A metallic taste coated Lysander’s tongue. He lay twisted on his bed, the velvet counterpane tangled around his limbs like a predatory vine. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent rhythm, each pulse a hammer against his skull. Even through the haze, a faint memory surfaced: the frantic fumbling for the key, the metallic click of the lock before he crumpled. A small, self-satisfied part of him, numb with pain, acknowledged the feat. “Remarkable, even in such disarray.” His own thoughts, sharp and cutting as a razor. He blinked, his vision blurring then focusing on the ornate ceiling rosette. Awareness trickled back, cold and unwelcome. Every muscle shrieked in protest. Lifting a hand felt like hauling a boulder. Rust, indeed, had settled into his joints, a searing pain lancing through his shoulder. A groan, raw and ragged, escaped him. “Ah…” Fingers, stiff and trembling, traced the tender landscape of his face. His cheekbone felt alien, swollen and hard beneath his touch. After a moment of dizzying stillness, he pushed himself up, hands pressing against the soft mattress until he was upright. Perched on the edge of the bed, he stared blankly at the wall, the heavy damask curtains drawn tight, plunging the room into a sepulchral gloom. Then, a wave of desolate despair washed over him, hot and overwhelming. A whimper tore through his throat, followed by a choked, rasping cry. His voice felt raw, like sandpaper against his vocal cords, a testament to a grief too deep for quiet tears. An incandescent fury flared. He sprang up, scattering a stack of carefully rendered illustrations from his mahogany desk, sending a porcelain inkwell crashing to the polished floor. Obsidian liquid bloomed across the pale wood like a dark, creeping stain. A velvet cushion, embroidered with the Thorne crest, sailed through the air, striking the wardrobe with a muffled thud. He screamed, a sound devoid of words, choked with rage and shame. It felt an eternity before his legs gave out, depositing him back onto the cool, unforgiving floorboards. He clamped his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes tight, but the tears defied him, warm rivulets tracing paths through the dried salt on his cheeks. His sobs hitched, an ugly, broken sound. “Damn it all!” Death, sweet oblivion. That was what he craved. But it wasn’t life he wished to escape, not truly. It was the indelible stain of last night. The heavy oak door had been secured, the windows latched tight. Yet the question gnawed at him: Could anyone have heard? The servants’ quarters were distant, but Veridia’s grand houses had ears in every shadow. Could a groom, returning late, have caught a glimpse? Could a sleepy scullery maid, fetching water, have heard the muted struggle, the choked cries? Damn Julian Ashworth. Damn Elias Sterling. Why had they come? Why had they laid waste to his already precarious existence? “...Damn it.” Julian Ashworth hadn’t merely struck him. He had defiled his pride, trampled it underfoot in front of Elias Sterling. That humiliation, sharp and bitter, eclipsed every past slight, every cutting remark, every icy dismissal. It was a wound that festered, far deeper than any bruising. Even now, reduced to a sniveling wreck, Lysander found himself acutely aware of how he must appear. This was his inescapable curse. Abruptly, the silence registered, thick and oppressive. He choked back a sob, his gaze darting to the grandfather clock. Nearly eight bells. A jolt of icy clarity shot through his muddled brain: Mrs. Croft, the housekeeper, would soon be calling for his morning tea. Encountering her in this grotesque state would be utter catastrophe. A cold dread enveloped him. His mind snapped into focus. He could not, *would not*, allow anyone to witness this abject disgrace. He scrambled to his feet, righting the overturned chair, sweeping the scattered papers and the broken inkwell under the bed, the shards glinting maliciously. Then, he sank back onto the mattress, forcing a semblance of composure, waiting for the inevitable tap. A few minutes later, precise as ever, it came. He cleared his throat, forcing a voice that sounded unnaturally hoarse. “Don’t enter, Mrs. Croft. I fear I’ve caught a chill. Feeling quite unwell. I shall forgo my lessons today.” “Oh, dear? Perhaps a visit from the apothecary?” Mrs. Croft’s voice, muffled through the heavy door, held a note of concern. Lysander swallowed the bitter bile rising in his throat. “I shall send for one later if I do not improve.” “Very well, young master. May I prepare some restorative broth?” “Kindly leave it outside the door, if you please. Much obliged.” “Right away, Master Lysander. Just hold on a moment.” Skipping his lessons was unavoidable. He was utterly unfit for the Academy, and the thought of facing its polished halls, its watchful eyes, was abhorrent. Fortunately, a small jar of arnica salve lay among his drawing implements. He snatched it, uncapping the lid with fumbling fingers, slathering the cooling balm over the tender spots on his face and shoulder, praying for the searing ache to subside. Then, he crawled back beneath the oppressive weight of his bedclothes. --- The jar of salve slipped from his grasp, clattering softly onto the floor. His entire body trembled uncontrollably, a fragile leaf in a sudden gust. But the physical pain was a dull companion compared to the exquisite torment of humiliation. It felt as though tiny, cruel pincers were ceaselessly pinching at his very soul. It was beyond absurd. To hide his tear-streaked face, he burrowed deeper into the silk sheets, pulling the heavy counterpane over his head, blocking out the sliver of weak morning light that pierced the drawn curtains. Only the suffocating darkness of the bedclothes offered a semblance of refuge from the crushing despair. He needed sleep. He *had* to sleep. Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated a mantra: it would be fine. His parents were still at their country estate, far from the scandal. Julian Ashworth was hardly the sort to boast of such a sordid affair. It would be fine. With that desperate thought, he buried himself deeper still. Actually, it wasn’t fine at all. Hidden beneath the oppressive blanket, he muttered words that tasted of ash and bile. To anyone – to the distant, indifferent heavens, to his absent parents, to any unseen entity – he wished to scream them aloud, a torrential outpouring of anguish. Please. It was Julian. Julian Ashworth struck him. He trampled him. That fiend. Julian is a madman, insane. He’s utterly deranged. All for Elias Sterling, he… After everything, the shared lessons, the whispered confidences, the subtle glances… he crushed it all. Crushed it right before Elias. Lysander, an utter fool. He’d revealed his pathetic, broken self to Elias Sterling too. And the insidious thought that *anyone* might have witnessed it, overheard it all… His frantic thoughts screeched to a halt. A wave of self-loathing, black and viscous, surged through him. He wanted to cease existing. The most wretched irony was his subsequent actions, even as tears still soaked the pillow. First, a desperate scramble to obliterate every message, every call record from Elias Sterling from his private ledger, every trace of that fateful night. Then, a chilling thought: what if the night watchman, or a stable boy, had been awake? The mere *possibility* sent him into a frantic internal purge, imagining himself erasing every potential witness, every overheard sound. That night had become an unspeakable secret, a shameful truth he could not bear for a single soul to glimpse. --- He skipped the Academy for three days. Despite his ghastly appearance, his physical wounds began to mend. Perhaps it was the fortunate angle of the blows, or simply a robust constitution, but the visible injuries were minimal—a fading bruise along his jawline, a deeper discoloration on his shoulder, hidden beneath the carefully chosen cravats and high-collared shirts. For those three days, he remained a recluse, buried in his bedchamber, the tears a constant, quiet companion. He ignored every urgent summons from his tutor, every concerned note from Mrs. Croft. He thought he could hold out until every mark vanished, but fate, ever cruel, intervened. Lord and Lady Thorne, who had been away at their distant country estate for weeks, returned to the city unannounced. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. Lady Thorne’s discerning gaze immediately caught the faint bruising. “…Lysander, what has happened to your face?” He stammered, searching for a plausible lie. “Oh, well…” Lord Thorne’s voice, usually a booming resonance, sharpened. “I thought Mrs. Croft said you were ailing? A cold, was it not?” Lysander’s mind raced. “Yes, indeed. I wasn’t feeling well, so a fellow student, er, offered to collect my notes…” “And?” His father’s brow furrowed. “And I… I had a minor altercation on my way to meet him.” “An altercation? What sort of skirmish leaves a young man looking thus? Who was it?” Lord Thorne’s voice rose, a dangerous edge creeping in. Lysander flapped his hands frantically. “No, truly, Father, it was nothing serious. I merely… tripped and struck my face upon the cobblestones.” The lie felt thin and brittle. “What kind of fight entails ‘tripping’ onto a cobblestone in such a manner? Tell me, Lysander, who dared lay a hand on you?” When his father’s voice reached a near shout, Lysander hastily tried to calm him. “No, no, I assure you, it was nothing. We’ve already mended fences, as it were. It truly was a trifling matter.” “Come now, Lysander. Tell me the cause.” He hesitated, then blurted out the most pathetic, yet perhaps believable, fabrication he could conjure. “I… I teased him for being spurned by a young lady.” “What?” Surprisingly, his ludicrous explanation seemed to deflate his father’s anger. Lord Thorne let out a disbelieving sigh, then, to Lysander’s astonishment, a sudden, booming laugh. “Are you boys enacting some absurd melodrama from the public stage?” “No, Father…” “Well, see that it doesn’t occur again.” “…Yes, Father.” The fact that his injuries were not as severe as they might have been also aided his cause. With a heavy sigh of relief, Lysander watched the incident blow over, or so he hoped. Something peculiar occurred during dinner that evening. As they dined in the grand salon, Lady Thorne, amidst discussion of the season’s social calls, abruptly mentioned Julian Ashworth. “By the by, Lysander, are you still much in Julian Ashworth’s company these days?” Lysander stiffened, a flicker of cold dread. “What?” “He simply doesn’t seem to call at the house as frequently as before.” For someone who spent less than half her time in the city, her observation was unnervingly precise. The mere mention of Julian forced his image into Lysander’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back, his voice sharper than intended. “It is precisely as it always has been.” The same, his ass. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Shame and humiliation, scorching and raw, threatened to choke him anew. “Did not another young gentleman call upon you recently? Mrs. Croft mentioned it. Are you much acquainted with him?” Lady Thorne’s gaze was unsettlingly casual. Lysander’s body went rigid. Slowly, his head swiveled toward the open archway leading to the kitchen, where Mrs. Croft was meticulously wiping down the sideboard. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Had she heard? Could she have heard the shouts, the struggle, that night? Was it possible she had been the one, an unwitting witness, to his utter degradation? “Lysander? Is something amiss?” His mother’s question startled him. He blurted out a response, barely processing the words. “Yes. We are… very close.” What Lady Thorne said next, he couldn’t recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped everything else from his mind. He only remembered the fleeting expression on his mother’s face when she’d first spoken of Julian Ashworth – a look often reserved for unpleasant news, for the discussion of a fallen acquaintance or a ruined reputation. Why? That single question plunged him deeper into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold, clammy. No. She couldn’t have heard. Mrs. Croft, though diligent, was known for her failing hearing and her quarters were situated far from his own. She couldn’t have heard a thing. But then why? Why did everything feel so terribly, inexplicably *wrong*? All he could do was offer a desperate, silent prayer to a god he no longer believed in. --- Three more days passed. His parents began to gently, then more insistently, urge his return to the Academy. He absolutely dreaded it. But to prolong his absence would surely spark his mother’s suspicion, leading her to believe there was a far greater catastrophe than a minor tussle with a friend. That, above all, was the last thing he desired. So, he forced a cheerful façade, a fragile mask to conceal the swirling maelstrom within. There was nothing amiss. Absolutely nothing. The days leading up to his return were consumed by a tormenting anxiety. What if he encountered Julian Ashworth? Or Elias Sterling? Would Julian beat him again, perhaps in the public square, or worse, within the very walls of the Academy, before the eyes of Elias? Would he continue to trample on Lysander’s pride, reducing him to nothing? The thought alone made his stomach churn with nausea. Upon his arrival at the Academy, he navigated the familiar corridors like a ghost. He hung his leather satchel on the hook beside his desk, scattering a few parchment scrolls atop it, then slumped into his seat. He stared blankly at the polished wood, the increasing clamor of the hallway growing louder, more oppressive. As soon as he heard approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep. If he pretended to slumber, perhaps no one would notice the lingering marks on his face. At least, not immediately. But he had overlooked one crucial detail: the seat directly behind his belonged to Lord Alaric Vane. Alaric was a young man with an uncanny knack for reading a room, yet who delighted in choosing blissful ignorance. He moved with the fluid grace of a practiced duelist, his presence a quiet, unsettling hum. Alaric arrived, not a moment too soon, and paused beside Lysander’s desk. A cool hand, surprisingly strong, slipped between Lysander’s shoulder and neck. Before Lysander could even twitch, Alaric’s fingers tilted his chin upward, forcing his face into the revealing light of the arched window. He had no choice but to let Alaric scrutinize him. Alaric’s dark brows rose, a subtle, almost imperceptible arch. His voice was a low, dry rasp. “My dear Thorne, what in the blazes has befallen your countenance?” Lysander averted his gaze. “…’Tis nothing.” “Tripped again, did we?” A hint of amusement laced Alaric’s tone. “Yes. Something of the sort.” “Indeed?” Alaric clucked his tongue, shaking his head slowly before abruptly releasing Lysander’s face. Lysander’s head nearly slammed onto the desk. “Damn you, Vane!” Lysander glared at him, startled, but Alaric merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, his eyes distant, lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts churned behind those unsettling eyes, Lysander had no way of knowing. Neither Julian Ashworth nor Elias Sterling graced the Academy with their presence that day. But during Lysander’s absence, a whisper had begun to spread through the hallowed halls. “Have you heard? Julian Ashworth… that brute actually…” No one dared to directly question Lysander about his injuries, but the curious, sidelong glances, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased when he passed, confirmed it: the rumor had already taken root, curling its way through the student body like tendrils of smoke. It seemed, in a twisted, horrifying way, he was luckier than he’d thought. --- The rumors centered around Lysander Thorne and Julian Ashworth. Neither had attended the Academy since the day the whispers began, and even Elias Sterling had disappeared shortly thereafter, leaving no one to dispel the swirling tales. With Lysander’s faintly bruised face as visible, if subtle, proof, the rumors spread with astonishing rapidity. The story, whispered in hushed tones behind gloved hands, went thus: Lysander Thorne and Julian Ashworth had a scandalous falling out. And, Julian Ashworth, it was murmured, harbored an unnatural, ungentlemanly affection for Lysander. “That beast, I tell you, he had a most unwholesome fondness for Thorne. The little songbird.” “A songbird? Oh, come now. Indeed! I nearly choked on my morning tea, thinking of it.” “He truly does resemble a fragile, delicate specimen, does he not?” “Seriously, like a rare bloom, easily crushed.” The common room hummed with such pronouncements. “All those young gentlemen who aligned themselves with Ashworth are now utterly compromised. Stabbed in the back, as it were, by their own loyalty.” The narrative shifted, evolving, distorting. Julian Ashworth, the aggressor, was now painted as a man consumed by an unspeakable vice, his cruelty a direct consequence of a perverse desire. Lysander Thorne, the sensitive artist, became the delicate victim, the object of unwanted, violent attentions. A chilling, dangerous twist. Yet, as the whispers solidified, Lysander felt a strange, cold calm descend. His humiliation, the raw, burning shame, had not only been shielded but weaponized. A grotesque relief washed over him. The scandal, it seemed, would not be his. It would be Julian Ashworth’s. His reputation, so easily shattered, was now, inexplicably, a weapon in his trembling hand.

A Veil of Shattered Pride