A leaden weight settled across Lysander’s chest as consciousness seeped back, slow and viscous like cooled pitch. He lay sprawled on the silken confines of his bed, the embroidered Blackwood crest digging into his cheek. Even in the swirling haze of pain, a primal instinct for privacy must have stirred; the faint thrum of his chamber’s wards vibrated against his skin, a testament to a door locked, a sanctuary sealed. “Remarkable, for one so undone,” a voice, not his own, seemed to echo in the hollow space between his ears. He remained motionless, blinking through the lingering phantom tremors. His entire face throbbed, a dull, numbing ache that pulsed with his blood. Slowly, he lifted a hand, each joint a rusty hinge, protesting with a sharp, skeletal grind. Pain lanced through the spaces between his bones. “Gods…” The sound was a shallow gasp, barely audible. Fingers, hesitant and trembling, grazed his jawline. Tender spots had hardened beneath the skin, a grotesque topography of bruises blooming beneath the surface. He lay there, suspended in a moment of agonizing assessment, before pressing his palm flat against the cool, darkwood frame of the bed and levering himself upright. Sitting on the edge, head bowed, he stared blankly at the intricately carved pillar of his bedpost. A sudden, choked sob ripped its way from his throat, raw and ragged, as if his vocal cords had been scraped by a jagged shard of obsidian. He clutched at the fine silk of his nightshirt, a whimpering sound escaping him. The fury surged, swift and scalding. He sprang to his feet, a wild, despairing cry tearing from him. Old scrolls, discarded quills, a small, intricate carving of an arcane symbol – anything within reach became a projectile. They clattered against the walls, struck the heavy drapes, scattering across the polished floor. Rage burned, absolute and consuming, an inferno against the crushing humiliation. It felt like an eternity before the strength drained, leaving him to sink to the floor, breath hitching. He clamped his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes closed, but the tears still welled, hot and insistent, tracing paths through the dust of his shame. His sobs were silent now, shuddering through his frame. “Damn it all!” The whisper was venomous, a prayer of self-loathing. He truly yearned for oblivion, a void to swallow the crushing weight of existence. But the desire for death was not for the pain of the present, but for the indelible stain of the preceding night. The heavy window shutters had been drawn tight. The wards, he knew, dampened sound. Yet, a chilling question clawed at his mind: could someone have heard? Could the whispers of his debasement have escaped the confines of his chamber? Damn it. Damn Thorne. That wretched Elara Vane. Why had they come? Why had they laid waste to what little peace remained within him? “...Damn it.” What Thorne had trampled before Elara wasn't merely Lysander's body; it was his very pride, his carefully constructed facade of scholarly aloofness. That humiliation, the memory of his own pathetic weakness laid bare, was worse than any of Thorne’s casual slights. It was a devastation so profound it brought him to his knees, screaming into the silence. Even amidst such utter despair, a familiar, sickening worry surfaced. He still fretted over how he appeared to the world. A fleeting, perverse concern for decorum, even when utterly broken. The sudden, encroaching silence of the Lyceum morning registered. He stopped crying. His eyes flickered to the arcane chronometer on his wall – just before the eighth hour. A cold dread pierced through the muddled fog of his mind: if the novitiate acolyte, assigned to his morning ablutions, were to find him like this, it would be an unmitigated disaster. The chill spread, clearing the haze from his thoughts. There was no way he could allow anyone to witness him in this wretched, disgraceful state. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the overturned stool, gathered the scattered scrolls and quills, shoving them hastily beneath the heavy bed. Then, he sat, waiting, heart hammering, for the inevitable tap on the door. It came moments later, precisely on cue. He forced his voice level, steady. “Do not enter, Brother Emrys. I fear a chill has taken hold. My constitution feels quite unwell. I shall forgo the morning lectures.” “Ah, indeed? Should I summon a healing acolyte?” The novitiate’s voice was reedy, tinged with mild concern. Lysander swallowed a bitter, coppery taste. “Later, perhaps, if this malaise persists.” “As you wish, Scholar Blackwood. Shall I leave a broth at your threshold?” “That would be most appreciated. Thank you.” “Rest well, Scholar. May the Aether soothe your humors.” He had chosen to absent himself from the Lyceum’s rigorous schedule. He was in no condition to face the intricate dance of arcane debate, nor did he possess the desire. He simply could not. Thankfully, a vial of potent unguent, prepared by the Lyceum’s alchemists for minor training mishaps, lay among his implements. He retrieved it, uncorked the stopper, and slathered the cool, viscous balm over his aching body, a desperate plea for the pain to subside. It felt like fire and ice, a momentary distraction from the deeper ache. The vial slipped from his numb fingers, clattering to the flagstones. He ignored it. His entire body shivered, an uncontrollable tremor that was not born of cold. But more than the physical sting, the humiliation gnawed at him, a relentless pressure in his gut, as if cruel, invisible fingers pinched and twisted. It was absurd, this self-inflicted torment. To hide his tear-streaked face, he extinguished the lantern, drew the heavy bed-curtains, and burrowed deep beneath the voluminous sable blankets. Only the suffocating darkness, the thick wool, felt capable of shielding him from the crushing despair that now resided in his very bones. *Sleep,* he commanded himself. *I must sleep.* Forcing his eyes shut, he whispered a desperate mantra: *It will be fine. My parents are far at the Blackwood demesne. Thorne would not boast of such a squalid encounter. It will be fine.* He pulled the blankets tighter, the wool scratching against his skin, a minor irritant against the profound anguish. --- It was not fine. Not in the slightest. Hidden beneath the oppressive layers, he muttered words that clung bitterly to his tongue. To any unseen entity – the forgotten gods, the silent arcane currents, his distant parents, anyone – he wanted to scream it aloud, a torrent of righteous fury. *Please. It was Thorne. Lord Thorne struck me. He defiled me. That bastard. Thorne is a madman. He is unhinged. Possessed by some vile craving. All because of Elara Vane, he… after all the years of Lyceum decorum, the pretense of scholarly rivalry… he crushed it. Crushed it before her very eyes. I am a fool. I showed that pathetic, quivering aspect of myself to Elara, too.* And the harrowing thought that someone, anyone, might have glimpsed it all… it made his stomach churn with bile. He abruptly halted the frantic surge of his thoughts. A wave of self-loathing, sharp and debilitating, washed over him. He wanted to cease to exist. The most wretched part was what he did after hours of silent weeping under the blanket. The first, desperate act: he scrambled to erase every fleeting scryed message, every recorded arcane correspondence from Elara Vane the previous night. Then, in a feverish rush, he deleted the monitoring crystal’s record from the Lyceum gate, scrubbing all footage from the predawn hours. That night had become an abyssal secret, a shameful, disfiguring scar he could not, would not, allow anyone to perceive. --- Lysander absented himself from the Lyceum for three full days. Despite his ghastly appearance, his physical form healed with unnatural speed. Perhaps the arcane energies within him hastened the process, or perhaps he had instinctually shielded the most visible areas during Thorne’s assault. Regardless, the noticeable injuries were minimal – only a few dark, flowering bruises hidden beneath the high collar of his tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself within the confines of his chambers, weeping until his eyes burned, ignoring every summoned message, every ethereal chime that sought his attention. He believed he could hold out until a full recovery, but fate, as always, was a cruel master. His parents, the Arcane Lord and Lady Blackwood, who had been absent from the capital for many weeks, unexpectedly returned. A jolt of pure panic seized him. “...Son, what is this disfigurement upon your face?” Lord Blackwood’s voice, though calm, held an unsettling resonance that spoke of deep displeasure. “Oh, well…” Lysander stammered, his mind racing for a plausible falsehood. “You reported a malaise, a chill. I understood you were confined to your chambers for infirmity, not brawling.” As his father’s questions peppered him, a flimsy explanation began to coalesce. “Oh, um, I was feeling unwell, so a… a colleague offered to retrieve the weekly Lyceum pronouncements for me…” “And?” The single word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken authority. “And I… I suffered a tumble on my way to retrieve them.” “A tumble? What manner of stumble leaves a scholar’s face thus marred? Who was involved?” Lord Blackwood’s voice sharpened, and Lysander frantically waved his hands, a desperate gesture for calm. “No, truly, Father, I wished to cause no disturbance. It was not a serious altercation. We have already… reconciled.” “Come, now – why did you ‘tumble’?” “...Well…” After a moment of frantic thought, he conjured a truly pathetic excuse. “I… I teased him for a failed courtship. He was… particularly sensitive.” “What?” The ridiculous answer, surprisingly, diffused some of the tension. Lord Blackwood let out a sigh of disbelief before a wry, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Are you all common street urchins, engaging in such melodrama?” “No, Father…” “Let this not occur again, Lysander.” “...Yes, Father.” It also helped that his injuries, though unsightly, did not appear as grievous as they might have been. The incident, thankfully, blew over. Yet, something unsettling occurred. While they were taking their evening meal in the family solarium, his mother, Lady Blackwood, suddenly spoke of Lord Thorne. “By the way, Lysander, are you still engaged in the same manner of scholarly discourse with Lord Thorne these days?” “What?” The question caught him off guard. “He simply doesn’t seem to call upon the Blackwood Lyceum suite as frequently as before.” For someone who spent barely a quarter of the year at the Lyceum, what could she possibly be curious about? The mere mention of Thorne forced his image into Lysander’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back, an irritable edge to his voice. “It is as it always has been.” *As it always has been, my ass.* Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. The shame, the searing humiliation, threatened to consume him whole. He wished for the floor to open and swallow him. “Didn’t another scholar call upon your suite recently? The novitiate acolyte mentioned a visitor. Are you cultivating a new intellectual acquaintance?” Lysander’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head toward the adjoining antechamber, where the assigned novitiate acolyte was busily tidying the dining crystal. A cold tendril of fear snaked up his spine. Had Emrys heard it? Could the boy have overheard anything that night? Was it possible the gentle acolyte had been the one to sense the disturbance? “Lysander? What troubles you?” Lady Blackwood’s voice was sharp with concern. Startled, he blurted out a response without thinking. “Yes. We are… colleagues.” What his mother said after that, Lysander could not recall. The sheer, paralyzing terror rooted him to the spot, wiping every other thought from his mind. What he did remember was the peculiar cast to her expression when she had mentioned Thorne. It was the kind of look she wore when relaying an unsettling arcane prophecy or a particularly dire political omen. *Why?* That single question plunged him deeper into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold, clammy. No. The novitiate could not have heard. Emrys was known for his poor hearing, a minor affliction that had nearly prevented his entry to the Lyceum proper, and his designated sleeping quarters were in a separate wing, far from the scholars’ suites. He could not have heard anything. But why? Why did it feel so profoundly, terrifyingly wrong? All he could do was offer a silent, desperate plea to a deity he didn’t truly believe in. --- Three more days passed. His parents began to gently, then more insistently, urge his return to the Lyceum classes. He absolutely did not want to. But if he continued to absent himself, his mother would surely suspect a deeper problem than a minor scuffle over a jilted friend. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced himself to adopt a cheerful, composed facade. Nothing was amiss. He was perfectly well. The days leading up to his return were filled with endless, gnawing worry. What would he do if he encountered Thorne? Or Elara? Would Thorne repeat his cruel display? Would he humiliate Lysander before the entire class – or, far worse, before Elara again? Would he continue to trample him as if he were less than dust? The thought alone made him nauseous. When he finally arrived at his designated lecture hall, he hung his satchel on the side of his desk, tossing some random parchments on top to obscure it. Then he sank onto the stool, staring blankly at the polished wood while the usual clamor of the hallway gradually swelled. As soon as he detected approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep. If he pretended to be lost in slumber, no one would notice the lingering disfigurement on his face. At least, not for a while. But he had failed to account for one critical detail: the seat behind him belonged to Caius. Caius possessed an uncanny knack for reading a room, yet frequently chose to act utterly oblivious to its social currents. As soon as Caius arrived, he paused beside Lysander’s desk. A cool hand slipped between Lysander’s shoulder and neck, and Caius’s fingers, surprisingly strong, tilted his face upwards. Lysander had no time to resist. He had no choice but to let Caius scrutinize his face. Caius raised a dark, inquisitive eyebrow as he examined him, his voice blunt and devoid of pretense: “What in the Aether happened to your visage, Blackwood?” “...It is nothing.” “Did you take another tumble?” “Yes. Something of the sort.” “Truly?” Caius clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive sound, and shook his head before abruptly releasing Lysander’s face. Lysander’s head nearly slammed onto the desk. “Damn you, Caius!” He glared, startled, but Caius merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts churned behind those unsettlingly perceptive eyes, Lysander had no way of knowing. Neither Lord Thorne nor Elara Vane appeared at the Lyceum that day. But while Lysander had been absent, a peculiar rumor had begun to spread through the Lyceum’s ancient halls. “Have you heard? Lord Thorne… that scion, he actually…” No one directly questioned Lysander about his injuries, but it was clear from the curious, sidelong glances he received that the rumor had already found its way through the entire student body. A twisted, perverse relief bloomed in his chest. It seemed he was luckier than he had thought. --- The whispers centered around Lysander Blackwood and Lord Thorne. Neither of them had attended classes since the day the rumors began, and even Elara Vane disappeared shortly after, leaving no one to dispel the burgeoning tales. With Lysander’s bruised face serving as silent, visible proof, the rumors spread with unnatural speed, twisting into grotesque forms. The prevalent story now held that Scholar Blackwood and Lord Thorne had a profound falling out. And, more shockingly, that Lord Thorne harbored a peculiar fascination for the intellects of others, especially those deemed beneath his station – a dark arcanum of the heart, as some put it. “That fool, Thorne, I’m telling you, he utterly adored that… quill-rat.” “A quill-rat? Wait. By the Arch-Librarian! That is perfect. He does look like one, doesn’t he?” “Seriously, all coiled nerves and ink-stained fingers.” The lecture hall hummed with such conversations, thinly veiled behind raised hands and hushed tones. “All those lesser nobles who once trailed Lord Thorne like supplicants, they’ve been completely abandoned…”

Chapter 2.5: Whispers in the Obsidian Halls