A curious note found its way into Lysander’s calculus textbook, tucked between pages on differential equations. Its paper, faintly scented with old parchment and a familiar, cloying sweetness from the infirmary, was a stark anomaly against the precise black ink. Three carefully formed words, a hand he knew intimately now: “Storage Annex. Before fencing.”
Fencing was the fourth period. He considered the implications. Ashworth Hall was a crucible of social stratagem, not a stage for romantic overtures. The very notion of a 'confession' from a fellow scion, particularly Alistair, felt absurd, almost sacrilegious to the Hall’s brutal ethos.
He dismissed it. A minor inconvenience, nothing more. A fleeting curiosity, quickly overshadowed by the looming deadlines for his dissertation on arcane economic theory.
Yet, the instruction clung to his periphery. Just before the bell for fencing practice, Lysander exchanged his pristine academy robes for the practical whites. A prickle of disquiet settled beneath his icy composure.
Lysander made his way to the disused storage annex, a forgotten wing of Ashworth’s ancient foundations, rarely disturbed. Dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through high, grimy windows. His footsteps echoed on the flagstone floor, each sound magnified in the cavernous silence. He felt a faint, unbidden apprehension.
A slender figure waited amidst stacks of derelict furniture and rolled tapestries. Alistair. His black hair, often disheveled, lay neatly pressed. Alistair’s gaze, usually bright with nervous energy, was fixed on his own restless hands, twisting at the hem of his tunic.
“Alistair,” Lysander’s voice was low, precise, a question more than an address. Alistair startled, his small head snapping up. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through his frame. He offered a hesitant, almost fragile smile.
“Lysander. Thank you for coming.” His voice was a bare whisper, barely audible above the ancient silence of the annex.
“What is it?” Lysander asked, his tone devoid of warmth. He wanted to leave. Ashworth’s walls had ears, and the optics of being alone with Alistair, especially after the intimacy of their last encounter in the infirmary, were disastrous. He needed to maintain distance, to project an unassailable neutrality.
Oblivious to Lysander’s carefully constructed walls, Alistair chewed on his lower lip, glancing around the dimly lit space. Indecision clouded his features, warring with a fragile determination. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a silent struggle playing out.
Lysander’s irritation coiled tighter. Alistair’s timidity, once a subject of detached observation, now grated. His stuttering silence, meant perhaps to convey pathos, struck Lysander as merely inconvenient. Perhaps his own nerves were frayed, his usual detachment compromised.
“Forgive me, Alistair, but my fencing master frowns upon tardiness. Could you simply articulate your purpose?” Lysander’s words, though polite, carried an edge of impatience.
His head throbbed, a dull ache behind his temples. The lingering memory of Alistair’s desperate touch in the infirmary, the weight of his unexpected devotion, had unsettled Lysander profoundly. He had slept poorly. His stomach, always a barometer for stress, felt a knot of cold dread.
He was not truly angry with Alistair. Not yet. But the frustration was a palpable thing, needing an outlet. A target.
While Lysander wrestled with these internal dissonances, Alistair finally seemed to find his voice. A tiny, reedy sound, barely more than a breath.
“Lysander… I… I wanted to tell you…”
“Indeed?” Lysander prompted, a single eyebrow arching. Time was pressing. He resisted the urge to physically coax the words from Alistair’s constricted throat.
Then, a sudden, jarring sound. The heavy oak door to the annex burst open, slamming against the stone wall with a hollow thud. Both Lysander and Alistair spun around, their eyes locking with Cassian. He stood panting, chest heaving, his face contorted.
Cassian had been running. A suffocating pressure tightened Lysander’s chest as he pictured Cassian tearing through Ashworth’s hallowed halls, searching for Alistair.
Cassian exhaled, a long, guttural sound, then strode into the annex. Lysander felt his hand, which had unconsciously reached for his throat, drop. Cassian’s fierce gaze flickered between Alistair and Lysander, a tempest of emotion brewing in his eyes.
“What are you doing here with him?” His voice was a low growl, laced with venom. The question hung in the air, directed at no one, yet encompassing everything. His fists clenched, then relaxed, a dangerous rhythm.
Behind Lysander’s carefully schooled impassivity, his insides felt bruised. After a long, agonizing pause, Cassian’s eyes settled on Lysander. The way he looked at Lysander was unbearable, a violation.
“Cassian, what precisely is the meaning of this?” Lysander managed, his voice steady despite the internal tremor.
*Please. Do not look at me this way. Blame Alistair for the summons. Why this glare, this palpable resentment, for me—your supposed peer? I am merely collateral in this squalid drama.* Lysander’s mind screamed, even as he met Cassian’s gaze.
Cassian’s burning eyes remained locked on him. Lysander knew those were not the eyes of passion, but of raw, consuming rage. Of jealousy, of madness. The face of a man deranged by possession, a spectacle Lysander found both pitiable and repulsive.
“Why are you with him!” Cassian roared, the words echoing through the annex.
*You are pathetic, Cassian. So utterly pathetic.* Lysander thought, returning the glare. Yet, a chilling thought pricked at him: *Perhaps the truly pathetic one is me.*
Before Lysander could fully process the thought, Cassian’s long strides had closed the distance between them. The world tilted, then slammed. A blinding white flash.
“—!”
He could not comprehend it. His body toppled to the ground, a surprised grunt escaping him. Only then did his mind reassemble the shards of what had just transpired.
*No. Impossible.*
He had been struck. Cassian had struck him.
Lying on the cold flagstones, Lysander’s trembling fingers reached for his cheek. The shock was absolute, primal. *How could you… How could you do this to me?*
“L-Lysander!” Alistair cried out, horrified, rushing towards him. Cassian’s voice, a mad shriek, cut through the air.
“You insolent whelp! I told you not to speak to him! Do not even look at him, you weakling!”
Seeing Cassian’s furious face, Alistair froze, his features blanching. He stammered, “I… I’m sorry, Cassian. I’m truly sorry.”
“You swore! You swore you’d obey! Damn you!” Cassian’s voice was a torrent of fury. Alistair took a faltering step back, tears welling in his eyes. But no, Alistair was not the one who should be weeping. It was Lysander.
Unbidden tears pricked at Lysander’s own eyes, threatening to breach his carefully constructed façade. Mercifully, before he could truly break, Cassian cursed violently. He seized Alistair by the arm, dragging him out of the annex. The whole terrifying encounter had unfolded in a matter of seconds.
Lysander remained on the ground, staring at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight cut through the gloom. Something inside him snapped. The dam holding back a lifetime of suppressed emotion finally fractured. Tears, hot and shameful, streamed down his face.
He hated everything. Alistair, for his desperate plea. Cassian, for his brutality. He wished them both to simply vanish. He felt wretched, reduced to a mere pawn in their sordid dynamic.
Lysander pushed himself up. He skipped fencing practice, instead making his way to the headmaster’s office. He requested an early dismissal, citing a sudden, severe migraine. His visibly reddened, swelling cheek provided a compelling, albeit unspoken, testament. The headmaster, ever discreet, asked no probing questions.
---
Back in his private chambers at Ashworth, Lysander collapsed onto his bed. He slept, a fitful, heavy slumber. When he woke, his face felt puffy, a dull ache throbbing where Cassian’s fist had landed. A faint purple bruise was already blooming.
Out of habit, Lysander reached for his communication slate. A message from Valerius. They rarely exchanged private communiques, their interactions usually public and performative. The thought of Cassian’s circle, of Valerius specifically, being privy to his humiliation, was a fresh wave of agony.
If it were anyone else, he would have simply discarded the message. But Valerius was no ordinary peer. He was second only to Cassian in influence, a key figure in the academy’s intricate power structures. Lysander could not afford to dismiss him.
*“Lysander. A most abrupt departure today. All well?”*
Lysander clicked his tongue. He composed a reply, carefully crafted to convey nonchalance, to minimize the incident. “*A fleeting malaise. Nothing of consequence.*”
He kept it light, deliberately so. The thought of anyone knowing the full truth—that Cassian had struck him, and all over Alistair—was profoundly humiliating. Unbearably so.
*“Indeed? Your countenance suggested otherwise. Such a pity.”*
Valerius, showing concern? The peculiar nature of the exchange made Lysander power off his slate. The screen went dark, plunging him into the quiet of his room.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Valerius’s veiled message felt suffocating, intrusive. Other acquaintances had sent perfunctory inquiries, but none offered the solace Lysander unconsciously craved.
No message. No inquiry from Cassian. *I must be losing my mind,* Lysander thought. Still, he consoled himself, perhaps this was the inevitable fate of one consumed by such maddening possessiveness. He lay there, an idiot, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, turning a blind eye to the stark, ugly truth.
*“Perhaps… I am not the only one.”*
Alistair and he, entangled in the same insidious web. The strange, twisted, grotesque thought flickered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. Lying on his bed, staring at the ornate ceiling, another message arrived. The sender was unfamiliar.
*“Lysander, are you feeling terribly unwell?”*
Lysander frowned. Who among his peers would address him with such familiar, almost intimate concern, and from an unknown cipher? Valerius? No, this was not his encrypted signature. Before he could ponder further, a follow-up arrived, relentless and infuriating.
*“I am so sorry. Truly sorry. It is entirely my fault.”*
*“I am sorry.”*
*“Please, forgive me.”*
Whether three words or four, each one made him want to scream. Lysander hurled his slate across the room. It clattered against the wall, falling silently onto the thick carpet. *How did this imbecile acquire my cipher? And how does one without personal access to such technology send messages?*
Then it struck him. Ah. He had communicated his private cipher to Alistair during their infirmary visit. A necessary evil at the time, for communication of medical updates. How idiotic.
Lysander cursed his own shortsightedness, letting out an angry sigh. He pounded his fists against the mattress, venting the frustration until exhaustion claimed him. Just before his thoughts completely faded into sleep, one last message, unread, lingered in his mind.
*“Please, do not hate me.”*
*Funny,* Lysander thought, his consciousness slipping. *I have despised you for months.*
Morning dawned. His face, when he finally dragged himself from sleep, was swollen like an over-baked Ashworth bun.
---
Lysander skipped his morning lessons. No matter how diligently he pursued his studies, he possessed insufficient passion to attend with a face so grotesquely bruised.
His housekeeper, a kind woman named Elara, prepared his lunch. Soft porridge and bland steamed greens. She could not resist a gentle chiding, urging him to exercise more caution. He swallowed the food without much thought, the textures indistinct on his tongue.
As he set his spoon down, reaching for a glass of water, Elara returned to clear the dishes. Plate in one hand, she murmured, “Lysander, a visitor awaits you.”
“A visitor?” Lysander’s breath hitched. “Should I admit them?”
A friend. The word caused a flutter in his chest, an unfamiliar sensation. Before he could identify the emotion, his mind, traitorous thing, began to conjure images of who might be at his door. *Could it be… Cassian?*
The fantasy felt outlandish, yet not entirely impossible. Few outside his immediate circle knew the location of his private chambers. If it were Cassian, he must have arrived to offer an apology, consumed by guilt for his unprecedented violence. Cassian had never, not once, laid a hand on him before. Yes, he must be worried, upset.
“Yes, please,” Lysander managed, his voice barely audible. “Admit them.”
The fantasy solidified, hardening into a certainty. Even as he chastised himself for such naive hope, an inexplicable warmth spread through him. Despite everything, he still held some consequence for Cassian. The thought was a strange balm.
Lysander turned towards his chamber door, his pace quickening with an unfamiliar eagerness. But the figure waiting there was not who he had envisioned.
“Lysander, old boy. Keeping yourself busy?” Valerius greeted him, a wry smirk on his sharp-featured face. He held a small, silk-wrapped package in one hand. As soon as he saw Lysander’s bruised face, his smirk vanished. His tone, usually laced with playful irony, shifted to unusual seriousness. “What in the Abyss happened to your face?”
Lysander’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, profound letdown. The warmth in his chest evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. *How did Valerius even know where my private chambers are?*
“A… a clumsy fall,” Lysander replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Valerius frowned, his lips twisting in that characteristic way he did before delivering a particularly cutting remark. “You truly are an idiot, aren’t you?”
Lysander offered no argument. He simply rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache mirroring the sting of fresh embarrassment. The memory of his earlier anticipation, of his desperate, foolish hope, burned him. He truly was an idiot. Cassian did not view him as important. And here he was, wagging his tail like some hopeful, witless hound.
“Here. For the swelling.” Valerius extended the silk-wrapped package. Lysander accepted it. Inside, nestled in crushed ice, was a poultice, cooled and fragrant with healing herbs. “Traditional remedy. Mother’s insistence.”
“Mint and nightshade,” Lysander noted, recognizing the scent. “Potent.”
“So it is,” Valerius conceded. “Why would I bother to inquire?”
“Indeed. What precisely is your purpose here?”
“To ascertain your welfare, naturally. May I enter?” Valerius stepped past the threshold without awaiting a reply. His long legs carried him further into Lysander’s private space. “Where is your sitting room?”
“Valerius, where are you going?” Lysander demanded, a ripple of unease in his voice.
“Where else? There is nowhere else to go in your chambers. Unless you plan to entertain in the antechamber.”
Lysander had no adequate retort. Valerius was right. Ashworth’s private rooms, for all their grandeur, followed a predictable layout. Feeling an acute awkwardness, Lysander followed Valerius, who seemed intent on inspecting every detail of his personal sanctuary.