"Magic," Tredan droned on "is an offense to the gods and was nearly the downfall of Farne. It is an abomination and... " He looked at the younger of his two charges, then brought his cane down on his chair with a crash. He smiled in cold satisfaction as young Mikal flinched and returned from wherever his mind had wandered off to instead of paying close attention to the lesson as his brother Conary seemed to have done. "And what, pray tell Master de Farne were you thinking about?"

"Umm... nothing Sera Tredan." But his eyes flickered over to the windowsill, and the tutor followed his gaze. There, sitting on the ledge was a butterfly, glittering like gold in the afternoon sun. Treldan took a step closer to the window.

"Magic is like that butterfly: alluring... fascinating... a thing of beauty." Once more his stick lashed out, slamming on the ledge and crushing the insect in one loud crack. "And utterly useless to a true servant of the gods."

Treldan felt a warm pleasure at the grief on Mikal's face.
He would have been better served to see the anger on Conary's instead.