Knowledge Is Power: The Last Reader

Osmund’s estate came into view around midmorning, and Milo felt an odd, hollow lurch in his chest at the sight of it.

This was the hidden place where his journey had begun.

The quiet estate tucked away from the eyes of the world. The place nobody knew about. The place where everything had started.

For a moment, the sight of it felt strangely unreal.

Too familiar.

Too distant.

Osmund himself came down to the docks to meet them, reaching the gate of his estate before the Lion had even finished dropping anchor offshore. One look at his face told Milo everything he needed to know about how the intervening days had actually gone.

"You’re early," Osmund said the moment Milo’s boots hit the dock, his voice somewhere between relief and open panic. "You’re early. The bird only arrived three days ago. I’ve barely had time to—"

His eyes slid past Milo’s shoulder.

His expression changed.

Several longboats were already ferrying a substantial portion of Hollow Tide’s crew toward shore. Several pirates were singing at the tops of their lungs, while two others appeared to be wrestling over possession of a fish whose significance nobody had yet explained.

Osmund stared.

"Those," he said slowly, "are considerably more pirates than I was led to expect from a letter that simply said she’s coming."

"In fairness," Milo said, "I wrote that letter while running for my life from a very persuasive woman who doesn’t believe in planning ahead."

"I sent the letters," Osmund said, dragging a hand down his face. He was visibly recalibrating everything he’d rehearsed saying over the last few days. "All three thousand of them. Every warlord, every rogue sect leader, every reclusive powerhouse worth naming. They’re out there now, Loof, doing whatever three thousand insulted, provoked, dangerous people do when they receive a letter suggesting the King personally called them a jumped-up back-alley knife merchant."

He paused.

"We won’t know for weeks whether any of it actually catches. Possibly months."

His eyes moved toward the approaching pirates.

"Possibly days."

Another pause.

"Possibly today."

He gestured weakly toward the longboats.

"That was the entire plan. Patient. Quiet. Watch the fires we’ve already lit and see which ones actually spread."

One of the pirates on the nearest boat suddenly stood and began waving a fish over his head.

Osmund closed his eyes.

"This," he said, "was not part of the plan."

Milo glanced toward the approaching crew.

"She doesn’t wait well."

"I am gathering that, yes."

They stood together for a moment, watching Hollow Tide’s crew come ashore.

Some carried crates.

Others carried barrels.

One carried what appeared to be an entire roast pig over his shoulders.

A few were already arguing over which part of Osmund’s estate they intended to explore first.

Hollow herself came last, wading through the final stretch of shallows with her boots held triumphantly above her head. She was already shouting something about needing to see the "fancy house" immediately, with roughly a third of her crew following behind her like enthusiastic ducklings.

Osmund watched them disappear up the beach.

"The training plan," he said quietly.

Milo looked at him.

"It’s dead, isn’t it?"

"There is not a version of this where I get three more months to grind quietly in some border marsh while she waits patiently for permission to attack a King."

"No," Milo agreed. "There isn’t."

Osmund exhaled, long and slow.

Something in his posture shifted.

Not defeat.

Something more practical.

The specific, brisk recalibration of a man who had spent twenty years learning how to build new plans out of the wreckage of old ones.

"Then we adapt," he said.

He straightened.

"Come. I have something that might help, given that our carefully planned timeline has apparently collapsed from eventually to immediately."

---

What followed was, by Milo’s own admission, one of the more surreal afternoons of either life he currently remembered living.

A full pirate crew had been unleashed inside a wealthy merchant’s estate with absolutely no framework in place for managing the collision.

Hollow Tide discovered the kitchen within the first ten minutes.

She declared, loudly and to nobody in particular, that Osmund’s cook was "wasted on nobles" and deserved to sail with "real people who actually appreciate good food."

The cook, rather than being offended, seemed genuinely flattered.

She spent the next hour feeding an increasingly enormous crowd of pirates while simultaneously fielding a marriage proposal from the one-legged woman Milo recognized from the beach party.

Three separate crewmates got into an argument over whether Osmund’s ornamental fountain counted as "the sea" for the purposes of a swimming contest.

They resolved the argument by simply having the contest.

The fountain survived.

Barely.

One garden statue did not.

It ended up floating face-down in the water, wearing a pirate hat that nobody admitted putting there.

Someone found the wine cellar.

Someone else found the good wine cellar, hidden behind a false shelf Milo suspected only Bhaltair had known about.

The resulting celebration lasted long enough that Osmund eventually gave up trying to intervene and simply poured himself a glass, watching the destruction unfold with the weary resignation of a man who had accepted that his home was no longer technically his.

"I am going to be finding sand in this house for a decade," he told Milo, watching two pirates attempt to teach his household staff a drinking song with lyrics unsuitable for polite company.

He paused.

"Literal sand. I will die an old man, and whoever inherits this estate will still be finding sand in places that should never contain sand."

"You could ask them to leave," Milo offered.

Osmund stared at him.

"I could."

A pirate somewhere outside screamed triumphantly.

Osmund took another drink.

"I have made my peace with the fact that this is no longer an option."

"You invited them."

"she invited herself."

He pointed toward the ceiling.

"The rest appears to have been a package deal."

Milo almost smiled.

Almost.

It was Bhaltair who eventually found him in the relative quiet of the study.

He closed the door behind him, shutting out most of the chaos with visible relief.

"He wants to show you something," Bhaltair said, jerking his head toward the far shelf. "Before this entire house is permanently claimed by the sea."

Osmund was already waiting beside his desk.

Three fresh manuscripts lay across the polished surface, arranged with the same careful, obsessive precision he applied to everything.

"The Marches were meant to buy you months," he said.

Milo stepped closer.

"Time to grind your stats the honest, slow way. That plan’s gone. I understand that now."

Osmund sighed.

"I’ve made my peace with it faster than I expected to, mostly because I no longer see a version of events where anyone successfully explains the concept of patience to that woman."

He tapped the first book.

"So instead, I spent every spare hour since your bird arrived doing the only other thing I know how to do."

Milo raised an eyebrow.

"Buying you shortcuts."

Something in Milo’s chest lifted despite the chaos still audible through the study door.

Osmund opened the first manuscript.

"Barrier Ward. Defensive. Not glamorous, but it’ll hold against considerably more than your current shield does. More importantly, it shouldn’t cost you a nosebleed every time you overcast it."

Milo glanced at him.

"I don’t do that every time."

Osmund gave him a look.

"You absolutely do."

He moved to the second book.

"Battle Trance. A Warrior discipline, technically outside your usual wheelhouse. Fortunately, your Strength clears the requirement now after the Marches."

Milo’s interest sharpened.

"Effect?"

"Slows your perception of time without slowing your body to match."

Osmund shrugged.

"According to the description, it should feel rather like everyone else has suddenly become slightly stupid and slow."

Milo smiled faintly.

"Useful."

"Potentially."

Osmund placed his hand on the third manuscript.

Unlike the others, it was bound in dark, unassuming leather.

He set it down with considerably more care.

"And this one," he said, "I nearly lost an eye acquiring."

Milo looked up.

"Dispel."

The humor vanished from Osmund’s face.

"It strips active magical effects from a target. Buffs. Curses. Ongoing compulsions."

His eyes met Milo’s.

"And, according to the merchant who nearly killed me acquiring it, things rather like a certain hereditary Talent that likes to bind a man by his own name."

Milo went very still.

"You found something."

"I found something that might work."

Osmund’s voice became careful.

"I make no promises. But given that our timeline apparently no longer includes months of preparation, I thought you’d rather have an unproven chance than none at all."

Milo stared at the book.

The King’s ability.

The Claim.

The thing that had turned Loof’s life into a cage.

The thing Milo knew could be resisted—but only because whatever had happened to him had somehow left him outside the rules everyone else was forced to obey.

And now...

Maybe there was another way.

Milo placed his palm against the cover.

Knowledge flowed.

Quiet.

Complete.

The spell entered his mind like a door opening.

Then, from somewhere beyond the study door, came the unmistakable sound of Hollow Tide’s entire crew attempting to sing a sea shanty in a language none of them actually spoke.

Milo closed his eyes.

"For what it’s worth," he said, "I really am sorry about the fountain."

"The fountain," Osmund said, pouring himself a second, considerably fuller glass of wine, "is currently the least of my concerns."

He took a drink.

"Go collect your captain, Loof, before she discovers the stables. I’ve grown rather attached to my horses, and I’d like to keep them alive for a while longer."

Milo looked at him.

Then toward the distant sound of pirates laughing somewhere outside.

"Not gonna lie," he said, "the horses might buy us some time before she does something stupid. I’ll stay out of it."

Osmund’s head snapped toward him.

"Absolutely not."

Milo blinked.

"Those poor horses did nothing wrong."

"They’re not going to be eaten."

"I didn’t say—"

"I know that look."

Osmund pointed accusingly toward the door.

"She’ll see the horses, she’ll decide they’re wonderful, she’ll want to play with them, and somehow I’ll end up with a horse in my library."

Milo laughed.

Actually laughed.

"Don’t worry."

He started toward the door.

"She’s a kind soul."

Osmund stared at him.

Milo paused and glanced back.

"Just feed her well before she gets the chance to play with the horses."

Osmund’s expression went completely blank.

Then he slowly raised his glass.

"That," he said, "is the first sensible thing you’ve said all afternoon."

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