Two days after Lord Theron’s writing desk had been overturned, his carefully curated collection of rare botanical prints was found, torn and mud-splashed, tossed into the courtyard’s smouldering refuse pit.
Discernment was not required to identify the orchestrator. A few hours hence, a smirk of self-congratulation bloomed on Master Rhys’s face as he caught Lord Alaric’s eye. Whispers, like the rustle of silk in a darkened corridor, confirmed Rhys had been boasting in the servants’ quarters, detailing the defilement of Theron’s precious illustrations.
“How exceedingly bold.”
I observed the soiled box, its once pristine edges now frayed and stained, resting beside the blackened brazier. It held not merely discarded paper, but the visible remnants of a quiet skirmish between Lord Alaric’s contingent and Lord Theron’s dwindling influence.
Two mornings past, Lord Theron had been outmaneuvered by Lord Alaric, blissfully unaware of his own defeat.
The motive was transparent. At first, I had dismissed the acts as mere schoolboy torment, yet a colder, more precise undercurrent now registered. Even Theron’s own confidantes began to cast him wary glances. His animosity towards his elder brother, Lord Julian, felt less like fraternal rivalry and more like a festering wound, manifesting in increasingly erratic, almost violent outbursts. The very moment I witnessed Theron’s desperate confrontation with Julian, I was certain. But as the tide of aristocratic opinion shifted irrevocably against Theron, I felt no compulsion to intercede, no prick of guilt.
I possessed too much sagacity to invite ruin upon myself. To defend Theron would brand me with a fleeting kindness, perhaps even loyalty. Yet in the intricate, velvet cage of Veridian society, where countless versions of one’s self were constantly scrutinized, even a single, misplaced act could incite questions.
“Why?”
The very thought sent a tremor through my composure.
I lowered my brow onto the polished surface of my writing table, closing my eyes. A brief respite. For a fleeting instant, I yearned for a world where, upon opening them, everything would align to my silent desires. Drowsiness began to claim me. Had I been left undisturbed, I would have certainly succumbed.
Then, a sharp rap against my skull jolted me awake. I straightened, my fingers instinctively rising to my crown, only to see Lord Alaric also touching his forehead, a faint frown creasing his brow.
“Confound it, that smarted.”
“Why are you indulging in slumber at this hour, Lysander?”
“That is hardly your concern. What, pray tell, is that contraption?”
“Ah, this?” Alaric grinned, a disarming flash of white teeth. He lifted the polished malacca cane he held lightly beneath his arm. “A fortunate acquisition. Discovered abandoned in the Academy’s archives.”
My features tightened in a subtle display of irritation. Lord Alaric perpetually embraced the unconventional.
The sting was negligible, but I fretted over the possibility of my precisely styled locks having been disarranged. Meanwhile, Lord Alaric swept a chair out of his path with an elegant kick, then settled into it with practiced ease before it could topple. He did not, of course, fall. He flung his satchel onto the desk, propping it beneath his chin, and flopped forward.
“You rouse me from my rest only to pursue your own?”
“I merely worried for your scholarly standing, ensuring you did not drowse through a vital lecture. My own standing is, alas, already beyond redemption.”
“Nonsense.”
I twisted in my seat, a faint grumble escaping me. Everything Alaric uttered seemed designed to provoke a retort. I nudged his polished boot with my own, and he merely smirked.
“Lysander, is it proper to strike a gentleman with a recent injury? You uncivilized rogue.”
The playful mix of mockery and accusation drew a scoff from me. This time, I aimed a more deliberate kick at his cane. It clattered towards him, but without even raising his head, he deftly intercepted it with one hand. Unperturbed, his face still buried in his satchel, he let out a silent chuckle, then spoke abruptly.
“I have been meaning to inquire.”
“Of what?”
“That was no mere tumble, was it?”
Damn. Was it so apparent? The mark on my temple was barely perceptible, a faint smudge.
My hesitation lasted but a breath before I smoothed my hand over my face, replying with calculated nonchalance.
“An unfortunate misstep.”
“Ha.”
His chin still resting upon his satchel, Lord Alaric emitted a low, knowing chuckle.
“Indeed?”
His gaze flicked to mine, and he pointed a finger, singling me out. His intent eluded me, so I merely questioned in return.
“What now?”
“You are quite brazen.”
The moment he smiled, the cane propped against his shoulder, my thoughts scattered.
What precisely did he imply?
“…Brazen in what regard?”
“I suspect you did not simply lose your footing…”
“……….”
Lord Alaric’s pronouncements were always veiled, but this time, they carried a quiet, unsettling menace.
His eyes were unnervingly still. Bright irises, dark pupils, fixed intently upon me. It was like observing the tip of an arrow, unable to predict its trajectory. And this time, it was aimed directly at my heart. My mind blanked. Two words echoed, ceaselessly repeating. Impossible. He could not know. Impossible. He could not know.
Then, Lord Alaric’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly.
“It appeared more as if you encountered an obstacle.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. My throat tightened. My breath snagged in my chest. A silent gulp. While his lips parted, I found myself unable to blink.
“Should others learn of it, how terribly mortifying that would be, would it not?”
“……….”
“I shall guard your secret.”
Then, raising the hand holding his cane to his lips, he whispered the words, accompanying them with a slow, deliberate wink. The breath I had been holding slammed against my ribs, a trapped, frantic bird.
He did not linger for a response. This time, he casually ran a hand through his raven-dark forelock and gestured towards me.
“Though, I must ask, have you adopted my coiffure? That is rather unoriginal.”
I was bereft of speech. Lord Alaric crinkled his nose in a show of exaggerated disdain.
“At any rate, I shall now resume my repose.”
He yawned, burying his face once more into his satchel. Staring at the back of his head, I finally managed to murmur,
“I have not copied you, nor have I altered my hair.”
“Oh, indeed?” His muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his bag.
---
“O Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.”
Lord Alaric intoned his prayer, clutching his academic report in one hand.
Fourth hour. No sooner had our Latin lesson concluded than we received our midterm assessments from the previous month. Alaric plunged his head into the opened parchment, scanned his scores, and spontaneously recited the ancient prayer. He then threw his head back with dramatic flair, emitting a profound sigh.
“Ah, I am quite undone.”
I merely glanced at my own report, noted my marks, then folded the vellum precisely and slipped it into the front pocket of my portmanteau. When I looked back, Lord Alaric was still sighing, a theatrical performance of despair.
Because of how far back his head was thrown, I could only discern the strong line of his Adam’s apple. It bobbed heavily, almost as if chiding me for my prolonged observation. Fixing my gaze upon his throat, I spoke.
“That particular prayer is not intended for such circumstances.”
“Who concerns themselves with such niceties? A prayer is a prayer.”
Then, quite suddenly, he inquired, “Lysander, tell me, is it God or the Lord one petitions?”
It was then that a peculiar aspect of Lord Alaric’s character became evident—his peculiar brand of spiritual devotion.
“Why solicit my opinion? It is your creed.”
“Lysander, do not be so reserved. You possess such formidable intellect, I imagined you would hold all knowledge.”
“I do not. Nor am I devout.”
Lord Alaric, who had been leaning back with such abandon, abruptly propelled himself forward. Our eyes met, and before I could prevent it, I instinctively averted my gaze towards the window, feigning disinterest. Yet, a sharp prickle, like being caught in an indiscretion, traced itself across my chest.
I stared blankly out at the verdant lawns, then shifted my focus to the rigid collar of Lord Alaric’s immaculately starched shirt. The crisp, white linen lay against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, a glimpse of his collarbone, sharply defined, flashed into view.
“So? Fancy joining me for services this Sunday?”
“What? Certainly not.”
“Ah, why ever not? Let us attend. Should you grace the chapel on weekends and for the Yuletide festivities, they dispense small provisions. Fine fruits, delicate pastries, even spiced wine…”
“Hold, do not tell me you frequent the chapel solely for such inducements?”
“But of course.”
Finally, my gaze rested fully upon his face, landing upon the quill pen he had balanced upon his upper lip. At first, pride dictated my denial, but at that precise moment, I had to concede—Lord Alaric possessed striking features. A truly smug, handsome rogue.
The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted his voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble.
“Yet the way you utter it, it implies I am pilfering. If they are freely offered, what fault lies in accepting?”
“Can one truly call it faith if one believes for such self-serving motives?”
“That is where all journeys of faith commence. Few begin with grand pronouncements of belief. They think, ‘Ah, they offer delectable fare. This individual must be benevolent.’ And then, by degrees, their belief in that ‘benevolent person with provisions’ blossoms into absolute conviction in the Divine. The genesis and the progression are inconsequential. What matters is that now, I believe.”
Lord Alaric often spouted such eloquent nonsense. Even Lord Theron, on occasion, found himself entangled in his verbose machinations.
Sometimes, it was simply grandiloquence. But sometimes, it was the kind of persuasive sophistry that even I found myself tempted to embrace. This moment was unequivocally the latter.
I ran a hand through my dark forelock, attempting to brush it from my brow. But it persisted in falling into my eyes, so this time, I shook my head from side to side. My thin strands of hair swayed before me. I gathered them near my temples, and at last, the irritating tickle subsided.
I had been so distracted of late that I had quite neglected a visit to the barber.
With Lord Theron and Lord Julian absent, the front of the classroom, where their accustomed seats lay, remained conspicuously empty. There was no longer any reason to direct my gaze in that direction.
Six days ago, Master Elmsworth, our Dean of Scholars, summoned me to his private study and inquired if I had heard from Lord Theron.
I replied with unvarnished honesty, without a flicker of hesitation.
“No, Master. I have not.”
“You have not yet reconciled with Lord Theron, I surmise?”
I offered a small, carefully practiced, bitter smile. A perfectly calibrated expression. In truth, the inclination to smile was entirely absent.
“No, Master Elmsworth. Lord Theron… he grew rather incensed with me.”
“Lord Theron grew incensed with you?”
“He did, Master.”
Rumours, like tendrils of ivy, had already begun to spread, so Master Elmsworth was not entirely unaware of the implications of my words.
“Very well, I comprehend,” he conceded, dismissing me. Then, as he settled back into his high-backed chair, he muttered to himself, his voice a low rumble.
From the snippets I caught, his lamentations focused on Lord Theron’s increasingly vexatious conduct and the stern lecture he had received from Duke Alistair, Theron’s father.
I feigned deafness to that pathetic monologue and turned away, yet my ears remained sharply attuned. Thus, I absorbed the prevailing sentiment within the Dean’s chambers.
Later, after the Academy’s lessons concluded, as I prepared for my private tutoring at home, Duke Alistair himself called upon me. He posed the identical query as Master Elmsworth—if I possessed any knowledge of Lord Theron’s whereabouts.
I offered him the same, carefully constructed reply.
“No, Your Grace. Lord Theron has ceased all communication with me.”
— I see…
“I am profoundly regretful that I cannot offer assistance.”
— No, my boy, you have nothing for which to apologize. It is quite alright.
Of late, Duke Alistair’s calls had become notably more frequent. And each time, the discourse unfolded in precisely the same manner.
There was an unsettling deliberateness in his persistent attempts to tether Lord Theron and myself together. I hastened to conclude the conversation.
In truth, there was nothing for which to apologize. Yet I uttered my regrets regardless—to cultivate favour.
It was the same innate instinct that compelled one to declare an unsightly infant “charming.” A social convention, a form of practiced etiquette essential for the smooth functioning of a civilized society.
I believed that the elder generation did not perceive me as naive, as easily manipulated.
If anything, my politeness was closer to the crude pantomime performed by a lesser courtier.
I understood my place with absolute clarity.
And since I diligently invested effort into being agreeable, I was destined to become a favoured, if minor, figure within the courtly dance.
Even if, one day, I committed an error so blatant it would furrow the brows of the most seasoned observers, I would be granted leniency.
Such was the groundwork I meticulously laid.
Unlike certain witless individuals, I navigated my existence with prudence.
Perhaps, from the lofty perspective of an elder noble, my strategic thinking amounted to nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty scheme to evade difficulty.
But among my contemporaries, it was undeniable—I was a young man who possessed the acumen to manage unpredictable predicaments with understated wisdom.
Should proof be required, one needed only observe Master Rhys.
Master Rhys was the most desperate among our circle to ingratiate himself with Lord Alaric. Consequently, he extended an eager camaraderie towards me, for in the eyes of most, I had already aligned myself with Lord Alaric early in the season.
Though he had once been counted among Lord Theron’s closest companions, he now made it abundantly clear that the tides had turned, and his loyalties lay elsewhere.