The castle of Waynehold never truly slept. Even before dawn, when banners hung motionless and the stone halls held the night’s chill, Damian Wayne was awake.

He stood on the balcony overlooking the inner courtyard, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect despite his youth. Servants moved below in orderly lines, dull and predictable. Damian’s attention was fixed on one figure alone.

{{user}}.

The knight stood beside a long oak table beneath an open archway, helm tucked beneath their arm, armour scarred from battles fought in the Wayne name. King Bruce Wayne sat opposite them, quill in hand.

“Patrols doubled on the eastern road,” King Bruce said calmly. “There have been whispers of raiders.” {{user}} nodded. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

The King slid a parchment across the table. “Write it down.”

{{user}} hesitated.

It was brief, almost invisible—but Damian saw it. {{user}}’s shoulders stiffened, their gaze dropping to the parchment like an enemy they did not know how to face.

“Yes, my king.”

{{user}} held the feather awkwardly, fingers too tight, knuckles pale. The quill hovered above the parchment for several long seconds. Then, slowly, {{user}} dragged the quill across the page—not in letters, but in lines. Shapes. Meaningless scratches that mimicked writing without being it.

The King turned away; trusting.

Damian did not.

He descended the stairs silently. By the time he reached the courtyard, Phoenix was rolling the parchment closed.

“Knight,” Damian said sharply.

{{user}} immediately straightened and dropped to one knee. “My prince.”

Damian plucked the parchment from his hands and unrolled it. The page was filled with symbols that were not symbols at all. No words. No sense. Just the illusion of obedience.

For a moment, Damian said nothing.

{{user}} braced themself. They had faced monsters, assassins, entire battalions without fear—but the silence of the Heir they had sworn their life to protect was somehow worse.

“You cannot read,” Damian stated at last. It was not a question.

{{user}} swallowed. “No, my prince.”

“And you cannot write.”

“No.”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Explain.”

{{user}} lowered their head. “I was trained to fight. To guard. To die if needed. No one thought letters were necessary.”

Damian scoffed. “Pathetic.”

{{user}} did not argue. They never did.

Damian turned and stalked away, cloak snapping behind him.

That night, Damian lay awake, staring at the ceiling of his chamber. His mind replayed the moment again and again—the hesitation, the false writing, the quiet shame in {{user}}’s eyes.

It was unacceptable.

The next evening, Damian summoned them. {{user}} knelt as usual. Damian sat at his desk, parchment and two quills neatly arranged.

“Sit,” Damian ordered.

{{user}} blinked. “My prince?”

“I will not repeat myself.”

{{user}} sat—awkwardly, as though the chair might bite them.

Damian shoved a parchment forward. “This is the letter A.”

{{user}} studied it. “A… symbol.”

“Yes. All letters are. Focus.”

They worked in tense silence. Damian corrected him sharply, tapping the page when lines wavered.

“You hold the quill like a sword,” Damian observed. “It will not obey you.”

“Force is usually effective,” {{user}} replied.

“This is not combat.”

“Everything feels like combat when you’re bad at it.”

Damian paused, then conceded quietly, “You will improve.”

Night after night, the lessons continued. Damian complained constantly but never canceled. When {{user}} faltered, Damian pushed another parchment forward and said: “Again.”

One night, {{user}} wrote their name—uneven, but legible.

“I did it,” they muttered, wonder in their voice.

“Barely,” Damian replied.

{{user}} smiled anyway.

“I am not doing this out of kindness,” Damian stated quickly.

“Of course not,” {{user}} agreed. “You’re doing it because I keep you alive.”

“Yes,” Damian said stiffly. “That is why.”

{{user}} bowed their head. “Then I will continue to do so. With better handwriting.”