A cool breath, dry and faint, whispered across Lysander’s cheek. He traced the line of his jaw with a precise fingertip, feeling the almost imperceptible swell that remained. Lady Elara’s balm, a gift from Valerius’s own collection, had worked its quiet miracle overnight. A faint blush of violet lingered beneath the skin, but it was the kind of imperfection easily dismissed, a mere brush against an unforgiving oak, not the mark of a jealous fist.
He met his own gaze in the polished silver of his dressing mirror. Outwardly composed, the mask of scholarly serenity firmly in place. Within, a fragile hope had been brutalized, leaving behind a dull throb that overshadowed the physical ache. He had foolishly, suicidally, clung to the notion that Cassian might offer some form of remorse, a sliver of the past intimacy. Valerius’s unexpected arrival had cauterized that wound, revealing the chasm between Lysander’s desperate longing and Ashworth’s brutal reality.
Ashworth Hall, even at this early hour, hummed with a suppressed tension. The grand staircases, usually echoing with lighthearted chatter, carried only the rustle of academic robes and hushed, clipped murmurs. The air felt heavy, charged, as if a storm had passed, leaving behind a profound stillness and the scent of ozone.
Approaching the Great Hall, Lysander’s gaze instinctively swept the cavernous space. Marble columns soared, etched with the lineage of ancient houses, their silent presence a constant judgment. He found him quickly. Valerius Sterling. The sight struck Lysander with the force of a physical blow, stealing his breath, causing his practiced calm to falter.
Valerius stood by a sun-dappled alcove, shoulders hunched. A split, raw crimson line marred his lower lip. One eye, usually wide and earnest, was a swollen, discolored plum. A faint tremor ran through his hand as he clutched a leather-bound tome. Lysander’s own initial, childish thought—a fleeting, bitter satisfaction that Cassian might have suffered similar consequences—returned to haunt him, twisting in his gut. A sickening wave of guilt, sharp and unexpected, flooded him. He had wished ill upon a soul already burdened beyond measure.
Valerius, sensing Lysander’s presence, flinched. His bruised eye darted, meeting Lysander’s for a fleeting, panicked instant. Fear, shame, and a bewildering plea warred in that single glance. Then, as if recoiling from a searing flame, Valerius abruptly spun, his back rigid, and hurried away towards the deeper shadows of the hall, disappearing through an arched doorway.
A strange, cold hollowness settled in Lysander’s chest. Valerius's avoidance was a fresh wound, another confirmation of his diminished standing, his failure.
---
During the morning’s lecture on ancient economics, the atmosphere in the lecture theatre felt strangely stifled. Cassian Beaumont arrived minutes before the Speaker commenced, his usual swagger replaced by a deliberate, almost insolent calm. He settled into his customary seat, a quiet ripple moving through the rows. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the ornate ceiling, never once dipping to acknowledge Lysander, or even the battered Valerius, who sat two rows ahead, hunched and still.
Later, during the midday repast in the East Wing’s common room, Lysander found himself at a solitary table. Courtiers, accustomed to the delicate dance of Ashworth’s social hierarchy, conspicuously navigated around him. The silence was not peaceful, but a heavy absence, filled with unspoken whispers and curious, darting glances. His reputation, carefully cultivated, now bore the indelible stain of Cassian’s public humiliation.
Alistair Vance, however, approached with his usual insouciance, a stack of obscure scrolls tucked beneath one arm. He slid into the seat opposite Lysander, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“The atmosphere could curdle cream,” Alistair observed, his voice a low, amused drawl. He idly plucked a candied plum from Lysander’s untouched plate. “Though your stoicism, Thorne, is quite commendable.”
Lysander offered a terse nod, his gaze distant. “One adapts.”
“Indeed,” Alistair said, popping the plum into his mouth. “Or one finds oneself a new shadow.”
Lysander’s thoughts drifted to Valerius. He had seen neither Cassian nor Valerius during the repast. Had Cassian banished him? Was he simply enduring more of his torment in some unseen corner of the Hall? Lysander pushed away a faint tremor of dread. It was not his concern. And yet, the image of Valerius's bruised face, his terrified glance, clung to him with an uncomfortable tenacity.
---
Lysander had never envisioned Alistair Vance becoming a confidant. Their initial encounters had been marked by Alistair’s flippant wit and Lysander’s quiet disdain for what he perceived as frivolous disregard for Ashworth’s serious currents. Yet, Alistair’s detachment, his ability to observe the intricate cruelties of their world with a bemused, almost academic curiosity, offered a strange, unexpected solace. His lighthearted jibes had a peculiar way of grounding Lysander, of preventing him from being entirely consumed by the oppressive weight of the Hall’s machinations. Had Cassian and he remained entangled, Lysander might never have recognized the quiet strength in Alistair’s seemingly casual presence.
Days bled into a week. Cassian's presence became sporadic, often marked by his sudden disappearance, sometimes with a retinue of junior courtiers in tow, sometimes with only Valerius. There were whispers in the antechambers, glances exchanged when Cassian’s name was mentioned. Lysander observed Elias Finch, a minor noble with a penchant for gossip, shaking his head and actively avoiding the pathways Cassian frequented.
Lysander encountered Elias later, near the secluded archivist’s nook, a place usually silent and overlooked. Elias, adjusting his spectacles nervously, seemed startled to see Lysander. He spoke in hushed tones, almost a confession.
“Young Sterling… it’s become rather grim. Beaumont has been… enlisting others. Encouraging their… participation in his ‘lessons’ for him. A single, well-placed strike each, he demands.” Elias’s voice was barely audible, laced with a genuine discomfort. He quickly added, as if to ward off any judgment, “I’ve found myself with an abundance of research to conduct elsewhere, lately. Please, Thorne, do not mistake my absence for complicity.” With a hurried bow, Elias scurried away, leaving Lysander to grapple with the chilling revelation.
Cassian was not just punishing Valerius; he was corrupting others, drawing them into his web of subtle cruelty, forcing their hands to dirty them as his own.
In the shadowed cloisters, Alistair produced a small silver flask, offering Lysander a sip of its fragrant contents – a rare, spiced cordial. The liquid warmed Lysander's throat, a brief reprieve from the knot of unease tightening in his chest. He maintained his composed facade, but Alistair, ever perceptive, seemed to sense the underlying turmoil.
“Good?” Alistair inquired, his eyes glinting with amusement. He leaned in, a light, teasing tone in his voice. “Dare you let me taste?”
Half-teasing back, Lysander brought the rim of his flask—sticky with the cordial and his own lips—close to Alistair’s. Without hesitation, Alistair smirked, his lip curving, and took a deliberate, deep swallow.
“Alistair! Did you truly…?” Lysander began, a faint incredulity in his voice.
“You offered.” Alistair shrugged, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “And it was quite a generous draught.”
It was a peculiar, almost peaceful moment amidst the Hall’s relentless pressures. The crisp autumn air drifted through the cloisters, clear and untroubled. Lysander found himself wondering where Cassian and Valerius were now, what fresh torments were unfolding. He knew several of Cassian’s preferred haunts for 'private discussions', but the urge to seek them out was stifled by a colder fear of what he might uncover.
He tried to suppress thoughts of Cassian. But the harder he fought, the more his former friend consumed his mental landscape. How long would it take to excise such an enduring presence? How much deliberate effort? Lysander felt adrift in a vast desert, not merely sad, but terrified, suffocating under the weight of an unbearable emptiness.
Sometimes, when the weight grew too immense, he would speak with Alistair. And for a fleeting moment, the barrenness seemed less absolute.
“Alistair,” Lysander said, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.
“Hm?”
“...Do you believe a desert, truly barren, could ever bloom?” The words felt embarrassingly raw, overly sentimental. Lysander cleared his throat, adjusting the cuffs of his tunic.
“They must,” Alistair replied, his voice unexpectedly firm, devoid of its usual levity. He met Lysander’s gaze directly. “Life, after all, is quite dismal enough without such miracles.”
Hearing those stark, honest words from Alistair, a person Lysander had long dismissed as superficial, struck him with the precise futility of his own desperate, lingering hope. How long until he could relinquish these meaningless, tenacious feelings?
“...Yes. Dismal indeed.”
Cassian. The useless, brutal wretch. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the very spirit of loyalty Lysander once held, a devotion he now, shamefully, still occasionally felt? Cassian, who had seemingly abandoned every principle of conduct befitting a scion of Ashworth, now came and went as he pleased. And always, a shadowed, trembling presence by his side, was Valerius Sterling.
As the situation grew increasingly volatile, a palpable unease spread through the junior courtiers. It became disturbingly clear: Cassian’s deliberate cruelties were escalating. And so, too, was a quiet, simmering resentment towards him, a growing disquiet among those forced to witness or participate. None of it sat well with Lysander.
One afternoon, Lysander saw Cassian leading Valerius down the West Gallery, a powerful grip on Valerius's forearm, not quite dragging, but certainly dictating his pace. Lysander stopped in his tracks, observing their strained faces, before finally speaking, his voice even, carefully modulated.
“Your Grace, the Duke, has expressed some… concern over your recent disquiet,” Lysander lied, a calculated fabrication. It was neither apology nor flattery, merely a strategic maneuver. Cassian, estranged from his father, would likely be unsure of its veracity, and if challenged, Lysander could always argue the Duke’s concern would be well-founded soon enough. His pride demanded an escape route, always.
“If lessons are to be learned, let the cost be yours alone, Cassian. What has Valerius ever truly done to warrant such… tutelage?”
“Move, Thorne.” The moment Valerius's name left Lysander’s lips, Cassian’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. Lysander’s chest constricted, a primal fear clutching at his throat. He hated Cassian, the casual cruelty, the insolence. Yet, pitiful, pathetic Valerius stood frozen, his tear-filled eyes wide and pleading, fixed on Lysander, as if on the verge of collapsing.
“Unless you wish to revisit the infirmary, Thorne, I suggest you step aside.”
“C-Cassian, please,” Valerius stammered, his voice trembling, tugging weakly at Cassian’s sleeve. Only then did Cassian’s tirade halt. His focus shifted, locking onto Valerius, his back now entirely to Lysander.
“A-as I said, Your Grace, your father has cause for con—”
Valerius, on the verge of tears, clung to Cassian, a desperate, silent plea to stop. Watching the pitiful tableau unfold was unbearable. It was an exquisite agony that forced Lysander to close his eyes, turning away from the humiliation.
After a long moment, Cassian looked down at Valerius, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, then turned abruptly and led Valerius back towards the library's quiet archives. For the rest of the day, Cassian remained there, a quiet, brooding presence—just as he had done weeks prior after their initial altercation.
---
The long-anticipated excursion to the Archives of the Grand Library had arrived. A fleet of Ashworth’s finest carriages had been prepared, polished to a mirror sheen, to transport the junior courtiers to the ancient repository of knowledge. A few grumbled, preferring the familiar comforts of the Hall, but most buzzed with an undercurrent of excitement, eager for even a day’s respite from the academy’s routines.
No elaborate preparations were needed; they would return by evening. The Preceptors offered only a few half-hearted warnings, their authority diminished by the lure of the outing.
They were not children to be thrilled by such a trivial escape. Lysander saw it as merely another setting for Ashworth’s relentless social drama. He had no premonition that today would be the day his carefully contained frustrations, his lingering, pathetic hope, would finally shatter. He had anticipated its eventual demise, but not with such sudden, brutal finality.
Traditionally, during such excursions, Lysander, as Cassian’s closest companion, occupied the adjacent seat in their designated carriage. He hadn't even considered Alistair’s seating arrangement, as they had never shared such transport before. A fleeting paranoia had, in a weaker moment, pricked him—what if Alistair, with his audacious disregard for convention, claimed the seat closest to Cassian? Thinking back, the fear was almost laughable. Neither Lysander nor Alistair would occupy that particular privilege today.
Upon reaching the carriage courtyard, Lysander located their assigned vehicle, its dark wood gleaming under the autumn sun. He ascended the carriage steps. The rear seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of courtiers, including Elias Finch, who gave a tentative wave, then gestured vaguely towards Cassian’s reserved seat. Lysander's breath hitched.
“Lysander! There’s a space here!” Elias called out, his voice a little too loud.
“...Right.” Of course. It had always been his space. Yet today, a tremor of hesitation ran through him as he approached Cassian’s seat. A small sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the cushion next to Cassian still vacant. He swallowed, a fresh resolve hardening his jaw.
It was his spot. His pride—the last, stubborn shard of his former relationship with Cassian—demanded he claim it, even after the bruising rejection, the cruel blow delivered on account of Valerius.
He nervously touched the rich velvet of the seat back for a fleeting moment, a quick glance sweeping the interior of the carriage. Then, quietly, he spoke.
“Cassian… this seat…”
“It is not yours, Thorne. Find another.” Cassian cut him off, his gaze fixed impassively on the carriage entrance. Following his line of sight, Lysander saw Valerius Sterling, small and hesitant, timidly making his way towards them. Lysander’s fists clenched, his unvoiced words dying in his throat.
“...Fine. As you wish.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, though his heart felt as if it had been meticulously shredded.
He withdrew from the seat, his movements precise, almost glacial. His eyes quickly scanned the carriage. He spotted an empty spot near Alistair’s group, directly in front of where Alistair was lounging. With a profound relief, Lysander moved swiftly, settling into the seat. He spoke without waiting for a response.
“Alistair. Share this space with me.”
No answer. He glanced over. Alistair was already asleep, his head resting against the carriage window, swaying gently with every slight bump in the road. Alistair always seemed to doze in the mornings, and this occasion was no exception. Lysander shook his head, a faint, wry smile touching his lips at the sight of Alistair’s utterly ridiculous posture. He carefully slipped his leather-bound journal between Alistair’s head and the window pane, offering a small cushion. Then, he leaned back into the plush, but ultimately uncomfortable, seat.
Across the aisle, Lysander caught a glimpse of dark, perfectly styled hair. Cassian’s—his height and bearing made him unmistakable. Though he couldn’t see clearly through the other passengers, the tableau was agonizingly vivid. Cassian and Valerius, together. The seat Lysander had occupied for years, now filled by the very boy who had caused the fracture. The calculated fall had begun, and Lysander, for the first time, felt truly adrift.