Chapter four -"A Lesson Before the Feast"
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"In a forgotten corner of the palace, the footsteps of loss linger, and small flowers are left to grow alone… but some hands never forget what they once planted."
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The sounds of imperial laughter gradually faded behind the open hall's walls, until the echo of the First Prince was extinguished — and with it, the fleeting excitement he had brought along. Ayanth did not speak, nor did Iswar ask where they were going. Both seemed to surrender to an unseen force that led them.
The corridor they crossed was not just a passage, but a sleeping fragment of imperial memory. Its slender trees brushed the vaulted ceiling with white blossoms, swaying silently, as if greeting all those who had once walked there. A faint fragrance rose from the old almond flowers, flowing like a breeze that stirred the princes' hair and scattered a few leaves across the stone floor.
Ayanth walked with deliberate lightness, as if he feared disturbing time itself. In his right hand, he held a small book he had insisted on bringing, even though he knew no one would ask him to read today. His eyes were fixed on Iswar's shadow, two steps ahead. That shadow, precisely, felt comforting.
When they reached the end of the corridor, there was no usher awaiting them, no voice to announce the start of the lesson. The door was ajar, as if someone had left it so on purpose — to let them in quietly, as though this class wasn't for everyone, but for someone who couldn't bear to be stared at.
Iswar entered first, without looking back. Ayanth followed, adjusting the collar of his shirt slowly, then paused at the threshold, as if his feet hesitated before crossing.
Silence entered with them.
The hall resembled a hidden library, with a low ceiling and dark shelves packed with books that seemed to sleep within them. Nothing suggested formality, except a faded green carpet like the kind spread in aristocratic salons when no guests are expected. In the corner, a small round table and three wooden chairs. No podium, no blackboard — only the scent of old paper and a layer of dust clinging to the edges despite all care.
Iswar sat down first, while Ayanth remained standing for a few seconds, then sat beside him without uttering a word. He held his book like a shield, pressing it gently, staring ahead with unmoving eyes.
The door opened without a sound, as though the one entering needed no permission.
Dean Sitar appeared — not as a teacher, but as if stepping out of a forgotten history book on a high shelf. Tall and slender, wearing a dark gray coat woven with faint green threads, his black hair was tied back neatly, and his glasses hung on a silver chain across his chest. Every step he took was measured, as though he treated the room as a living archive where noise was forbidden.
He spoke in a calm voice, like the sound of rain just beginning:
— "You came on your own? That pleases me — though I expected a courier telling me Your Highnesses were occupied with matters of the throne or pre-adolescent sentiments."
Ayanth didn't respond. He merely blinked heavily, not lifting his head.
Iswar cleared his throat softly, then said in a tone that mixed courtesy with mischief — the way he usually hid kindness in a sharp phrase:
— "If we'd sent a courier, you would've missed the chance to guess who falls asleep first in your class."
Sitar raised an eyebrow, half interested, then offered a weary smile:
— "Sleep? Is that a threat or a prophecy?"
— "Perhaps both... But let me reassure you: falling asleep in your class only happens when one is at peace with oneself. Fortunately, I am not."
The dean chuckled lightly, a dry laugh, aged like the rest of him. Then he pulled out an old map from his leather bag, spread it before them, and pointed with a long finger to an eastern point:
— "We'll start here… where poetry was sung before writing was born. Not because the writers said so — but because there are things they still haven't said. Literature is not just what is read — it's what dares to be spoken."
At that moment, Sitar turned to Ayanth, as if he had been watching him without looking. Then he glanced back at Iswar, though the prince didn't wait for a question.
He said, in a more serious tone this time:
— "Don't worry about him. He hears you — he just doesn't like words much when they have no clear taste."
The dean gave a faint smile:
— "Nor do I."
Then, as he pulled out a thick book covered in red leather, he added:
— "Let's just read then. At least books don't interrupt."
Sitar took his seat before them without asking anything, then opened the red book with care, as if the pages might crumble. He wasn't lecturing, but narrating, in a fragmented tone — as though he weren't addressing anyone, but reciting a forgotten prayer. The words he spoke belonged to an old poem, written in an extinct imperial dialect, about a lover who carried his heart in a vessel of stone to offer it to a god who did not worship love.
Each verse was read slowly, followed by a heavy silence, then Sitar would raise his eyes — not to explain, but to ask:
— "Why did he place his heart in stone? Why choose pain over salvation?"
He wasn't expecting an answer.
All he did next was turn the page to another verse, another pain. His lesson wasn't explanation — it was excavation through layers of speech, as if what mattered was not what was said, but how that word was born, and for what hidden sorrow it had been written.
Throughout it all, Ayanth barely moved. His eyes remained on an open page he never turned, his body issuing only soft breaths.
Iswar noticed — with trained eyes — that stillness tinged with escape. He knew it, understood it well: this was Ayanth's "false listening," the kind that appeared outwardly respectful, but in truth was a gentle way of disappearing.
He didn't interrupt — but within himself, he whispered:
"He's not absent from the lesson — he's absent from himself."
"Ancient poems carry him away, because they ask nothing of him… they simply resemble him enough for him to go quiet with them."
He looked at Sitar, then at the book, and almost said something — but refrained. Not out of fear of interrupting, but because silence itself had become part of this lesson.
At the far end of the blooming corridor, the concubine Aurelia entered, with her only daughter, Princess Letia. Their arrival was not an announcement, but a gentle flow — as if nature itself had opened a secret passage for them.
Letia wasn't tall, nor was her dress dazzling — yet her movement carried an enchanting aura. Her round face was neither pale nor striking, but filled with a kind of unforgettable beauty — quiet, pure, and childlike despite its maturity. Her hair was tied with ivory ribbons, and some strands fell over her shoulders like shy blossoms.
Her steps made no sound on the stone floor, and her silvery eyes captured everything without staring — as if she saw without explaining, heard without judging.
Aurelia, for her part, walked slower, with the warmth of wise mothers in her eyes — those who know what must be said and when. Her hand rested on her daughter's shoulder — not holding, just accompanying.
— "Letia, never walk under a flowering ceiling without looking up. Whoever fails to see the beauty above may never see it at all."
The child looked up as instructed, then smiled.
The mother continued, in a calm voice as though telling a tale:
— "That's how lessons begin. Not just in books — but in anything that blooms without asking permission. If you can respect silence… then those who speak will respect you."
As they approached the hall, Aurelia whispered to her daughter as if planting a final thought:
— "Don't be the most beautiful in the room. Be the reason others notice beauty."
Letia didn't reply. She simply nodded, and in that small gesture was a composure unexpected of a girl her age.
Aurelia stopped at the threshold before entrusting her daughter to the session. The young princess kept glancing back at her mother, smiling more with her eyes than her lips, lightly clutching the edge of her gown — as if hoping to delay the parting without asking for it.
The mother said in a soft tone, one she had rehearsed many times:
— "Go now, dear… don't be late for your lesson."
But Letia did not move. She simply stared at her hand clutching the fabric, then slowly lifted it and placed it behind her back—as if ashamed of her need to hold on.
— "Won't you stay today?"
Aurelia's heart didn't answer. Her eyes did, eyes that had learned where their limits lay:
— "You know I can't. Everything I do… is for you."
Then she leaned down, pressed a warm kiss to the child's forehead, and whispered:
— "One day they'll tell you that flowers must be left to grow on their own. But I… I see you as a tree. And you know, trees never forget who planted them."
Letia finally smiled—that fleeting kind of smile that doesn't last long, but is enough.
Then, without looking back, Aurelia walked away in the opposite direction. Her steps were faster than they needed to be, as if she feared someone might hear the sobbing of her heart echo between the tiles.
*In the Study Hall*
Dean Sitar lifted his gaze from the pages of the ancient book, then gently closed the volume of Complete Proverbs, as though bidding farewell to a dear companion.
— "That's enough for today… Literature is like wine—too much of it, and we lose our balance."
No one responded. Iswar merely nodded silently as he reached for his jacket, while Ayant stood without a word, his eyes fixed on the carved woodwork of the table before him, as though it held truths deeper than the entire lesson.
They both adjusted their shirt collars quietly, then walked toward the door without exchanging a single meaningful word. Only their footsteps spoke for them.
— "Shall we take the same corridor?" asked Iswar, as if the words had slipped out by accident.
Ayant replied after a pause:
— "As you wish."
There was no visible coldness in his voice, nor any warmth that invited continuation. It was merely a passing sound—something said, just to be said.
Iswar walked beside him without pressing further. Deep down, he knew Ayant wasn't angry with him, nor necessarily sad... It was simply that some kinds of conversation had run out of space between them—and he didn't mind.
That quiet emptiness, leaning toward peace, brought him comfort.
He didn't need to explain himself, nor did he demand an explanation in return.
It was as if they had silently agreed to leave the space between them unfilled—just as regret quietly gives way to acceptance.
In the small room adjoining the hall, two servants stood silently, holding boxes lined with velvet, flanking the tall brass mirror.
Ayant entered first. He didn't greet them. He didn't ask for anything.
He slowly removed his jacket and hung it up himself, then stood in the corner of the room, silently watching as Iswar took off his gloves.
They exchanged only brief glances, then each went about, in his own way, adjusting cuffs, smoothing hair, fixing collars.
Iswar reached for the silver comb first, then paused.
He placed it back and slid it toward Ayant without a word.
Ayant didn't thank him. He simply took it, and used it as if he did so every day.
They finished getting ready without a word.
But something in the synchronicity of their movements—the way they each chose the same button to fasten first, the same style to tie their belt, the same moment to bow their heads and check their shoes—spoke of a familiarity that had grown quietly between them, without either ever asking for it.
Before leaving, Ayant stood for a moment in front of the mirror.
He looked at his reflection, then brushed aside a lock of hair from his forehead.
Behind him, Iswar was already done, but he didn't rush to leave.
He waited in silence, simply watching.
As if they both, without saying a word, understood that the quiet between them had become more eloquent than any sentence they'd ever shared.
At the threshold, Ayant paused for a moment with no apparent reason.
He didn't look at Iswar, didn't speak.
He simply stared at the long corridor stretching ahead of him, as though a cold breath had passed between his ribs without touching his skin.
"The day is unfolding with strange harmony… more than it should," he thought. "As if something is patiently rearranging the scene… waiting for it to go off script."
He didn't finish the thought.
He simply walked on.