He had spent his entire life being told that his handwriting was too messy, his words were too crude, and his poetry lacked royal grace.
But this terrifying woman—the same woman who had twisted his wrist and body-slammed him with dark magic—was looking at him like he was a military genius.
"You... you actually like it?" the prince asked, his voice entirely devoid of its usual tyrannical arrogance. He just sounded like a confused, exhausted kid.
"I don't just like it, Your Highness. I am keeping it," Heena said, neatly folding the paper and tucking it into her leather cloak. "It shows that you are finally beginning to think outside the rigid, useless boxes the civil scholars trapped you in. In a real war, the enemy will not always attack you with poetry and grace. Sometimes, they will hit you like a brass carriage."
She stood up, towering over the desk.
"Lesson over," Heena declared, tapping the desk one last time with her riding crop.
