Web, his eyes slightly unfocused. "That’s deep. That’s really deep. I didn’t expect the ghoul to be deep. I expected him to be... you know. Ghoulish."

"He’s very deep," Web agreed. "He’s been forced to read a lot, you see. His father kept him locked up most of the time, so he had nothing to do but read and think. He’s read entire libraries. He’s very philosophical."

"Philosophical." The King looked back at the letter. "The ghoul is philosophical. The ghoul I was going to punch to death. He’s philosophical and he’s giving me breakfast in bed and he’s telling me I’m not the problem." He laughed, a short, disbelieving sound. "This is not how I expected this week to go."

"Life is full of surprises," Web offered.

"I hate surprises."

"I know. That’s what makes it so funny."

---

By the time the King emerged from his quarters, bathed, dressed, and looking almost human again, the party was already in full swing.

"Party?" the King repeated, stopping dead in the doorway. "There’s a party? Why is there a party?"

"Boddly insisted," Web said for what felt like the hundredth time. "He said you deserved a celebration. He’s very good at organizing parties, apparently. His father forced him to organize dozens of them—all horrible, decadent affairs full of corrupt nobles and terrible decisions. So now he knows exactly how to do the opposite."

The party was... surprisingly nice.

There were banners and streamers, all in tasteful colors. There was music—a string quartet playing something light and cheerful. There were tables laden with food, real food, the kind that hadn’t been poisoned or tainted or otherwise compromised. And there were people, dozens of them, all of them smiling and laughing and genuinely, uncomplicatedly happy.

The King blinked. "Who are all these people?"

"Mostly children," Aria said, appearing at his elbow with a glass of something bubbly. "Children of the people you killed yesterday. Turns out being evil doesn’t make you a great father. Who knew?"

The King stared at her. "Their fathers were—I killed their fathers. Yesterday. And they’re... celebrating?"

"Turns out most of them hated their fathers as much as Boddly hated his. I guess that’s the thing about being a power-hungry monster—you don’t really have time for quality parenting." She took a sip of her drink and shrugged. "Also, Boddly’s been doing some outreach. He’s a very persuasive ghoul."

The King looked around the room again, seeing it with new eyes. The people who’d been laughing and dancing and enjoying themselves were orphans now. Orphans whose fathers had been monsters, but orphans nonetheless. And they were having the time of their lives.

He didn’t know how to process that.

"Gifts," Boddly announced, appearing at his other side with a radiant smile. "You need to open the gifts. That’s the best part. People went to a lot of trouble for you. You’ll hurt their feelings if you don’t."

"Gifts," the King repeated, his voice faint. "There are gifts. For me. Because it’s—" He stopped, a horrible suspicion dawning. "Is it my birthday?"

"Yes!" Boddly beamed. "Happy birthday!"

"I don’t know when my birthday is," the King said, his voice climbing slightly in pitch. "I’ve never celebrated it. I don’t even know if I’m actually—"

"Your mother kept excellent records," Web said gently. "I found them in the archives. It’s definitely your birthday. You’re thirty-four today."

The King stared at him. "My mother kept records? My mother, who died when I was barely old enough to remember her?"

"Very detailed records," Web confirmed. "She was quite organized. You take after her, apparently."

"I’ve never had a birthday party before," the King said. His voice cracked on the last word. "Not once. Not ever. My brothers used to mock me for not knowing when I was born. They said I must have been found in a cabbage patch. A particularly ugly cabbage patch."

"Your brothers were complete bastards," Aria said cheerfully. "We’ve established this. Now open your presents."

---

The first gift was a set of riding gloves, made of soft leather and lined with fur. The King held them up, turning them over in his hands with something that might have been wonder.

"They’re practical," he said. "I can use these. I will use these."

The next gift was a book—a rare edition of a historical text he’d been trying to find for years. He stared at it, his mouth slightly open.

"How did you know I wanted this?" he asked Boddly.

"I asked Web," Boddly said simply. "He said you’d mentioned it once, years ago. I remembered."

The King’s throat tightened. "You remembered. Because I mentioned it once. Years ago."

"Of course. Web has a really good memory." Boddly smiled, unbothered. "Open the next one."

The gifts kept coming.

A set of jeweled cufflinks. A new crown, less ostentatious than the one he’d inherited, more in line with his personal taste. A painting of the kingdom’s countryside done in beautiful, painstaking detail. A cloak made from the softest wool he’d ever felt.

The King opened each one with increasing disbelief. He tried to be cool about it, tried to maintain the detached, unbothered facade he’d perfected over years of being overlooked and unwanted.

He failed completely.

"Oh my god," Aria whispered to Payro Mance. "He’s crying."

I KNOW, the smoke spelled. IT’S ADORABLE.

"I’m not crying," the King said, his voice cracking. "I’m just—there’s something in my eye. Something very large. Possibly a small animal."

"Of course," Aria said, patting his shoulder. "Happens to the best of us."

"Shut up."

---

The last gift was the smallest.

It was wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a simple string—the humblest offering on the table. The King picked it up, frowning slightly.

"What’s this?"

"Open it and see," Boddly urged. "I think you’ll like it."

The King untied the string and unwrapped the paper with careful, almost reverent hands. Inside was a scroll—simple, unadorned, like something a scholar might use for notes.

He unrolled it.

And stopped breathing.

It was a list. A long, comprehensive list, numbered from 0 to 712. Each entry had a name, a description, and a detailed account of crimes committed. Bribery. Extortion. Embezzlement. Murder. Treason. The list went on and on, each entry more damning than the last.

The King’s hands began to tremble.

"Who," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Who made this?"

"The signature is at the bottom," Boddly said gently. "I know it’s small, but—"

The King flipped to the last page. At the very bottom, in tiny, precise handwriting, was a single word:

Sting.

"Sting," the King repeated. "Who is Sting?"

"No one knows," Boddly admitted. "But they’ve been gathering information on every corrupt noble, every crooked official, every scheming merchant in the kingdom for years. This list is just the beginning—there are more scrolls. Dozens of them. I found them in my father’s belongings, hidden in a compartment he thought was secure."

The King looked at the list again. At the names. At the crimes. At the sheer, overwhelming weight of evidence that had been compiled by someone who hated the kingdom’s corruption as much as he did.

"This," he said, and his voice was thick with emotion, "is the best gift I have ever received."

He didn’t even try to hide it. He clutched the scroll to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world.

"This is better than food. Better than safety. Better than—" He broke off, laughing. "I finally have a list of people I can punch. Legitimate, morally justified people I can punch. People who actually deserve it."

"Happy birthday," Boddly said, beaming.

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