Propriety, they whispered in the gilded halls of the Ascendant Imperium, found its truest expression in congruence. A harmonious pairing, they asserted, bloomed only from shared stations, mirrored ancestries, perfectly aligned aspirations. Such was the creed I had absorbed since infancy, a rational calculus for the happiness everyone so fervently pursued. Our own House, once a revered pillar of artistry, had slipped; its ancient filigree now considered quaint, its influence diminished to a whisper. This constant, subtle erosion of status tightened around my throat, a collar of quiet expectation. My place was to restore, to uphold, to avoid further diminishment. I was a master of the forgotten, not a challenger of the established order. Then, the year I turned seventeen, a bewildering realization took root. It was a feeling so starkly at odds with every principle I held, a vibrant anomaly in the carefully ordered chamber of my mind. An extraordinary warmth, profound and disorienting, had settled within me. Perhaps it had been a fleeting glance across the Grand Courtyard, an errant touch of hands during a formal promenade, but its memory had since resonated with an unsettling permanence. I, who prided myself on logic, on the meticulous ordering of thought, initially dismissed it. A momentary distraction, I told myself, a transient emotional discord common to adolescents. But the sensation, an alien pulse beating against my own measured rhythm, refused to dissipate. Instead, it intensified, a knot of vibrant silk slowly tightening, constricting, until my very breath felt shallow. It choked me, not with pain, but with the sheer impossibility of its existence. “To The Sovereign’s Rest, Aerolith Quarter. Room 472.” Words, crisp and unwelcome, manifested as a pale sigil upon my bedside table’s polished obsidian surface. The sudden, intrusive summons shattered the fragile peace of the pre-dawn hours. A metallic tang of unease bloomed on my tongue. Sat on the edge of my ancestral bed, the coolness of the sheets a momentary anchor. A sigh escaped, quiet as the first tremor of light outside. Slowly, I rose. The ancestral home, vast and echoing, held only the soft murmur of the slumbering retainer in the servants’ wing below. My departure would pass unnoticed, an insignificant ripple in the household’s serene slumber. I decided to go. Duty, or perhaps a more potent, unwelcome compulsion, pulled me onward. Stepped into the cool, still air of the cobbled alley. Dawn was just beginning to bruise the eastern sky with muted violet and grey. A sleek Automaton Courser, its polished midnight chassis gleamed with a faint, residual frost, stood solitary against the rough stone wall of the neighboring estate. The House of Valerius, recently relocated, had settled into the district a year prior. Its inhabitants remained largely unseen, a new, unread verse in the district’s ancient poem. Our high walls, our private courtyards, maintained discreet separations. I had never encountered their faces. From the imposing size of the Courser, I imagined a child older than myself, perhaps even an adult of consequence. That impressive machine, sometimes left casually by the Valerius gate, other times secured with intricate chains in the alley’s darkest recess. It held an unexpected reflection of myself. Bound by expectation, yet yearning for unconstrained motion. My gaze lingered for a moment, tracing the arc of its silent form, before I averted my eyes and stepped into the waiting glider-cab. During the journey, my eyes were fixed on the panoramic viewport, watching the city’s monolithic structures gradually emerge from the fading gloom. But the subtle, constant undulation of the glider-cab always unsettled me. A faint tremor began in my stomach, a familiar prelude to discomfort. Eventually, with a quiet exhalation, I closed my eyes. A dull ache persisted deep within, a lingering tightness that had plagued my digestive system for nearly a year now. Every meal felt a burden. A deep sigh, barely audible, escaped my lips as I sought to ease the coiled tension in my chest. For so long, I had cultivated an outward placidity, meticulously suppressing any emotion that threatened my carefully constructed composure. It was a necessary artifice. And now, as I stepped from the glider-cab into the hushed opulence of The Sovereign’s Rest, the mask remained firmly in place. Within the grand foyer, I pressed my lips together, a subtle tightening, and clenched my fist until the bones of my knuckles stood stark white. Then, I slowly released it. My gaze dropped to the sigil-missive still clutched in my hand, its pale luminescence casting a faint glow on the room number – 472. Slowly, with a measured gait, I approached the corresponding door, its surface a dark, burnished wood. Three quiet, precise knocks. “Lord Cassian. I am here. Open the door.” Silence answered, profound and heavy, from within the room. A stillness that grated against my frayed nerves. Irritation, a sharp, unwelcome spike, pierced through my practiced calm. My eyes narrowed, fixed on the unyielding surface. A sharp exhalation. My hand rose again, striking the door with a more forceful, less restrained impact. “Cassian! I said, open the damn door!” This entire situation—a hot, visceral disgust coiled in my gut. The mere imagination of what sordid, careless intimacy might have transpired beyond that elegant facade made my skin crawl. Yet, I could not prevent myself from knocking, from demanding entry. Cassian, with his insouciant charm and effortless power, had drawn me here. He was the one who, with an almost casual disregard, had introduced me to that initial, devastating 'illness' – this irrational, extraordinary feeling. And for that, I endured. “Why call me, why drag me into this squalor, when you’re indulging in your usual, meaningless diversions, you… you insolent bastard?” Gods, this is unbearable. The weight of eighteen years felt suddenly, oppressively, heavy upon my shoulders.

A Shattered Facade