A leaden weight pressed Lysander into the roughspun mattress. Even in the swirling haze of returning consciousness, a desperate instinct had propelled him to key the chamber door with a simple locking rune before he had crumpled.
“Remarkable, for a boy so thoroughly broken.” A whisper, spectral and cold, seemed to echo in the empty room.
He lay still, eyes fluttering open to the muted light filtering through the arcane-etched glass. Every inch of his face throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. His hand felt like it belonged to another, stiff and unresponsive. When he tried to lift it, a grinding sensation in his shoulder sent a jolt of pain through his very bones.
“Mnngh…” The sound was a pathetic whimper.
His trembling fingers found unfamiliar lumps and tender spots hardening beneath the skin. After an eternity of stillness, he pressed his palms against the bed frame, pushing himself upright with a gasp.
Perched on the edge of the cot, Lysander stared blankly at the unadorned wall, a sudden, unfamiliar heat stinging his eyes. A raw, guttural sob ripped from his throat, tearing at vocal cords that felt shredded. The sound was alien, animal.
Unleashed fury surged through him. He lunged, sweeping the few scrolls and crystal-ink vials from his small desk. They clattered, skittered, and shattered against the stone floor. He cried, he raged, a silent, internal tempest consuming him, until exhaustion finally dragged him back down. He landed with a thud, kneeling amidst the debris. Clamping his mouth shut, he squeezed his eyes, but the tears leaked anyway, hot trails down his cheeks, his breath catching in ragged hitches.
“Damn it all!”
He truly wished for oblivion. He craved the sweet, numbing dark. But what he truly longed to erase, to extinguish, was the memory of the previous night.
The window in his chambers had been sealed tight. Had anyone heard? Could the whispers have carried beyond these walls? The thought ignited a fresh spike of panic. Damn it. Damn it. Fucking Kaelen Varr. That manipulative boy, Elara Theron. Why had they come? Why had they ripped his carefully constructed world to shreds?
“...Damn them.”
What Kaelen Varr had crushed, not just in front of Elara Theron but in the desolate emptiness of Lysander’s spirit, was not merely his physical form—it was his nascent pride. That humiliation, witnessed, savored, was worse than any scorn Elara had ever cast his way. It was a devastation that brought him to his knees, clawing at the earth.
Yet, even in this maelstrom of despair, amidst the raw tears, a colder, more calculating part of him surfaced. He found himself worrying about how he appeared. This, too, was a moment to be judged.
The profound silence of his room registered, cutting through his sobs. His eyes snapped to the small, runic clock on the wall. Just before the eighth hour. A sharp, chilling thought sliced through his muddled brain: an encounter with Elder Acolyte Meridia in this state would be catastrophic. A frigid dread snaked through him.
His mind sharpened, clearing with an icy resolve. He could not, *would not*, let anyone see him in this pathetic, disgraced condition. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the overturned stool, then swept the scattered scrolls and shattered crystal fragments under the cot with frantic haste. He sat, rigid, awaiting the inevitable knock. It came a few minutes later, precise as clockwork.
He forced his voice into a semblance of normalcy. “Elder Acolyte, do not enter. I believe I have contracted a lingering ether-chill. My constitution feels quite unwell. I shall forgo the morning lectures.”
“Oh, indeed? Perhaps a visit to the Healing Spires is in order, young Lysander?” Meridia’s voice, though usually reedy, held a surprising note of concern.
A bitter taste coated his tongue. “I shall consider it, if my condition does not improve.”
“Very well. May I send up some restorative broth?”
“Kindly leave it outside the threshold, Acolyte. My thanks.”
“As you wish, Lysander. Rest and recover, then.”
Skipping lectures was a necessity. He was in no fit state to face the day, nor did he possess the slightest desire.
Thankfully, a vial of restorative unguent lay amongst his few personal effects. He seized it, smearing the cooling, mint-scented salve over his aching body, a silent plea for the pain to retreat. Then, he crawled back into the sanctuary of his bed.
The empty unguent vial slipped from his grasp, clattering softly to the floor.
His body shuddered, a bone-deep tremor he could not suppress. But the physical pain paled next to the scorching humiliation. It was a torment that clawed at his gut with tiny, cruel fingers. The absurdity of it all. To hide his tear-streaked face, he drew the heavy, enchanted curtains, plunging the room into near darkness. He burrowed deep beneath the rough blankets, the only shield against the crushing despair.
*Sleep*. He had to sleep. Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated the mantra: *It will be fine. My guardians do not know. Kaelen Varr is not the type to broadcast his less savory inclinations. It will be fine.*
With that frail hope, he buried himself deeper under the coarse weave.
*****
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the oppressive weight of the blanket, he found himself muttering, the words bitter on his tongue. To anyone—the ancient spirits of Aerthos, his distant guardians, *anyone*—he wanted to scream it, a waterfall of righteous fury.
*Please. It was Kaelen Varr. Kaelen Varr struck me. He trampled me. That bastard. Kaelen Varr is unstable. He’s mad. Blinded by Elara. After everything we shared, all the small confidences, the fleeting glimpses of recognition… he shattered it. He crushed it right in front of Elara Theron. I am an imbecile. I showed that pathetic, vulnerable side of myself to her, too. And the thought that someone, anyone, might have glimpsed it all…*
He abruptly halted his frantic thoughts. A tidal wave of self-loathing crashed over him. He truly wished to die.
The saddest part arrived after the initial torrent of tears beneath the blanket. The very first thing he did, as soon as his mind achieved a modicum of clarity, was scramble to delete every fleeting message and data-crystal record Elara Theron had sent him that night. Then, in a rush of cold panic, he accessed the chamber’s scrying wards, clearing all stored recordings from the early hours. That night had become something he could not bear for anyone to know—a shameful secret he would erase from existence.
*****
He skipped the Arcane Citadel’s rigorous lectures for three full cycles. Despite the wretchedness of his spirit, his body, resilient in its youth, began to knit itself back together with astonishing speed.
Perhaps it was the instinctive shielding of more vulnerable areas during the assault, or simply his well-nourished mage-born constitution. Whatever the reason, the visible injuries were minimal—just a few dark bruises, easily concealed beneath the heavy tunics of the Citadel, nothing life-threatening. For those three cycles, he remained entombed beneath his blankets, crying until his eyes burned, his throat raw. He ignored every message rune and every summons.
He thought he could hold out until every last mark had faded, but fate, or the rigid schedule of the High Magi, was not on his side. His guardians, long absent in the outer wards, returned to the Citadel. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him.
“...Son, what has happened to your face?” His father, the Arch-Magus Vance, his voice a low rumble, broke the silence of the private dining alcove.
“Oh, well…” Lysander stammered, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Did you engage in a brawl? You sent word of an ether-chill, a seasonal malaise.”
As his father’s questions rained down, quick and sharp, Lysander’s mind raced, desperate for a plausible falsehood.
“Oh, um, I was feeling unwell, yes, so a fellow initiate, Jorin, collected a notice from the Scrying Archive for me…”
“And?” His mother, Magus Lyra, her gaze piercing, waited.
“And I… encountered some trouble on my way to retrieve it.”
“Trouble? What trouble?”
“It was nothing serious. I merely… tripped on an uneven flagstone and struck my face.” He gestured vaguely to the slight discoloration near his cheekbone.
“What manner of ‘tripping’ leaves an initiate’s face looking thus? Who was involved?” His father’s voice, usually calm, rose with a dangerous edge. Lysander waved his hands frantically, a frantic plea to diffuse the tension.
“No, truly, I do not wish to cause any disturbance. It was not a serious confrontation. We have already… settled our differences.”
“Come now, tell us—why did you engage?”
“...Well…” Lysander feigned hesitation, manufacturing a truly pathetic excuse.
“I… I teased him for his ritual bond with a girl having been broken.”
“What?”
Surprisingly, his ridiculous answer seemed to puncture his father’s rising temper. Arch-Magus Vance let out a sigh of bewildered disbelief, then a sudden, low chuckle.
“Are you young initiates reenacting some melodrama from the lowest tiers?”
“No…”
“Do not engage in such foolishness again.”
“...Understood.”
The minor nature of his visible injuries certainly helped sell the lie. Thankfully, the incident seemed to blow over.
Yet, something peculiar occurred. Later, as they dined in the main refectory, his mother, sipping from her chalice, casually brought up a name.
“By the way, Lysander, are you still in close commune with Kaelen Varr these cycles?”
“What?” His voice was sharper than intended.
“He does not seem to visit your chambers as frequently as before, or so I observed.” For someone who spent half her time communing with distant Ley Lines, her observation felt oddly pointed. The mere mention of Kaelen Varr conjured his image, souring Lysander’s meager appetite. He snapped back with an irritable edge.
“It is precisely as it always was.”
*The same, my ass. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.* The shame and humiliation were a physical ache, making him wish for a swift end.
“Did not another initiate come to your quarters recently? Elder Acolyte Meridia mentioned it. Are you close with this new friend?”
Lysander’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head towards the service entrance, where Elder Acolyte Meridia was supervising the refectory cleanup. A cold chill snaked through his veins. Had she heard? Could she have overheard anything that night? Was it possible her dulled senses had picked up the sounds, the whispers, the struggle?
“Lysander? What troubles you?” His mother’s question startled him. He blurted out a response without conscious thought.
“Yes. We are close.”
What his mother said after that, he couldn’t recall. The sheer terror, rooting him to the spot, erased all other details. What remained was the memory of her gaze when she mentioned Kaelen Varr. It was the look she reserved for ill tidings, for unfortunate portents.
*Why?*
That thought propelled him further into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold, trembling. No. She couldn’t have heard. Elder Acolyte Meridia’s hearing was poor, dulled by the constant hum of the Citadel’s Ley lines. Her quarters were far removed from his own. She couldn’t have heard anything. But *why*? Why did it feel so profoundly wrong? All he could do was pray to the indifferent spirits of Aerthos, deities he barely believed in.
Three more cycles passed, and his guardians began to press him to return to his studies. He absolutely did not want to. But if he continued to absent himself, his mother would surely suspect a deeper malady than a minor scuffle. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced a cheerful façade. There was nothing amiss with Lysander Vance.
The days leading to his return were consumed by an endless worry: what if he encountered Kaelen Varr, or worse, Elara Theron? Would Kaelen attempt another display of brutal power? Would he humiliate Lysander in front of their class—or, more devastatingly, in front of Elara? Would he continue to trample Lysander’s spirit as if it were less than dust?
The thought alone made his stomach churn with nausea.
When he finally arrived at the Grand Scrying Chamber, he hung his satchel on the side of his carven desk, scattering a few datapad shards on top of it. He sat, staring blankly at the polished obsidian surface while the hallway murmurs grew louder. The moment he heard approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be asleep, no one would notice the lingering bruising on his face. At least not immediately. But he had forgotten one crucial detail: the desk behind his belonged to Jorin. Jorin was the kind of initiate who possessed an uncouth awareness, choosing to ignore social cues at his convenience.
As soon as he arrived, Jorin stood by Lysander’s desk, slipped a calloused hand between his shoulder and neck, and, with surprising force, tilted Lysander’s face upwards with a single finger. Lysander had no time to resist. He had no choice but to let Jorin examine him. Jorin raised an eyebrow, his gaze blunt.
“What in the Void happened to your face, Vance?”
“...Nothing of consequence.”
“Did you ‘trip’ again?”
“Something of the sort, yes.”
“Indeed?” Jorin clicked his tongue, a low, earthy sound, shaking his head before abruptly releasing Lysander’s face. Lysander’s head nearly slammed back onto the desk.
“Damn it, Jorin!” He glared, startled, but Jorin merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever he was thinking, Lysander had no way of knowing.
Neither Kaelen Varr nor Elara Theron attended the day’s lectures.
But during Lysander’s absence, a whisper had started to spread through the Citadel.
“Have you heard? Kaelen Varr… that brute actually…”
No one directly questioned Lysander about his injuries, but the quick, assessing glances he received confirmed it: the rumor had already snaked its way through the very foundations of Aerthos.
It seemed he was luckier than he’d thought.
*****
The rumors, born of hushed tones and knowing glances, centered around Lysander and Kaelen Varr. Neither of them had appeared in the lecture halls since the whispers began, and even Elara Theron had disappeared shortly after, leaving no one to dispute the narrative. With Lysander’s lingering bruising as visible, if subtle, proof, the rumors spread like wildfire through the novice tiers and beyond.
The story coalesced: Lysander Vance and Kaelen Varr had a violent falling out. And, Kaelen Varr, in his obsessive fervor for Elara Theron, had resorted to brutish, unstable methods.
“That fool, I tell you, he’s absolutely consumed by Elara. And his temper… a true disgrace to his lineage.”
“What a savage. Imagine, resorting to base physicality. A true mark of weakness, despite his supposed power.”
“He’s truly unhinged, like a wild beast from the Outer Reaches.”
The lecture halls, the refectory, the communal baths—all buzzed with these conversations.
“All those initiates who aligned themselves with Kaelen Varr have been stabbed in the back, I tell you. He has no loyalty, no control.” Lysander overheard snippets, his insides twisting with a strange mix of vindication and revulsion.