"He's not learning…" Ethan said, frustrated, leaning against a wooden wagon.

  "What happened?" Michel asked from inside the barn, dragging a sack of wheat.

  Hoisting the sack onto his shoulder, he bent forward and tossed it onto the wagon right behind Ethan. The elderly man, wearing a straw hat and a weathered beard, looked at the Duke, waiting for an answer.

  It did not come immediately. Ethan stared at the ground, though he was not truly seeing anything. Then he bit his own lip and took a deep breath.

  "Theo… It's been two years since the private mentor began teaching him, and we've had some considerable progress. But in the last few months, we've noticed certain traits that are becoming quite troubling."

  "Such as?"

  Walking back into the barn, Michel returned with another sack of wheat and threw it onto the wagon once more.

  "He communicates with us, but suddenly he says things that make no sense. Children usually mispronounce words or speak unclearly. But he repeats them perfectly, as if it were a language… Besides that, he doesn't focus on anything. We enrolled him in the Duchy School, and even so, he keeps this behavior…"

  Michel slapped the side of the wagon, abruptly interrupting him.

  Scratching his nose and staring at Ethan, the elder—leader of the village of Midian, the largest agricultural supplier of the Lawrence Duchy—shook his head.

  "Come with me."

  He walked to the front of the cart, where a horse was tied. Taking the reins and sitting on the bench, he waited for Ethan to join him.

  "Agnes is different too."

  As soon as Ethan sat beside him, Michel guided the horse along a dirt road.

  "In a village where men tend wheat and cattle, and women tend the house, Agnes decided she would read. Practically no one in this village reads—but she does… Ever since the Duchess started giving her books, the girl decided she'd rather read than run around and risk getting hurt."

  As they left the barn, sunlight skimmed low across the wheat stalks. A vast field, nearly endless, shining like fire under the sun.

  Lawrence's greatest pride.

  "Unlike Magnum, Anton's daughter's brat. The boy would rather run all day, carry wheat sacks, bricks, open gates for the cattle, than hold a book. I was just like that little pest…" he said nostalgically. "I rode my first horse at five!"

  "Oh, I'm sure you did," Ethan replied, logically doubtful.

  But it was true.

  "Ask the boy anything. You'll see he even gets the simplest word wrong! Ask Agnes something, and it feels like you're speaking to an adult with five degrees…"

  Michel snapped the reins, making the horse pick up its pace slightly.

  "And then there's your wife. A princess from the West, worthy of absolute majesty. But what did she do? Left a golden palace to teach a bunch of ignorant villagers how to read and write…" He sighed as a barn came into view. "We all have our differences. You can't just demand someone improve."

  "You already have Thays. Why are you so afraid about the boy? Because he's male?"

  "Maybe…" Ethan said, distancing himself.

  Ethan's concern had reason.

  Theo did not mispronounce words or invent new ones to memorize. He was communicating in a language that had been in his mind since birth: Egorian.

  Liam Mason's memories had flooded Theo since birth, and the same behaviors reflected in the boy. His lack of attention was a trait of the former Egorian general—too lost in his own arrogance.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The dyslexia was merely overlapping knowledge: while learning a new language, he wrote and communicated in another, something common within his memories.

  Due to his limited development—because he was still a child—Theo could not distinguish that those memories were not his own.

  Ethan sighed at last, accepting the unfairness he was committing.

  "Raising Thays was very easy. She learned to speak early, to set boundaries, to act, to persuade… She had talents from the start," he muttered, hiding his face from Michel.

  Resting his face against his wrist and staring into the distance, he continued:

  "All at the same age as Theo, and without even being a Deviant… You know, Michel… A three-year-old Deviant child should be equivalent to a six-year-old human; our metabolism is accelerated; our bodies are immune to viruses that would kill humans in days. We are, as you say…"

  "To us, you're the closest thing to the ancient gods. But remember, Ethan: the gods we worship today were once men. They had flaws. They weren't born omnipotent or omniscient… They walked the ground just like us; they bled, loved, and sinned before becoming the figures we imagine," Michel said, slowly stopping the wagon.

  The Duke's distant, sullen eyes turned toward Midian's leader.

  "You get lost in that thinking," Michel stated, displeased, tying the horse to a wooden post ahead. "You're not gods. Not even demigods. You're men and women… Proof of that is that you bleed and are just as sentimental as we mere humans. You live centuries? Millennia? Congratulations."

  Walking around and leaning against a wooden beam before Ethan, he faced him with minimal deference.

  "But as long as you think of yourselves as beings born to protect, you'll never enjoy everything this life has to offer."

  "And what does this life have to offer people destined for ruin since birth?" Ethan asked, utterly hopeless.

  Michel felt nothing but sadness.

  "A young man like you making that face… Honestly, boy… You're quite dramatic."

  "What?"

  "What?" Michel repeated mockingly, twisting his expression. "I'm seventy. Twice your age and then some. I never dared make that face even when there was nothing on the table!"

  Grabbing an old rag from his shoulder, Michel snapped it against Ethan's leg. Though it did not hurt physically, the Duke accepted it as paternal correction.

  Nodding as if issuing an order, the village leader forced Ethan off the wagon.

  "Where's the boy? I'll handle this for you. Now do me the favor of bringing more money!"

  Ethan watched as Michel climbed onto the wagon where the wheat bundles were stacked. As he frowned in confusion, the elder looked back at him.

  Adjusting his straw hat, Michel stuck out his tongue at Ethan in an exaggerated bleh. It was a brazen judgment.

  "A trade of favors, sir," he said, voice straining with effort as he heaved a sack of wheat onto his shoulders and set it at the wagon's edge, waiting for the Duke to take it. "Just leave it to the man here. The rest is for you, divine lord."

  "What do you suggest, then?" Ethan asked, lifting the bundle onto his shoulders.

  As he walked into the barn, he heard Michel say:

  "You live about twenty minutes from the Duchy's capital. The solution for the boy is obvious…"

  Placing another sack on the beam, he waited for Ethan to grab it. The sun struck his back; his shirt clung with sweat.

  "Bring him here every day, if possible. The Duchy's children are all spoiled, just like you're treating him. If you want him to be a respectable man who surpasses his own limits, then this place—where no one is like him—is the best in the entire world."

  "Are you sure?" Ethan stared at Michel while lifting another sack, weighed down by guilty doubt. "You yourself said… We're like the ancient gods. If Theo strays in his ideals and ends up—"

  "Hurting someone? I already told you, Ethan. You're not gods. To me? At least you're heroes. Just idiots with power who think they're the center of the world…"

  "So I'm a nobody to you?" Ethan asked, leaning against the barn gate.

  Michel looked at him—disbelieving, tired, yet surprised.

  "No…" he answered, panting after another effort. "You're a strong man… The strongest my inferior eyes have ever seen. But at the same time, you're the man who puts money in my pocket. So your strength is useless here."

  "When you need my strength and I save you… won't I be your hero?" he said ironically, a childish smile on his face.

  "Don't get me wrong. I'll be eternally grateful… But you won't be my hero," Michel affirmed, sitting on the wagon's beam and placing a hand on his back.

  Feeling discomfort, Michel stretched, grunting in pain.

  "Anyway…" he said after noticing Ethan's morbid expression. "Where's the boy? I'll take care of him for you."

  "At the palace…" Ethan said, distant and reflective, staring at the ground.

  Adjusting himself, Michel stepped down from the wagon and stretched, body aching.

  "So… he's far from any real people…" he said, circling the wagon and reaching for another sack of wheat. "Come on! Take me to the lad. I'll let him break an arm… Scrape his knee running on stones; learn how to curse…"

  "Absolutely not," Ethan retorted, hesitating.

  In silence, Michel cast a judgmental look. The elder, visibly tired as he carried the sack, tossed the bundle toward the Duke and dusted off his clothes.

  "I will," he shot back, arms crossed.

  Ethan thought quickly, looking foolish. Then, after a few seconds, he realized something: why was he working in place of the villagers?

  The Duke's mind clicked.

  "Hey!" Michel complained after Ethan tossed the bundle back.

  "As you said, I'm the one who puts money in your pocket. The one who should work is you, not me!"

  Ethan dusted off his clothes and walked away, leaving Michel alone.

  "Lazy boss…" Michel muttered.

  "What was that?" Ethan growled, turning around.

  "Blah, blah, blah! Come on! Take me to the boy!"