A groan, raw and involuntary, ripped from Lucien’s throat. His eyelids fluttered, refusing to fully open against the dull, pervasive ache that enveloped him. He lay sprawled across his bed, a disheveled heap of fine linen and frayed composure. The heavy oak door to his chamber, he realized, had been bolted from within. A small mercy, one his dazed mind must have secured before the world truly swam away.
*Remarkable, even in such dissolution.* A bitter thought.
His body felt a stranger’s burden. Muscles, usually pliant from hours bent over intricate mechanisms, were now rigid, protesting. A sharp throb pulsed at his jaw, radiating through his teeth. Slowly, painfully, he lifted a hand. It felt as though centuries of rust had seized his joints. Tendons creaked. A jolt of pain shot through his shoulder, sparking between bone and sinew.
“Ah…” The sound was a pathetic gasp, barely a whisper.
Fingers, trembling, sought the source of the agony. Beneath his silk nightshirt, tender spots had hardened into angry welts, a brutal blossoming against his skin. He lay still, breath catching in his chest, before pressing his palms flat against the mattress and pushing himself upright. Every movement was a fresh torment.
Seated on the edge of the bed, the opulent crimson velvet a stark contrast to his inner ruin, Lucien stared blankly at the wall. An ornate clockwork automaton, usually a source of quiet fascination, stood silent on a nearby mantel. It seemed to mock his stillness. A tremor began deep within his chest, rattling his ribcage. Tears, hot and sudden, spilled down his cheeks. A whimpering sound clawed its way past the knot in his throat, emerging in raspy, ragged gasps. His voice felt scraped, raw, as if torn by jagged glass.
Anger, cold and swift, abruptly ignited. He sprang to his feet, a sudden, desperate energy fueling his bruised limbs. A crystal paperweight, shaped like a miniature griffin, sailed across the room, shattering against the far wall. An inkwell followed, splattering dark, inky despair across an antique map. Books scattered, silver instruments clattered. He raged, a silent, frantic tempest, until the raw fury drained him. Then, Lucien sank to the floor, cheek pressed against the cool marble tiles. He clamped his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes closed. Still, the tears came, thick and unstoppable, tracing burning paths down his temples as choked sobs hitched in his throat.
*Damnation.* The thought was a silent scream.
Truly, a part of him yearned for oblivion. Not from the pain, not even the shame, but from the memory of the night before. Lord Alaric’s contorted face, the cruel, precise blows, the words—words meant to flay more than skin. The thought of Lysander, a silent, beautiful shadow through it all, festered like a poison. Lysander, for whom Alaric had lost all reason, all control, and in doing so, had broken Lucien.
The window, he was certain, had been latched. But had anyone heard? Could the house staff, stirring in the pre-dawn hours, have caught the muffled sounds? Damnation. Damnation. Alaric Blackwood. That witless, cruel boy. Why had he come to Lucien’s chamber? Why had he ripped apart his meticulously constructed world, brick by fragile brick?
*Damn him.*
What Alaric had trampled, there in the flickering lamplight, wasn’t just Lucien’s body. It was his pride. His fragile, precious pride. The humiliation, far more searing than any physical sting, eclipsed all the quiet slights, the casual dismissals Alaric had dealt in the past. This was a devastation that tore a raw cry from Lucien’s very soul.
Even now, reduced to a weeping, broken wreck, his mind instinctively turned to outward appearances. How did he look? What would others think? A meticulous self-awareness, a constant burden, settled heavily upon him.
Silence enveloped him, profound and chilling. He glanced at the small, gilded travel clock on his bedside table. Just before eight bells. A cold, sharp thought cut through his muddled brain, piercing the fog of despair: if he encountered the house staff like this, it would be ruinous. A frigid dread, like ice spreading through his veins, cleared his mind with brutal efficiency.
No. He could not, *would not*, allow anyone to witness him in this pathetic, disgraced state. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the upturned chair, swept the scattered books, the shattered griffin, the inky parchment beneath the bed. Every trace of his outburst vanished. Then, he sat, waiting for the inevitable knock. When it came, a few minutes later, punctual as ever, Lucien forced his voice to sound normal, though it cracked like dry wood.
“Do not enter. I believe I have contracted a chill. I am quite indisposed. I shall be skipping Conclave lectures today.”
A gentle voice, that of Mrs. Albright, the head housekeeper, responded through the wood. “Oh, truly? Should Master Vane not visit the apothecarion?”
Lucien swallowed a bitter taste. “I shall do so later, if my condition worsens.”
“Very well. Might I prepare some restorative broth for you?”
“Kindly leave it outside the door, if you please. I thank you.”
“Of course, Master Vane. Do endeavor to rest.”
Skipping Conclave was a necessary evil. He was in no fit state to face the Academy’s demanding routines, nor did he possess the desire.
Conveniently, a small jar of arnica balm rested in his medicine chest. He retrieved it, the cold clay a shock against his burning skin, and slathered the soothing ointment over his aching body, a silent prayer for the pain to subside. Then, Lucien crawled back into bed.
The empty balm jar slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor. His entire body trembled, an uncontrollable shiver that had nothing to do with cold. The physical pain was a distant echo compared to the humiliation. It felt as if tiny, cruel fingers were pinching his very soul. The absurdity of it all. To hide his tear-streaked face, he drew the heavy velvet drapes, blocking out all light, and burrowed deep beneath the silken blankets. Only the smothering weight of the fabric seemed capable of shielding him from the crushing despair.
*Sleep. I must sleep.* He pressed his eyes shut, willing the darkness to consume him. It would be fine. His parents, away at the estate in the countryside, knew nothing. Lord Alaric was not the sort to broadcast his debasement, not openly. It would be fine.
With that desperate thought, he buried himself deeper under the covers.
***
Actually, it was far from fine.
Hidden beneath the oppressive layers, Lucien muttered words that lingered bitterly on the tip of his tongue. To anyone—to the Archangels, to his parents, to the very stones of the Conclave—he wanted to scream it aloud, a torrent of righteous rage.
*Please. It was Lord Alaric. Lord Alaric struck me. He defiled me. That beast. Alaric Blackwood is insane. He is mad. Unhinged. All because of Lord Lysander, he… After all these years, everything we shared, he crushed it. Crushed it right before Lysander. I am a fool. I displayed that pathetic side of myself to Lysander, too. And the thought that someone, anyone, might have witnessed it all…*
He abruptly ceased his frantic train of thought. A wave of self-loathing, chilling and profound, surged within him. He yearned for death.
The saddest part of his ordeal was what he did after crying under the blankets. The first thing he did, as soon as his trembling fingers could manage, was retrieve his pocket-watch, a delicate mechanism with a hidden compartment that held the small, enchanted glass used for recording thoughts. He meticulously deleted every mental note, every fleeting image connected to Lysander’s urgent summons, every echo of Alaric’s fury. Then, with frantic haste, he accessed the Conclave’s network of observation orbs, subtle clockwork eyes embedded in the hallways leading to his chamber. He erased all recordings from the early hours of that morning, ensuring no trace remained. That night had become an unspeakable secret, a shameful truth he could not, *would not*, allow anyone to see.
***
Three days passed. Lucien remained confined to his chambers, feigning illness. Despite his hideous appearance, his body healed with remarkable speed. Perhaps it was the meticulous care he took in tending his automatons, the subtle physical demands of his craft, or simply a robust constitution that he had underestimated. The visible injuries were minimal—just a few dark bruises concealed beneath his formal wear, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself under his blankets, crying until his eyes were raw, ignoring every single summons and message that slid beneath his door.
He thought he could hold out until his complete recovery, but fortune, as ever, proved capricious. His parents, who had been away for a fortnight, suddenly returned to the Grand Conclave. Panic, cold and sharp, seized Lucien.
“Son, what has happened to your face?” Lady Elara’s voice, usually a melodic chime, held a sharp edge of concern, almost accusation.
“Oh, well…” Lucien stammered, his mind racing.
Lord Armitage, a formidable figure in his dark Conclave robes, interjected, his gaze piercing. “You said you were unwell. A chill, you claimed.”
As his father peppered him with questions, Lucien frantically scrambled for a plausible explanation.
“Oh, um, I was not feeling well, so a friend… Lord Gareth, actually… picked up a notice from the Master Artificer for me.”
“And?” His mother’s brow furrowed.
“And I… encountered some ruffians on my way to retrieve it. A minor scuffle.”
“What?” Lord Armitage’s voice rose, cutting through the polished silence of the receiving parlor. “What sort of ‘scuffle’ leaves a Conclave student looking like this? Who were these ‘ruffians’?”
Lucien waved his hands, a desperate attempt to calm his father. “No, truly, I wish to cause no trouble. It was not a serious altercation. We… made amends.”
“Come, now, tell us—why did you engage in such an uncivilized display?”
“...Well,” Lucien paused, searching for an excuse both believable and sufficiently humiliating to dissuade further inquiry. “I… I teased him for being abandoned by his paramour.”
“What?” His mother gasped, a delicate hand flying to her mouth. His father, surprisingly, let out a disbelieving sigh before a sudden, low laugh escaped him.
“Are you young lords truly so melodramatic?”
“No…” Lucien mumbled, his cheeks burning.
“Do not engage in such foolishness again.”
“...Of course, Father.”
The relatively minor appearance of his injuries also helped. Thankfully, the incident seemed to blow over, at least for now.
Something unsettling, however, did occur. As they dined together in the family’s private salon, Lady Elara suddenly brought up Lord Alaric.
“By the by, are you still close with young Lord Blackwood these days?”
“What?” Lucien froze, his fork clattering against his plate.
“I mean, he does not seem to call upon you as frequently.” For someone who spent less than half her time at the Conclave, her sudden curiosity was unsettling. The mere mention of Alaric forced his image back into Lucien’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back with an irritable tone.
“It is precisely as it always has been.”
*The same, my ass. Damnation. Damnation. Damnation.* He felt such a profound shame and humiliation, he wished the opulent dining table would swallow him whole.
“Didn’t another friend call upon you recently? Mrs. Albright mentioned it. Are you close with this new acquaintance?”
Lucien’s body went rigid. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned his head towards the service archway, where a junior housemaid was quietly polishing the silver decanters. A cold chill, a premonition of dread, coursed through him. Had she heard? Could any of them have heard anything that night? Was it possible that the house staff had been the ones to overhear?
“Lucien? What is it?” His mother’s voice pulled him back.
Startled, he blurted out a response without thinking. “Yes. We are… quite close.”
What did his mother say after that? Lucien couldn’t recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped everything else from his mind. He did, however, remember the way she had looked at him when she mentioned Alaric. It was the kind of expression one wore when conveying ill tidings.
*Why?*
That single thought pushed him further into a spiral of consuming fear. His fingers grew cold. No. They couldn’t have heard. The junior maid’s quarters were distant, the soundproofing of the Conclave’s ancient stone walls formidable. They couldn’t have heard a thing. But why? Why did it feel as though something was gravely amiss? All Lucien could do was offer a silent, desperate prayer to a deity he barely acknowledged.
***
Three more days passed, his parents gently but firmly urging him to return to his studies. Lucien absolutely did not want to. But if he continued to feign illness, his mother would surely suspect a deeper problem, something far more scandalous than a minor scuffle. That was the last thing he wanted. So, he forced himself to adopt a cheerful, composed façade. Nothing was amiss. He was perfectly fine.
His anxiety mounted in the days leading up to his return. What if he encountered Alaric? Or Lysander? Would Alaric beat him again? Would he humiliate him before their peers—or worse, before Lysander? Would he continue to trample upon Lucien as if he were nothing more than dust?
The mere thought made his stomach churn with nausea.
When he finally arrived at the Grand Conclave, the imposing architecture seemed to press down on him, suffocating him. He hung his satchel on the side of his desk, scattering a few parchment scrolls on top of it, then sank into his seat. He stared blankly at the polished desk, while the hallway noise gradually swelled. As soon as he heard approaching footsteps, Lucien buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be asleep, no one would notice his bruised, drawn face. At least, not immediately. But he had forgotten one crucial detail: the desk behind his belonged to Lord Gareth Sterling. Gareth was precisely the sort of young lord who possessed a keen awareness of his surroundings, yet deliberately chose to act oblivious, particularly when it afforded him an advantage.
As soon as Gareth arrived, he stopped by Lucien’s desk. A hand, surprisingly deft for its size, slipped between Lucien’s shoulder and neck, tilting his face upwards with a firm grip on his jaw. Lucien didn’t even have time to resist. He had no choice but to let Gareth examine his injuries. Gareth raised a cynical eyebrow, his gaze sharp and unwavering, and asked bluntly:
“What in the nine hells happened to your face, Vane?”
“...Nothing of consequence.”
“Did you take another tumble in the stables?”
“Yes. Something of that nature.”
“Truly?” Gareth clicked his tongue, a low, dismissive sound, and shook his head before abruptly releasing Lucien’s face. Lucien’s head nearly slammed into the desk.
“Damnation, Sterling!” He glared, startled, but Gareth merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts churned behind those unsettling eyes, Lucien had no way of knowing.
Neither Lord Alaric Blackwood nor Lord Lysander Finch attended the Conclave that day.
But during Lucien’s absence, a whisper had begun to spread through the ancient halls.
“Did you hear? Lord Blackwood… that brute actually…”
No one directly questioned Lucien about his injuries, but it was clear from the curious, sidelong glances he received that the rumor had already made its circuit. Perhaps he was luckier than he’d thought.
***
The rumors, he soon gathered, centered around Lord Alaric Blackwood and, by association, Lucien. Neither of them had attended Conclave since the day the whispers began, and even Lysander had disappeared shortly after, leaving no one to dispel the burgeoning tales. With Lucien’s bruised face as silent, visible proof, the rumors spread with surprising speed.
The story went thus: Lord Alaric Blackwood, driven by an unseemly possessiveness, had displayed a violent temper, making a scandalous scene that suggested an ungentlemanly fixation on Lord Lysander Finch.
“That brute, I tell you, he completely lost all decorum over Finch.”
“What? Over Finch? But… I heard it was Vane he was after.”
“No, no, that’s just a diversion. Vane merely got caught in the crossfire. They say Alaric was quite unhinged, like a feral dog.”
“A feral dog, indeed. Imagine such an uncouth display from a Lord of Blackwood’s standing.”
The private conversations in the common rooms and between lectures were filled with these whispers. Alaric, it seemed, had irrevocably sullied his own reputation with his grotesque display of passion. He had sacrificed his pride, not Lucien’s.
*He sacrificed his pride, not yours.* The thought was a bitter comfort. Lucien, still reeling from the hidden shame, felt a perverse twist of relief. The rumors, though indirectly connected to him, served as a fragile shield, deflecting the true, agonizing truth from public scrutiny. His shame remained, a festering wound, but it was *his* shame, hidden from the judging eyes of the Conclave. A secret he would guard with his very life.