The Smart Boy and the Fool

"The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook."

— William James

———

Vance was everything the novel had described—sandy hair carefully styled to appear effortlessly perfect, brown eyes that held the entitlement of someone born knowing the world owed him deference, a jaw that spoke of generations of noble breeding. His stance was textbook perfect, learned from the finest tutors money could buy, and his equipment bore the subtle marks of master craftsmanship that probably cost more than what most commoners earned in a year.

None of which mattered to Blackthorne, who had barely glanced at him before moving on with a dismissive grunt. The professor's ice-blue eyes showed no more interest in Vance's pedigree than they would in yesterday's bathwater.

"Commoner trash," Vance muttered, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, his lips barely moving. "Probably learned to fight by brawling with pigs in some backwater mud pit."

Rhys's shoulders stiffened visibly, the muscles beneath his worn academy uniform tensing like coiled wire, but he didn't respond.

There it is. The opening move in a game that ends with Rhys dead in eighteen days. Just like the novel described, right down to the pig comment. These characters are so predictable it's almost disappointing.

Blackthorne finished his inspection with a disgusted snort and returned to the front of the group, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the training yard. "Pathetic. Utterly pathetic. Half of you stand like scarecrows stuffed with straw, the other half like you're posing for a family portrait. Combat is not an art form—it's a conversation conducted in violence, and most of you are illiterate babbling infants."

He gestured to a rack of wooden practice weapons along the courtyard's edge with one scarred hand. "Pair off. Find someone roughly your own size and try not to embarrass your entire bloodline in the first five minutes. We'll start with basic attacks and work our way up to something that might charitably be called 'fighting' if I squint and suffer a severe head injury beforehand."

The scramble for partners began immediately, a chaotic dance of nervous glances and tentative approaches. Fen, predictably, claimed the largest available opponent—a thick-necked boy from one of the minor merchant houses who looked like he might have been raised on a diet of raw meat and river stones. Marcus paired with Theron, both looking visibly relieved to find someone who wouldn't try to prove their worth by leaving permanent bruises. Mira found another shy girl to practice with, their mutual terror creating its own peculiar form of battlefield camaraderie as they exchanged anxious smiles.

I hung back deliberately, playing the part of the boy too nervous to make the first move, watching as the pairs formed and reformed around me like a complex chemical reaction. My eyes tracked Vance Thorne who, as expected by anyone who'd read chapter twelve of "Heirs of the Azure Orb," made a direct predatory approach toward Rhys.

"Blackwood, isn't it?" Vance's voice carried the particular brand of false friendliness that preceded most social murders. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Vance Thorne, House Thorne."

Rhys turned, his expression carefully neutral. "Rhys Blackwood. No house."

"Ah, yes. I heard about your family's... situation. Terrible business, that. Still, I'm sure you'll find your proper level here at the academy." The words dripped with poisonous sympathy. "Perhaps we could spar together? I'd be happy to show you some proper techniques."

The trap was beautifully laid. Refuse, and Rhys would appear cowardly in front of the entire class. Accept, and Vance would have the perfect opportunity to demonstrate the vast gulf between noble training and commoner desperation. Either way, Rhys would be marked as weak, isolated, vulnerable.

Not today.

I stumbled forward, nearly tripping over my own feet in an impressive display of clumsiness. "Oh! Excuse me, I was just—Rhys, right? I was wondering if you might... that is, would you mind terribly if we partnered up? I'm afraid I'm rather hopeless at this sort of thing, and you seem like you might be patient with someone who's, well..."

I let the sentence trail off, hanging unfinished between us, and offered a sheepish, awkward smile that communicated everything about my presumed incompetence without needing to actually voice it. The gesture was calculated to perfection—not too dramatic to seem false, just pathetic enough to be believable. A performance refined through countless humiliations, real and staged.

Vance's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, the muscles around his jaw tightening as he watched his meticulously planned social assassination evaporate before him. I could practically see the thoughts racing behind those cold eyes—the careful positioning, the witnesses he'd strategically gathered, the rumors he'd planned to spread afterward—all rendered useless by my bumbling intervention.

But he was trapped by the very social constraints he'd hoped to weaponize. To object now would make him appear petty and cruel, targeting not just a commoner but also the academy's most notorious failure. It would transform his elegant power play into something ugly and obvious, beneath the dignity of a true noble.

Rhys looked between us, reading the subtext with the sharp intelligence that had caught Blackthorne's attention. "Of course. I'd be happy to help."

"Excellent!" I beamed at him with the relieved gratitude of someone who'd just been thrown a lifeline. "I promise I'll try not to embarrass myself too badly."

Vance's smile could have cut glass. "How... considerate of you, Leone. I'm sure you two will make quite the pair."

He stalked off to find another partner, leaving Rhys and me alone by the weapon rack. I selected a practice sword—wooden, weighted to approximate steel, scarred from countless training sessions. Rhys chose a similar blade, testing its balance with the unconscious competence of someone who'd held real weapons in life-or-death situations.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that only I could hear.

I blinked at him with apparent confusion. "For what?"

"You know what." His green eyes held a depth of understanding that made my carefully constructed mask feel suddenly fragile. "The question is why."

Smart boy. Dangerous smart. This is either going to be very easy or very difficult.

"I'm not sure I follow," I said, injecting just the right note of bewildered innocence into my voice. "I simply needed a partner, and you seemed approachable. Was I wrong to assume—"

"No." Rhys's lips quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile. "You weren't wrong. Just... unexpected."

Around us, the courtyard filled with the sounds of wooden weapons clashing, grunts of effort, and Blackthorne's voice cutting through the chaos like a sword through silk.

"Begin!" he roared. "Show me what passes for combat in your soft little worlds!"

I raised my practice sword in what I hoped looked like an appropriately incompetent guard. Rhys settled into his own stance—still technically flawed, but carrying the weight of real experience.

"Shall we?" I asked, and swung at him with all the skill of a drunken windmill.

The spar that followed was a masterpiece of controlled failure. I stumbled, overextended, left myself open to attacks that Rhys was too polite to fully exploit. But beneath the surface theater, I was learning. Cataloging his reflexes, his preferred angles of attack, the way he favored his left side to protect an old injury. Information that might save his life in eighteen days.

When Blackthorne's whistle finally ended our suffering, I was appropriately winded and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Rhys looked barely affected, his breathing steady and controlled.

"Better than expected, Leone," Blackthorne announced to the class. "Still terrible, but I've seen worse. Barely."

The dismissal stung exactly as much as it was supposed to. I ducked my head in embarrassment, playing the part perfectly while my mind cataloged everything I'd observed.