A dull throb pulsed behind Callum’s eyes. Awareness crept back slowly, a leaden weight settling upon his limbs. He lay sprawled across his cot, the rough linen pressing against tender skin. Somehow, in his dazed retreat, he had managed to slide the heavy iron bolt on his chamber door. A small mercy, for which he found no gratitude.
“Remarkable, even in such a state,” a whisper of a thought ghosted through his mind, not his own, but a cruel echo of a past observation.
He blinked, vision blurring, then clearing. His entire face felt stretched and bruised, a symphony of muted agony. A hand, stiff as ancient parchment, lifted with agonizing slowness. His shoulder ground in its socket, rusty hinges protesting with a sharp, sickening jolt. Pain shot through the very marrow of his bones.
“Ah… blast,” a faint rasp escaped his lips.
With immense difficulty, his fingers explored the landscape of his battered body. Tender spots had hardened, knots of pain blooming beneath his touch. Moments stretched into an eternity. At last, pressing palms to the cot, he pushed himself upright.
Seated on the edge, Callum stared blankly at the rough stone wall of his meager Academy chambers. A sudden, visceral tremor seized him. He burst into a wretched, choking sob. A whimpering sound clawed its way from his throat, tearing free in raw, painful cries. His voice, strained and hoarse, felt like jagged rock scraping his vocal cords.
An incandescent fury flared, unexpected and overwhelming. He surged to his feet, a silent roar tearing at his chest, and began to hurl everything within reach. Books, scrolls, an empty inkwell – they crashed against the walls, scattering across the floor. He cried and raged, a tempest contained within four narrow walls, until the storm spent itself. He sank back to the floor, chest heaving.
Clamping his mouth shut, he squeezed his eyes closed. But even then, traitorous tears stubbornly welled, tracing hot paths down his cheeks as his sobs hitched, a broken rhythm.
“Damn them!”
Death, in that moment, seemed a sweet release. Not a genuine desire for cessation, but a desperate yearning for the night’s events to be undone, erased from existence.
The window had been tightly latched. Could anyone have heard? The Academy halls, usually bustling, were quiet at such an hour. But whispers traveled faster than any carriage. Shame, hot and sickening, curdled in his gut. Valerius. The very name was a venomous barb.
What Valerius had trampled, not just upon Callum, but before Elara, was far more than his physical form. It was his precarious standing, his hard-won pride, his very worth. That humiliation, witnessed and deliberate, was worse than any past slight, any cutting remark. It was a devastation that brought him to his knees, not in pain, but in impotent rage.
Yet, even amidst such raw, unbridled despair, a part of him, the calculating, insecure scholar, worried. How did he appear? The thought itself was a fresh wave of self-loathing.
Silence suddenly registered, a heavy, suffocating blanket. He stopped crying, abruptly aware of the steady tick of the Academy’s clock-charm. Just before eight bells. A cold, sharp thought cut through his muddled brain: if the housekeeper were to see him now, it would be ruinous. A chill, colder than any winter wind, spread through his mind.
His thoughts snapped into crystalline clarity. No one, absolutely no one, could see him in this pathetic, disgraced state. Scrambling to his feet, he righted his overturned chair, shoved scattered books and scrolls beneath his cot. Then, he sat, waiting, dreading the inevitable knock.
It came a few minutes later, punctual as a guild master’s ledger. He cleared his throat, forcing his voice into a semblance of normalcy.
“Do not enter, please. I believe I have contracted a chill. My head aches dreadfully. I shall be absent from my studies today.”
“Oh, Master Thorne? Are you certain you do not require the Healers’ College?” The housekeeper’s voice was distant, muffled through the thick oak.
He swallowed a bitter taste that rose in his throat. “I shall seek their aid later, if my condition does not improve.”
“Very well. Shall I send up some restorative broth?”
“Leave it outside my door, please. I am most grateful.”
“As you wish, Master Thorne. Do try to rest.”
Skipping the Academy was a necessity. He was in no fit state to face its scrutiny, and the very thought of it turned his stomach.
Thankfully, a small pot of healing salve, meant for minor scuffles or ink-stained wounds, lay on his small desk. He seized it, tearing open the wax seal. He slathered the cool, herbal balm over his aching body, a desperate plea for the pain to subside.
The pot slipped from his numb fingers, clattering to the flagstone floor. He paid it no mind, crawling back into the meager comfort of his cot.
A violent shiver racked his entire frame. The physical agony was secondary. What truly hurt was the humiliation, a constant, cruel pinching in his gut. It was absurd, wretched, unbearable. He pulled the heavy woolen blankets tight, blocking out what little light filtered through the window. He burrowed deep, seeking refuge from the crushing despair. Only the thick fabric felt like a barrier against the world’s harsh judgment.
*Sleep*, he commanded himself. *I must sleep.* He forced his eyes shut, repeating silent assurances. His parents did not know. Valerius was not the type to boast of such a dishonorable display. It would be fine. All would be well.
He buried himself deeper beneath the covers, clutching at the fragile hope.
*****
Of course, it was not fine at all.
Hidden beneath the blanket, words, bitter and poisonous, tumbled from his lips in a frantic, silent stream. To any power listening—the Ancestors, the Weaver, even the silent stones of Eldoria—he wanted to scream it aloud, a torrent of raw, unvarnished truth.
*Please. It was Valerius. Lord Valerius struck me. He shamed me. That arrogant bastard. Valerius is unhinged. He is mad. Unbalanced. All because of Elara, he… After everything, he crushed it. Crushed my spirit, before her very eyes. I am a fool. I displayed such weakness to Elara, too.* The thought that someone, anyone, might have witnessed his degradation sent a fresh wave of terror through him.
His frantic thoughts screeched to a halt. A profound wave of self-loathing washed over him. He truly wished to vanish.
The most agonizing part was the first thing he did once his tears finally subsided. He scrambled to his feet, driven by a primal need to erase all evidence. Every fleeting message, every arcane correspondence Elara had sent him from that night, was meticulously purged from his personal scrying mirror. Then, with trembling fingers and a scholar’s precise knowledge, he accessed the Academy’s passive monitoring glyphs near his chambers. He cleared the mundane recordings from the predawn hours, scrubbing any potential trace of unusual activity near his door. That night had become a shameful secret, a stain he could not, would not, allow anyone to perceive.
*****
Three days passed. He remained confined to his chambers, feigning a debilitating illness. Despite the hideous appearance he knew he presented, his body was healing with surprising speed. Perhaps he had instinctively shielded the most visible areas, or perhaps his youth and a lifetime of decent nutrition made him more resilient than he’d thought. Visible injuries were minimal—a scattering of dark bruises hidden beneath his Academy robes, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself beneath the blankets, the cycle of despair and rage repeating, muted now, but ever present. He ignored every message, every summons.
He thought he could hold out until every mark had faded, but fate was not so kind. His parents, Lord and Lady Thorne, who had been absent from their country estate for weeks, returned unexpectedly. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him.
“...Callum, what has befallen your face?” His mother’s voice was laced with immediate concern, her sharp eyes missing nothing.
“Oh, well…” he began, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“A brawl? You sent word of a feverish chill.” His father’s tone hardened, suspicion evident.
As his father peppered him with questions, Callum’s mind raced, desperate for a plausible fabrication.
“A… a minor misunderstanding, Father. I was unwell, as I stated, but a friend had collected a particularly rare tome for me, and I felt it imperative to retrieve it…”
“And?” His father’s gaze was unyielding.
“And… on my way, I… I stumbled. Tripped, rather badly, and struck my face upon the flagstones.”
“What manner of stumble leaves a scholar’s face thus? Who was with you?” The noble indignation in his father’s voice rose sharply. Callum frantically waved his hands, a futile gesture to calm the storm.
“No, truly, Father, I would not wish to cause any undue trouble. It was not a serious altercation. We have already reached an understanding.”
“Do not prevaricate, son. Why did you fight?”
“...Well…” After a strained moment of thought, Callum conjured an utterly pathetic excuse, one designed to deflect serious inquiry.
“I… I jested about a former suitor of his, one whose affections were recently… diverted.”
“What?” His father stared, then a disbelieving sigh escaped him. Unexpectedly, he let out a short, sharp laugh.
“Are you Academy lads enacting some low-grade farce?”
“No, Father…”
“Do not engage in such foolishness again.”
“...As you command.”
The relatively minor nature of his injuries helped the lie hold. The incident, to his immense relief, seemed to blow over.
Yet, something unsettling occurred while they dined in the family solarium that evening. His mother, quite out of context, suddenly mentioned Valerius.
“Tell me, Callum, are you still quite close with young Valerius these days?”
“What?” Callum’s fork clattered softly against his plate.
“He does not seem to frequent the manor as he once did.” His mother, rarely at home, seemed unduly curious.
The mere mention of Valerius forced the image of his antagonist into Callum’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back, an irritable edge to his voice.
“It remains as it always has.”
*The same, my ass.* He thought, the curse almost escaping his lips. Damn him. Damn him for the shame, the crushing humiliation that made him wish the very flagstones would swallow him whole.
“Did another friend not visit recently? The housekeeper made mention of it. Are you close with this new acquaintance?”
Callum’s body went rigid. Slowly, his gaze drifted toward the service door, through which the housekeeper was busily clearing the dining table. A cold dread, sharp and penetrating, pierced him. Had she heard? Could she have overheard anything that night? Was it possible her ear had caught the sounds of his despair, his rage, Valerius’s cruel words?
“Callum? Is something amiss?” His mother’s question startled him. He blurted out a response, unthinking.
“Yes. We are… we are close.”
What his mother said next, Callum could not recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped all other sensations from his mind. He remembered only the peculiar look his mother had given him when she mentioned Valerius. It was the same expression she wore when delivering an unpleasant tidings.
*Why?*
That single question propelled him further into a spiraling fear. His fingers grew cold, clammy. No. She could not have heard. The housekeeper, known for her slight deafness, resided in the distant servants’ quarters, far removed from his secluded Academy chamber. She could not have heard anything. Yet… why did it feel as if something was profoundly wrong? All he could do was offer a desperate, silent prayer to gods he barely believed in.
Three more days crawled by. His parents began to press him to return to his studies. He absolutely did not wish to. But continued absence would surely prompt his mother to suspect a deeper problem than a simple scuffle. That was the last thing he wanted. So, he forced a cheerful facade, a mask of normalcy. Nothing was amiss. He was perfectly well.
The days leading up to his return were consumed by endless worry. What if he encountered Valerius or Elara? Would Valerius accost him again? Would he humiliate him before their entire class—or, worse, before Elara, forcing her to witness his disgrace once more? Would he continue to trample upon Callum as if he were a speck of dust?
The mere thought sent a wave of nausea through him.
Upon his forced return to the Academy, he hung his satchel on the side of his desk, scattering a few random scrolls atop it. He sat down, staring blankly at the polished wood, as the distant murmur of the hallway grew steadily louder. As soon as he heard approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
Pretending slumber, he reasoned, would at least delay discovery of his bruised face. Not for long, perhaps, but long enough. However, he had failed to account for one crucial detail: the desk directly behind his belonged to Kael. Kael was a peculiar sort, capable of reading an entire room’s emotional temperature yet choosing, at times, to act utterly oblivious.
Kael arrived, pausing by Callum’s desk. A hand, surprisingly calloused, slipped between Callum’s shoulder and neck. Fingers, strong and unyielding, tilted Callum’s face upwards. He had no time to resist. He was forced to reveal the stark evidence of his ordeal. Kael’s eyebrow arched, a silent question in his gaze, as he examined Callum’s face. He asked, bluntly:
“What in the blazes happened to your face, Thorne?”
“...Nothing of consequence.” Callum muttered, eyes still half-closed.
“Did you fall again?” Kael’s voice held a faint, knowing lilt.
“Aye. Something akin to that.”
“Truly?”
Kael clicked his tongue, a soft, disapproving sound, then shook his head. He abruptly released Callum’s face, sending his head nearly slamming back onto the desk.
“Confound it, Kael!” Callum glared, startled by the rough handling. Kael merely offered a crooked, almost thoughtful grin, his eyes distant. Whatever he pondered, Callum had no way of knowing.
Neither Lord Valerius nor Elara attended the Academy that day.
But during Callum’s absence, a whisper had already begun to unfurl its tendrils throughout the Academy’s hallowed halls.
“Hear ye, hear ye! Lord Valerius… that scoundrel, it is said…”
No one directly questioned Callum about his injuries. Yet, the curious glances, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased when he passed, made it abundantly clear. The rumor had already taken root.
Perhaps, he realized, a cruel twist of fate had granted him a measure of luck.
*****
The rumors centered around him and Lord Valerius. Neither had attended studies since the whispers began, and even Elara had vanished shortly thereafter, leaving no one to dispute the burgeoning tales. With Callum’s bruised countenance as silent, visible proof, the rumors spread like wildfire.
The story went thus: Callum Thorne and Lord Valerius had suffered a grievous falling out. And, it was said, Lord Valerius harbored an… unbecoming fixation.
“That craven noble, I tell you, he had an unseemly desire for that… that ink-stained scholar.”
“An ink-stained scholar? Oh, wait. By the Ancestors. Damn, I cannot cease my laughter.”
“He looks quite the pitiful, ink-stained wretch, does he not? So unassuming.”
Such conversations filled the common rooms, the refectory, the practice yards.
“All those who once courted Valerius’s favor found themselves cast aside, their ambitions… trampled. Now he turns his ire upon a mere commoner.”