A peculiar disquiet settled upon Kaelen. It began not with a grand revelation, but with a subtle, insistent question that frayed at the edges of his meticulously ordered thoughts: how did Cassian, the tempestuous scion of House Volaire, conduct himself when Lord Valerius, the radiant heir of the Azure Throne, retreated from the daily bustle of the Imperial Academy? It was a simple, ignoble curiosity, the kind that might gnaw at a less restrained soul, born perhaps from a sliver of that base envy Kaelen so disdained.
From his occasional, peripheral observations, Cassian rarely walked abreast of Valerius. Instead, he would drift a pace or two behind, a predatory shadow to Valerius’s bright form. Yet, the image clung to Kaelen, of a fully grown, formidable young lord, trailing another like a loyal hound, utterly consumed. Even as this illicit fascination coiled within him, a dread seeped into his spirit, an unnerving sense of toying with something forbidden, like a craftsman peering too deeply into a tarnished, ancient artifact, risking what malevolent forces might still slumber within.
He envisioned a tiny, intricate casket, carved with such delicate precision it would be a treasure in his hands, yet known to contain not just despair, but a cruel, insidious hope that mocked all reason. And still, knowing the peril, the mind yearned to lift the lid, to glimpse the contents. He pressed a cool hand to his brow, a faint tremor running through his fingers.
“This is madness,” Kaelen murmured, his voice a low, rough whisper in the quiet study.
Indeed, reason had deserted him. But even in its absence, the compulsion held him. After the final bells of the afternoon tutorials, Kaelen found himself following Cassian.
His pursuit was short-lived.
He moved with a furtive grace, careful that Valerius’s sharp peripheral vision would not catch his form. He saw Cassian, his gaze fixed on Valerius’s retreating back. They moved through a seldom-used service alley behind the eastern wing of the Academy, where the grand, polished stone gave way to flaking mortar and grimy cobbles. Rusted iron gates stood ajar, revealing overflowing refuse bins. The air, usually redolent with the faint spice of polished wood and aged vellum within the Academy walls, here carried the acrid tang of damp earth and neglect.
Two young lords, heirs to considerable power, moved through such an ignoble setting: Valerius in the lead, his posture impossibly elegant even as he navigated puddles; Cassian trailing, a storm cloud on the horizon. And Kaelen, a silent observer, shrouded in the penumbra of a decaying buttress.
Everything about the scene felt raw, unseemly. A blush of shame crept up Kaelen’s neck. He turned back, the quiet dignity he always strove for feeling suddenly fragile, tarnished by his own cheap curiosity.
Later, settled in his chamber, the only illumination a lone, flickering lumen-sphere, Kaelen found a strange, detached satisfaction in his retreat. He sat by his desk, strewn with his delicate tools – a miniature hammer, fine-tipped gravers, coils of gossamer-thin electrum wire. He knew the allure of unearthing secrets, of meticulously restoring what time had scarred. Yet, some secrets were best left undisturbed. He had peered into the void, and decided against diving headlong into its depths. Better not to know the full extent of the disquiet. He would not be the fool who opened that exquisite, dangerous box for petty curiosity.
He sensed, rather than knew, that Cassian’s singular fixation on Valerius deepened with each passing day. And Valerius, for all his princely composure, seemed to harbor a growing apprehension, perhaps even antipathy, towards Cassian’s relentless attention.
No, it was certainly antipathy. How else could he feel toward one who, for weeks after his transfer to their quadrant, had sought him out with challenges, with a relentless, almost brutal, testing of boundaries? Kaelen found a sliver of dark satisfaction in this dynamic. He had not intervened in Cassian’s initial aggressive overtures. Perhaps, Kaelen mused, that was for the best, allowing the natural, brutal rejection to take its course.
He laced his fingers behind his head, resting his skull against them, and gazed up at the frescoed ceiling of his chamber. The depiction of ancient Ashworth achievements, faded but still majestic, reminded him of his own family’s long-waning eminence. He had been born to privilege, yes, though that privilege had thinned to mere respectability over generations. Never had his essential needs been denied, but the grand indulgences, the effortless ascent of true power, had long eluded him.
“Damn it all,” he breathed, the words barely audible.
He had once believed his will unbreakable, his path unhindered. Until, that is, he had found his own affections ensnared by Cassian, the very lord whose crude obsession now played out before him. That brutish noble had inadvertently shown Kaelen the harsh truth: life often refuses to bend to desire. Kaelen felt a grim certainty that Cassian, too, was now learning this bitter lesson.
Ah, the Ascendant Imperium could be mercilessly cruel, even to its own.
At least Kaelen had learned the art of control, the discipline of cloaking his deeper emotions beneath a veneer of quiet reserve. Cassian, by contrast, was utterly consumed, so unpracticed in the subtle arts of the court that he broadcasted his raw yearning with every glance, every clumsy gesture. That sudden, abnormal intensity must have been profoundly unsettling for Valerius.
Kaelen knew the feeling precisely, that dizzying plunge into an all-encompassing emotion. He had endured it. Cassian, however, seemed incapable of such restraint. Thus, instead of a delicate courtship, he offered only blunt, desperate overtures, earning him disdain where he sought affection. For Kaelen, observing from his distant perch, this turn of events suited him well.
“Just keep your blinders on, Cassian,” he whispered to the empty air.
Or better still, let Valerius grow weary of the relentless pursuit and remove himself from Cassian’s orbit entirely. Kaelen harbored no illusions, no hope that Cassian might one day turn his gaze upon him. If anything, the very thought of such raw, unbridled emotion directed at himself filled Kaelen with a strange, deep-seated terror.
He simply wished for a day to arrive when the ache of his own attachment to Cassian would finally fade. And, perhaps, that Cassian might find a different, less destructive object for his affections. That was all. But of course, the world rarely conspired to grant such simple wishes.
A further shift came, as disruptive as a poorly struck gong in the Academy’s hallowed halls. Cassian, who previously had indulged in weekend revelries of questionable propriety, seemed to have curtailed his profligacy. Or so it appeared. Whispers from Ser Gideon’s clique suggested he hadn’t ceased entirely, but at least the boasting had stopped, the lingering scent of unseemly escapades no longer clinging to him when he entered the lecture halls.
For Kaelen, this was a small, quiet victory. He no longer had to endure the phantom stench of Cassian’s debauchery in close proximity.
“Cassian, my friend! No more wild nights? Like… this?”
Ser Gideon, all unctuous charm and crude gestures, swayed his hips suggestively before Cassian, making an indecent motion with his hands near his own crotch. Cassian’s face tightened with disgust at the vulgar display. His eyes flicked, a quick, anxious dart towards Valerius, before he exploded in a harsh whisper.
“You oaf! I told you to cease such obscenities in public!”
“Why the sudden prudishness, eh?” Gideon pressed, a smirk on his lips.
“Bring that up again, Ser Gideon, and you’ll find yourself short a few teeth.”
“Hold, Cassian—”
“I said, be silent!”
“...Fine, fine.”
Others in the small clique exchanged glances of clear disappointment. Cassian, with his imposing stature and prematurely mature aura, had once been the perfect conduit for the hormonal curiosity of young nobles. The scions of lesser houses, those who gravitated to Cassian and Lord Alaric’s orbit, were not novices. They had all fumbled through clumsy, early experiences. Compared to clueless virgins, they were more easily stirred, more eager for vicarious thrill. With Cassian no longer offering his exploits, their prurient attention now shifted to Lord Alaric.
But Alaric merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure disdain.
“You insufferable profligates.”
“Ah, there he goes! Alaric, with his self-righteous pronouncements!”
“Such a fanatic. Honestly, what a waste of prime stock.”
Laughter rippled through the small group, loud and fleeting.
Most young lords in their social strata had, at some point, delved into forbidden territory, at least once. Yet, for some reason, Lord Alaric had not. While they teased him good-naturedly, calling him ‘The Pure One,’ no one genuinely disrespected him. He was Lord Alaric, after all, heir to House Vance, and his integrity, however blunt, commanded a certain regard. At the same time, Alaric possessed a lighthearted, almost careless indifference to such things, which made his actions seem casual, his sharp words easier to bear. People often found this contradiction charming, or at least approachable, saying he didn’t match his intimidating visage.
“Cease that glaring, you brute. You’ll make me soil my breeches.”
“Yes, his face truly is frightful.”
“Do you imbeciles harbor a death wish?”
Alaric scowled, and the group burst into laughter again, though Kaelen found little humor in it. Some other nobles, loitering at the back of the lecture hall, perhaps Alaric’s friends, or perhaps merely his hangers-on, joined in with their hollow laughs and idle chatter, adding to the clamor. Kaelen sat among them, staring blankly at his lap, lost in a distant thought.
He recalled, with a meticulous precision often reserved for his craft, that he had never felt a true, singular stir of desire for a woman. That, he supposed, rendered him queer by default, a truth inherent from birth. He had felt a vague arousal watching illicit illustrated scrolls depicting both men and women, but never once had he truly fantasized about a woman’s form during his solitary moments. The former, he mused, seemed more about the intensity of the depicted scenario, while the latter felt like a simple, profound absence of desire.
He had been dragged to an unsanctioned club once, by Cassian himself, but had never made it past the heavily guarded entrance, lacking the proper identification. He had waited outside, a silent vigil, until Cassian emerged. Brothels? The very thought was repellent. He couldn’t fathom why anyone would seek solace, or pleasure, in such places. The concept filled him with a physical revulsion.
Because of this, the others in their group jokingly referred to him as ‘Abstinent Ashworth,’ but in truth, his abstinence was less a choice, and more a quiet, intrinsic disposition. He let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh.
His companions were too engrossed in Alaric’s sardonic retorts to notice. Taking advantage of the moment, Kaelen glanced towards Cassian, who sat in silent contemplation. Cassian was staring, as ever, at the back of Lord Valerius’s head, where Valerius was diligently perusing a scroll.
And, as always, Kaelen regretted the glance. Why did he look? Why did the curiosity persist? To distract himself, he turned to Alaric, posing a question both pointless and intrusive.
“Do you truly intend to remain celibate until you join your life to another, Alaric?”
Alaric, who was lounging in his ornate chair like a potentate on his throne, suddenly fixed his intense gaze directly upon Kaelen’s lap. His stare was so direct, so knowing, that Kaelen instinctively crossed his legs, a gesture of shielding himself. What in the blazes?
“You’re not my betrothed, Ashworth, so why the concern? What, are you offering to cure me of this particular affliction?”
Kaelen felt a hot flush creep up his neck. Of course. That wretch always twisted things into crude jests. The others chuckled, and Kaelen retaliated with a sharp, swift kick to Alaric’s shin.
Such were Kaelen’s days—a monotonous cycle, repeating over and over, an intricate, gilded cage of observation and suppressed longing.
---
Alone in his chamber, Kaelen frequently found himself lost in the labyrinthine corridors of his own mind, contemplating all manner of scenarios. Inevitably, those thoughts sometimes drifted into strange, forbidden fantasies.
Today, he wondered what his life might have become if his affections had strayed towards Lord Alaric instead of Cassian. It seemed, in his weary mind, a less agonizing path. If he had loved Alaric, he wouldn’t have had to endure the constant, subtle ache caused by Cassian’s relentless pursuit of Valerius, or the ignoble tales of his past escapades.
Even so, Kaelen knew the ache would still persist, albeit in a different form.
Neither Cassian nor Alaric, after all, would ever return his affections. But at least, he thought, his heart would not suffer the specific, piercing anguish that revolved around Lord Valerius, the radiant star Cassian orbited so blindly. That train of thought inevitably devolved into feelings of inferiority, of an impotent anger at his own powerlessness. In the end, he simply wished for graduation to come swiftly, for the quiet oblivion of becoming a stranger to Cassian.
---
At some point, Kaelen had begun unconsciously to place his hands beneath his desk whenever he settled into a chair. This habit, he realized, had solidified during his second year at the lower academy, and the root cause was always the same – other young lords. As he idly fiddled with the ornate silver buckle on his breeches, his thoughts drifted. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint, rhythmic click of the metal against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as his thumb applied a tentative pressure to release the clasp, a soft knock echoed from the chamber door.
“Kaelen? Are you studying, my dear?”
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! Mother, yes, I am!”
His heart leaped into his throat. Clearly, this was not the day for such indulgences. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn the sudden, unannounced intrusion.
---
Lately, Cassian had become an insufferable irritant. Sometimes, when Valerius’s gaze would momentarily drift towards Kaelen, Cassian would deliberately interject, initiating a conversation with Valerius. Valerius, caught in this awkward nexus, would flick his eyes to Kaelen, his lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Cassian’s looming presence, he would lower his head, offering a barely audible response.
“Y-yes…”
Just like that. A muted, almost imperceptible withdrawal. Valerius, however, began to subtly seek Kaelen out more often, and, most startlingly, started addressing him by the informal ‘Kae.’ Aside from his immediate family and a few childhood attendants, almost no one used that diminutive, so the change was acutely noticeable. Valerius seemed to believe he was being discreet, yet his attempts at subtlety were transparent. The most galling part was Cassian’s utter inability to conceal his discomfort whenever Valerius dared such a familiar address.
“Lord Valerius, desist from interrupting Ashworth’s studies.”
“What?” Valerius blinked, his composure momentarily faltering.
“I said, cease your interruptions. Is that not clear?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes…”
When Valerius stammered and averted his gaze, Cassian childishly slammed his fist against the leg of the desk beside him. Kaelen pretended not to notice, his own heart thrumming. Annoyingly, Valerius, in his princely naivete, seemed to believe that Kaelen’s formal address no longer mattered to Cassian. He grew bolder, casually using ‘Kae’ as if it were an accepted norm.
“Uh, Kae… my apologies for disturbing your work.”
Kaelen stiffened, staring at Valerius in disbelief. Had the lord lost his senses? Cassian sat right there, a simmering volcano.
Sure enough, Cassian pounded his fist on the desk again, the sharp crack echoing through the room. Curse his obtuse nature.
“Hey! Lord Valerius!”
“…Huh?”
The atmosphere instantly congealed, thick with unspoken tension.
“I told you.” Cassian’s anger was blatant, an ugly snarl twisting his handsome features.
“I told you not to call him ‘Kae,’ did I not?”
“…W-well…”
“Address him as Lord Ashworth. That is his name—Lord Kaelen Ashworth.”
Cassian’s gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked at Kaelen. Kaelen loathed that possessive, judging stare and instinctively lowered his head, a blush of mortification rising. At that precise moment, Lord Alaric, seated beside Kaelen, casually draped his arm over Kaelen’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Kaelen’s ear, a sardonic counterpoint to the raw anger.
“Cassian Volaire, if you continue this charade, you will truly ruin yourself.”
“What in the Abyss are you speaking of?”
“I mean, you will regret it. Profoundly.”
Alaric smirked, and Kaelen felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason only: Alaric’s sudden protective gesture, however fleeting, only drew more attention to Kaelen, trapping him further in the suffocating dynamic.
“Cassian Volaire, you are a fool.”