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At the tender age of seven, Parisa Tyrneamitore had already realized she was different from most other children. It was not because of her beauty, inherited from her mother, whose incandescence had inspired poetry and art and works of literature across the seven seas. It was not her sharp tongue, inherited from her father, whose wit rivaled those of trickster gods. It was not because of her title, nor her privilege, nor her wealth, nor the fact that she was a Tyrneamitore.
It was because of her stupid, idiot eyes.
"Agh!" Pari growled, crumpling the passage Sauda had assigned as for homework into a tiny ball and throwing it to the end of the table. "It's too hard!" Sergei exhaled and retrieved the wadded homework, setting it back in front of her. He flattened it out into a singular piece of paper once more, massive hands somehow delicate in their task. "Parisa," he rumbled. "We'll keep trying until we get it, alright?" "But I don't want to!"
It took a special sort of person to argue with Sergei Zhernekov, who had grown up in the vast and treacherous forests of rural Russia and certainly looked the part. He was barrel-chested and had arms that were bigger than Parisa's head, but he was also the only person who'd been able to rock baby Kyros to sleep even more quickly than Tasia, which was what had initially gotten him hired as the imperial nanny. He was the only person who could get Mirza to vent and Vic to calm, and he was slowly chipping away at Pari, but she was proving to be quite the challenge. The problem was, Pari knew that she was precocious and she enjoyed it. She was a very deliberating fiend.
But Parisa wasn't trying to be fiendish right now; she was just frustrated. Sergei could tell when her frustration was authentic by the way her lower lip wobbled and tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. She was the type to submit to rage rather than grief, but it seemed that even her rage was quickly running out. "Pari," he said. "Zaychonuk. Let's read through this together. Follow my finger." He placed his massive index finger on the paper, right under the first line. "The Great Kingdom of Atherdale was founded by..." he trailed off, letting Pari fill in the blank. She pressed her hands against her head, glowering at the words. "King... Koremar?"
"Exactly," he told her. "Good job. Next line, let's go. King Koremar created a hu..." "A... hub for..." Pari glanced at him, then down at the paper. "... my..." Sergei waited. Her forehead creased as she peered down at the paper. "Myth... mythology." "Close," he said. "Mythological. Mythological what?" "Mythological... creation." "Creatures." Pari's expression grew stormy again. She snatched the paper out from beneath his hands and shredded it, tears flowing freely this time. "I can't do it!" she hollered. "I'm stupid!"
Sergei waited. Eventually she tired herself out and, paper bits floating around them, dropped her head into her hands. Her shoulders shook and his heart gave a little twist. It made no sense that the princess was having such difficulty reading at, what, a second-grade level? Pari was clever as a whip in all other aspects. She could recite entire passages she'd heard only once. But give her a sheet of paper with a line of words and it was like all that confidence shrunk in on itself. There had to be more to this than the excuse that she was simply bad at reading, Sergei decided. He set his hand on Parisa's back as she struggled to compose herself. "Pari..." "Sorry I messed up the paper," she said stoutly, her voice quavering. "But I can't do it. I told you. I'm a dummy."
