Two days after the Winter Solstice Ball, a folded slip of heavy parchment found its way beneath a discarded folio in the Conclave’s scriptorium. Lucien, meticulous even in his distractions, noticed its pale gleam. His fingers, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he unfolded it.
*Meet me in the archives, secluded alcove, before midday bell.* The script was hurried, almost childlike, yet distinctly Alaric’s.
A cold sensation prickled along Lucien’s spine. A clandestine meeting. The very notion was a spark in a tinderbox within Aethelgard’s rigid halls. Confession? His lips twitched. Such blatant sentiment was for the foolish, the uninitiated. This was not some tryst, he told himself, not a romantic overture. Not here, not now, and certainly not from Alaric. Yet, a knot tightened in his gut.
The midday bell chimed, its sonorous boom echoing through the Conclave’s ancient stones. Lucien’s heart thrummed an anxious counterpoint. He had almost forgotten the note, almost convinced himself to dismiss it as a childish prank. But the lure of the archives, the promise of quiet, drew him like a moth to a distant, flickering flame.
He navigated the labyrinthine corridors, his boots barely disturbing the hushed air. The archives exhaled a scent of aged vellum, beeswax, and forgotten dust, a perfume of silent knowledge. A heavy oak door, usually kept ajar, was now drawn almost shut. He pushed it open, stepping into the deeper gloom.
Alaric waited, a small, anxious figure framed by towering shelves. His dark hair, typically a lively tangle, was pressed flat, perhaps by nervous hands. He picked at a loose thread on his simple wool tunic, his gaze flitting from Lucien to the shadowed corners of the room. A familiar cocktail of protective tenderness and sharp annoyance churned in Lucien’s chest. The boy seemed too fragile for this place, for this world, for *them*.
“Alaric?” Lucien’s voice was a low murmur, barely cutting through the oppressive quiet. His brow furrowed. “Why here? What is it?”
Alaric flinched, his small head snapping up. A nervous smile, much like the one Lucien remembered from their first meeting, stretched across his face, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes, wide and apprehensive, darted away. His plump fingers twisted, then worried his lower lip.
“Ah, Lucien… I… I have something to tell you…” he stammered, his voice barely audible above the rustle of Lucien’s silk vest. He glanced again at the door, then at the rows of arcane scrolls, as if seeking an escape route among the forgotten words.
Lucien’s irritation flared, hot and sudden. He wanted to be gone, to melt back into the shadows of the Conclave. To be seen alone with Alaric, a commoner, in such a secluded place, was a social misstep that could invite ruin for both. Especially for Alaric. He had always carefully maintained a distance, just enough to appear benevolently superior, never enough to be implicated.
Alaric, oblivious to Lucien’s internal torment, gnawed at his thumb. His face was a shifting canvas of indecision and fleeting resolve. He would open his mouth, only to clamp it shut again, like a clockwork figure whose spring had jammed. Lucien clenched his jaw. This hesitant dance, which might have seemed endearing to a different observer, was an excruciating torment for him now. His own mind was a tangled knot of frustration, a lingering ache from the ball, the phantom touch of Valerius’s hand on Alaric’s ear.
“Alaric, please,” Lucien pressed, his voice taut. “I must attend my lectures. Just say it.”
Perhaps his anger wasn’t truly directed at Alaric. Perhaps he simply needed an outlet for the suffocating despair that had clung to him since the ball, since Valerius’s possessive display. His stomach churned. Lately, his own delicate mechanisms felt on the verge of splintering.
Just as Alaric finally seemed to gather his courage, his small chest expanding with a shaky breath, the heavy archive door creaked open. Both Alaric and Lucien whipped their heads around. Valerius stood framed in the doorway, chest heaving, his dark robes disheveled. He had been running. A suffocating dread seized Lucien’s throat, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. He imagined Valerius scouring the Conclave, a predator seeking his lost lamb.
Valerius’s gaze, sharp and predatory, swept over Alaric, then impaled Lucien. His nostrils flared. He took a long, slow breath, a hiss of air through clenched teeth. His hands, usually so gracefully controlled, opened and closed into fists.
Lucien’s outward composure remained, a mask of aristocratic indifference, but his insides churned like a tempest. Valerius’s eyes, burning with a terrifying intensity, finally settled on Lucien. It was a stare of pure, unadulterated loathing. A sickening chill permeated Lucien’s bones.
“What is the meaning of this clandestine meeting?” Valerius’s voice was a low growl, devoid of its usual aristocratic polish. Each word was a sharpened dagger.
*Please, don’t look at me like that.* Lucien’s mind screamed. *Blame Alaric. He summoned me. Why this venomous glare for me, your supposed peer?*
But Valerius’s searing gaze remained fixed, unwavering. Those weren’t eyes filled with passion, Lucien realized with a sickening lurch. They were eyes consumed by rage, by a grotesque, consuming jealousy. The face of a man deranged by a possessive love. Lucien found it pathetic. Despicable. And terrifying.
“Why are you here with him?” Valerius snarled, taking a long stride into the room.
*You are pathetic, Valerius.* Lucien thought, glaring back. Yet, a chilling whisper in his mind countered: *No, it is I who am truly pathetic.* Before Lucien could even process the thought, Valerius was upon him. The world tilted.
A white-hot pain exploded in Lucien’s cheek. He stumbled backward, colliding with a heavy oak lectern, the impact jarring his teeth. Scrolls tumbled around him like discarded feathers. He gasped, falling hard onto the cold stone floor.
“No…” he whispered, his trembling fingers gingerly touching his throbbing cheek. “He hit me.”
Valerius, the esteemed noble, had struck him. The disbelief was a deeper pain than the blow itself.
“L-Lucien!” Alaric cried out, rushing forward, his face pale with horror. Valerius’s hand shot out, grabbing Alaric’s arm with bruising force. He snarled, a feral sound. “You promised! You swore! Damn you!”
Alaric whimpered, trying to pull away, tears welling in his wide eyes. But it was Lucien’s throat that burned, his own eyes prickling with unshed tears. Valerius, his face a mask of furious contempt, dragged Alaric from the archives, his grip like iron. The heavy door slammed shut, echoing through the sudden, brutal silence.
Lucien lay amidst the scattered parchments, the smell of dust and old ink thick in his nose. Sunlight streamed through a high, arched window, illuminating dancing motes of dust. Something inside him fractured. The dam holding back the despair, the humiliation, the unrequited longing, burst. Hot tears streamed down his face, scalding his bruised cheek.
He hated everything. Alaric, for his naive summons. Valerius, for his monstrous possessiveness, for the public humiliation. And most of all, he hated himself for being reduced to a mere pawn, a collateral casualty in their twisted, unspoken drama. He felt wretched, utterly miserable.
Lucien somehow hauled himself to his feet. He avoided his next lecture, instead seeking out a junior attendant, feigning a sudden migraine. His visibly swollen, darkening cheek served as ample proof. The attendant, a timid youth, quickly procured the necessary pass, no questions asked.
---
Back in the solitary confines of his private chambers, Lucien collapsed onto his plush bed, seeking the oblivion of sleep. The next morning, his face was a puffy, mottled canvas of red and purple. Habit compelled him to check the small, discreet message slate that connected him to a select few peers.
A message from Lord Kaelen, a ranking noble from a neighbouring ducal house. Lucien rarely exchanged direct messages with Kaelen, though their circles often overlapped through Valerius. He clicked his tongue. If it were any other, he would ignore it. But Kaelen was influential, his opinions carrying weight among the Conclave’s elite. Lucien could not afford to be seen as weak or, worse, to be involved in a scandal.
*Heard you slipped away from morning rites. Everything well, Vane?*
Lucien typed a terse reply, forcing a casual tone. *Merely a touch of malady. Nothing to note.* He hated the lie, hated the shame. The thought of Kaelen—or anyone—knowing the truth, that Valerius had struck him, and for Alaric, was an unbearable torment. Humiliation burned a deeper mark than the bruising.
*A malady that discolours the skin, perhaps? Do take care. Such things can fester.* Kaelen’s reply was almost immediate, laced with a subtle, knowing cynicism. Lucien’s hand tightened on the slate. Kaelen saw through him, knew something was amiss. The intrusion felt suffocating. He shut off the slate, needing silence.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Other peers, distant acquaintances, had sent polite inquiries. None of it offered solace. No message arrived from Valerius. He must be mad, Lucien thought, for such a childish hope to even flicker. He was a fool. Yet, he lay there, his eyes closed, turning a blind eye to the bitter reality.
*Perhaps… perhaps I am not the only one.* A strange, grotesque thought surfaced. Perhaps Alaric and he were both trapped, caught in the monstrous web spun by Valerius. A selfish, wicked hope intertwined with the thought. He stared at the ornate ceiling, lost in the shadows.
Another message chimed, its sound sharp in the quiet room. An unknown number, a furtive, untraceable channel. Lucien frowned. Who among his peers would use such a route, or address him so informally?
*Lucien, are you terribly unwell?*
Before he could parse the odd familiarity, another message followed, relentless.
*I am so sorry. Truly, profoundly sorry. It is all my fault.*
*Please forgive me.*
*I am sorry.*
Whether three words or four, each hammered into him like a nail. He hurled the message slate across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, falling harmlessly onto a velvet rug. How had Alaric acquired such a channel? The boy had no means for such things. Then it hit him. *Oh.* He had once, long ago, given Alaric a coded contact scroll for emergencies.
Lucien cursed his own idiocy. He pounded his fist against the bed until his knuckles ached, until exhaustion finally claimed him. Just before sleep dragged him under, one last message, unread, echoed in his mind:
*Please, do not hate me.*
*Funny,* Lucien thought, a bitter, humourless laugh escaping his lips. *I have hated you for months.*
The next morning, his face was indeed swollen, a brutal testament to the previous day’s events.
---
Lucien skipped his morning lessons. No matter how diligently he pursued his studies, he lacked the fortitude to present himself to his tutors and peers with such a grotesque visage.
His personal valet, a stern, elderly man named Maël, brought a tray of broth and soft bread. Maël, despite his usual taciturn nature, couldn't resist a pointed remark about being more careful. Lucien swallowed the bland food without much thought, his appetite vanished.
As he reached for his water goblet, Maël returned to clear the tray. With a plate in one hand, he announced, “My Lord, a visitor has called.”
“A visitor?” Lucien’s breath hitched. His heart fluttered, a wild bird trapped in a cage. Before he could even name the emotion, his mind conjured an image. *Could it be… Valerius?*
It seemed a fantastical notion, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the Conclave ever ventured to his private chambers. If it were Valerius, he must have come to apologize, finally overcome by guilt. Valerius had never, not once, laid a hand on him before. Yes, he must be worried, distraught even. The fantasy solidified into a certainty. He chastised himself for such foolish hope, yet a fragile sense of vindication blossomed within his chest. Despite everything, he was still significant. That thought brought an inexplicable, dangerous warmth.
“Yes, Maël. Show them in,” Lucien instructed, his voice betraying a hint of eagerness. He turned towards the door, his pace quickening with a treacherous anticipation.
The person who stepped through the threshold was not Valerius.
Lord Kaelen stood there, a playful, sardonic smirk twisting his sharp features. He held a small, elegantly wrapped parcel. His gaze, usually so quick to convey amusement, froze the moment it landed on Lucien’s face.
“By the Mother… what in the Blighted Halls happened to your face?” Kaelen’s tone was devoid of its usual lightness, replaced by an unusual gravity.
Lucien’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. His earlier, foolish hope evaporated, leaving behind a bitter residue of shame. How had Kaelen even known to seek him here?
“I… I tripped,” Lucien replied, his voice flat and thin.
Kaelen frowned, his lips twisting in that way he always did before delivering a pointed, sarcastic barb. “You truly are clumsy, then, aren’t you, Vane?”
Lucien offered no argument. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache mirroring the one in his chest. A flush of embarrassment rose to his neck. He had been such an idiot, wagging his tail like a pathetic, hopeful cur. Valerius didn’t care.
“Here. Thought you might appreciate this.” Kaelen extended the parcel. Lucien accepted it, the fine parchment crackling under his fingers. He recognized the scent of expensive confectionary, a rare imported sweet.
“…It’s candied violet,” Lucien murmured, recognizing the delicate perfume.
“Is it? Didn’t pay much mind to the flavor,” Kaelen shrugged.
“Figures. Why would you?”
“Ouch, Vane. Still sharp, even bruised.” Kaelen stepped further into the room, his long legs carrying him effortlessly. “What are you doing cooped up here, anyway? Mind if I come in fully?”
“Kaelen, wait!” Lucien protested, but it was too late. Kaelen was already moving past him, his eyes curiously surveying the intricate mechanisms and half-finished automatons that adorned Lucien’s private workshop, a space rarely seen by outsiders. Kaelen paused, picking up a miniature clockwork nightingale. “Fascinating. Where do you keep your books?”
“What… where are you going?” Lucien’s voice was a whisper of panic.
“Where else? There’s nowhere else for a man to truly be himself in these chambers.”
Lucien had no retort. Kaelen was right. And his casual intrusion, his easy trespass into Lucien’s carefully guarded sanctuary, felt like another violation, another crack in the fragile porcelain of his composure.