A crisp, folded rectangle of vellum rested on Elias’s polished writing desk, stark against the scattered scrolls and the heavy, leather-bound grimoire. It bore no seal, no elegant script, merely a terse summons in a hand Elias recognized as belonging to Lysander Valerius. “*The disused scriptorium. Before the Practical Arcane. L.V.*” Not a plea, then, nor a polite request, but a subtle demand. Elias’s initial flicker of curiosity—what triviality could Lysander possibly require *his* discreet presence for?—was swiftly eclipsed by the familiar gnawing of apprehension. Such unscheduled private meetings, especially with a noble as... *idiosyncratic* as Valerius, invited speculation. And speculation in the Collegium was a viper with a thousand tongues. He folded the vellum precisely, tucking it into a pocket of his tunic. The weight of it felt disproportionate to its size, a small leaden stone of dread. --- The disused scriptorium hummed with the ghosts of forgotten incantations and the subtle scent of decaying parchment. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that pierced the high, leaded windows, illuminating the neglect. Lysander Valerius stood amidst stacks of crumbling folios, his slight frame dwarfed by the towering shelves. He worried a loose thread on his velvet cuff, his eyes—those unsettlingly intense pools of cerulean—flickering up as Elias entered. “Thorne,” Lysander breathed, his voice a faint, reedy sound against the silence. A weak smile touched his lips, a fragile thing that did little to ease Elias’s unease. “You came.” Elias inclined his head, maintaining a studied neutrality. “You summoned me, Lord Valerius. My obligations for the Practical Arcane session are soon upon me.” His tone, though measured, conveyed a polite impatience. The last thing he desired was to be discovered in a secluded corner of the Collegium with Lysander, a boy whispered about for his fragile health and *peculiar* attachments. Lysander’s fingers continued to pluck at his cuff, his gaze skittering around the dusty room, then back to Elias. A nervous energy emanated from him, at odds with his usual languid grace. “Indeed. I... I had something I wished to convey.” He swallowed, his throat a pale knot above his high collar. Elias shifted his weight. “Then convey it, Lord Valerius. Time, as you know, is a precious commodity.” His inner voice screamed at the deliberate slowness, the theatrical build-up. He wanted to be out, away from the potential scrutiny, before the chimes for the arcane session echoed through the courtyards. Lysander’s lips parted, then pressed shut. His brow furrowed in a display of conflict that Elias found increasingly grating. It was a performance, he was certain, designed to draw out his patience, to demand his full, undivided attention. Elias’s own nerves were frayed from a night of poor sleep and the pervasive anxiety of his stewardship. The air in the scriptorium seemed to thicken, pressing in on him. “Lord Valerius, with all due respect, I must depart. If this matter is truly urgent—” Before Elias could finish, the heavy oak door of the scriptorium swung inward with a jarring thud, reverberating through the hushed space. Cassian Blackwood filled the doorway, his tall, imposing figure silhouetted against the weak light of the corridor. His formal Collegium robes seemed to settle on him like a second skin of authority. His eyes, chips of obsidian, swept over the scene, pinning Elias with a gaze that burned with an unsettling mix of fury and proprietary claim. “What is the meaning of this, Thorne?” Cassian’s voice was a low growl, devoid of any pleasantry. His hand, resting on the hilt of the ceremonial dagger at his hip, clenched and unclenched. His gaze flickered between Lysander’s slight form and Elias’s own, lingering on the latter with an intensity that made Elias’s stomach clench. Elias felt his carefully constructed composure begin to crack. The implicit accusation, the brazen disregard for decorum, ignited a spark of defiance. “Lord Blackwood, I was merely responding to a summons from Lord Valerius. Nothing more.” He met Cassian’s gaze, though a tremor ran through his veins. “*Summons*?” Cassian’s lip curled. “You know *his* place, Valerius. And you, Thorne, ought to remember yours.” His words were not a question, but a brutal statement of fact, a stark reminder of the rigid hierarchy that governed their lives. Before Elias could formulate a retort, before he could even brace himself, Cassian’s long stride brought him directly in front of Elias. The world tilted. A sharp, sickening crack echoed in the confined space. Elias’s head snapped sideways, a blinding white pain erupting across his cheekbone. His body, caught off balance, stumbled backward, colliding with a teetering stack of forgotten scrolls. He landed hard on the dusty flagstones, a gasp torn from his throat. “No,” Elias whispered, more to himself than to the two nobles standing above him. His hand rose, trembling, to touch his throbbing cheek. The raw sting of the blow, the utter indignity of it, choked off all other sensation. Cassian Blackwood had *struck* him. Unthinkable. Lysander gave a small, choked cry. “Brother Cassian, no!” He took a tentative step towards Elias, but Cassian’s arm shot out, a dismissive gesture that halted him. “Enough,” Cassian commanded, his voice now dangerously calm. He seized Lysander’s arm with a grip that brooked no argument. “We are leaving, Valerius. And you, Thorne,” he added, his gaze searing, “will reflect on this interaction.” Elias, still half-sprawled on the floor, could only watch as Cassian Blackwood, his face a mask of cold fury, dragged the struggling Lysander from the scriptorium. Lysander, glancing back over his shoulder, caught Elias’s eye. Was that a flicker of triumph in those unnerving cerulean depths, or merely a fleeting, helpless apology? Elias couldn’t tell. The door slammed shut, leaving Elias alone in the sudden, echoing silence, the acrid taste of dust and humiliation bitter in his mouth. --- The Practical Arcane session was missed. Elias couldn’t bring himself to face the inquisitive gazes, the subtle shifts in posture that would betray their awareness of his dishevelment. He returned to his austere chambers, the bruise on his cheekbone a vivid, blossoming testament to his disgrace. Sleep offered a brief, fitful escape, but he woke hours later, the throbbing pain a constant companion. Later that day, a minor illusion flickered into existence in the corner of his peripheral vision: a shimmering scroll, woven from pure light, bearing the elegant seal of House Beaumont. A discreet *cantrip* of communication, used among the Collegium’s elite for urgent, sensitive matters. Elias’s hand went instinctively to his still-swollen cheek. Adrian Beaumont. He dismissed the illusion with a weary gesture. A moment later, a more traditional missive, a slender scroll of vellum, was delivered by a young novice. Elias unrolled it, his eyes scanning the impeccable script. “*Thorne,*” it began, coolly formal, “*a rather unsavory rumor has reached my ears, concerning an unfortunate incident within the Collegium archives. Are you... indisposed? My compliments to your discretion.*” The implications were clear. Adrian knew. Or suspected enough to inquire. Elias’s fingers tightened on the parchment. He penned a brief, carefully neutral reply, focusing on maintaining his façade of scholarly calm. “*Lord Beaumont, merely a misstep on the library stairs. A minor distraction from my studies. I trust your own pursuits fare better.*” He handed it back to the novice, forcing a placid expression. --- Elias stared blankly at the wall of his chamber, the shame a hot flush beneath his skin. He had allowed himself to hope, even for a moment, that Cassian’s anger would lead to some form of apology, some acknowledgment of his value beyond that of a mere pawn. Instead, he had received a brutal reminder of his station, a public humiliation at the hands of a high noble, all for the sake of Lysander’s twisted affections. And Lysander. The thought of their shared predicament, their shared victimhood under Cassian’s possessive sway, was a bitter, repugnant kinship. Yet, a part of him, a small, dark part, clung to it, a perverse comfort in not being entirely alone in this gilded cage. Then, the whispers began. Not true whispers, but faint, melodic tones carried on the air, seeming to emanate from the very walls themselves. Lysander’s voice, filtered through some minor sound-shaping cantrip. “*Elias... forgive me.*” The words were cloying, laced with a feigned remorse that grated on Elias’s nerves. A new wave of rage, cold and sharp, washed over him. How dare he? How dare he intrude upon Elias’s private suffering with these manipulative pleas? He slammed his hand against his writing desk, sending quills and inkwells rattling. “*I only wished for your company. Do not withdraw from me now.*” The melodic whisper, persistent, infuriating. Lysander’s apologies were not for Elias’s pain, but for the disruption to his own possessive desires. Elias snatched a heavy, leather-bound lexicon from his desk and hurled it across the room. It struck the stone wall with a dull thud, showering dust. He breathed heavily, heart hammering, the intrusive echoes of Lysander’s voice still lingering in the air. “*I understand now, Elias. We are bound.*” Bound. The word hung in the air, a silken cord tightening around his throat. Elias pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing the intrusive voice to cease. He despised him. He despised them all. --- The next morning, Elias’s face was a mottled canvas of purple and yellow, the bruise a stark declaration of his ordeal. He could not, *would not*, appear in the Collegium’s grand halls looking so thoroughly compromised. He sent word via his chamber attendant that he was unwell, a mild fever preventing his attendance. The attendant, a wizened woman named Elara, clucked her tongue, her eyes lingering on his face with quiet, knowing sympathy. Elara brought him a light broth, thin and flavorless. “Master Elias,” she chided gently as he picked at it, “you must be more careful in your wanderings. These old stones are treacherous.” She cleared the empty bowl and turned to the door. “Master Elias,” she said, pausing with her hand on the latch, “Lord Beaumont awaits your reception.” Elias’s spoon clattered against the porcelain plate. A friend. The word, rarely applied to him, resonated with a desperate, childish hope. His mind, against all logic, conjured the image of Cassian Blackwood standing beyond his door, contrite, perhaps even offering a formal, whispered apology. Such an act, a rare gesture from a noble of Cassian’s standing, would validate Elias, restore a measure of his dignity. The thought, however foolish, sent a surge of warmth through him, momentarily eclipsing the ache in his cheek. He pushed himself upright, a quickening pulse driving him toward the door. “Yes, Elara. Pray, admit him.” His pace quickened, propelled by an absurd anticipation. But the person who stepped into his antechamber was not the one his desperate mind had pictured. Lord Adrian Beaumont, elegant and sharp-featured, surveyed Elias with a polite, almost predatory, smirk. He held a small, intricately carved wooden box in one hand. “Thorne,” Adrian drawled, his gaze sweeping over Elias’s face, “your complexion seems... remarkably lively today.” His tone was light, yet the underlying current of observation was unmistakable. Adrian’s subtle mockery, rather than Cassian’s hoped-for contrition, was a cold splash of reality. The crushing weight of disappointment buckled Elias’s knees, metaphorically speaking. He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving the bruise even more prominent. “A misstep,” Elias replied, the words stiff on his tongue. He rubbed the still-tender skin, a surge of raw shame burning through him. He had been such an idiot. Cassian held no affection for him, no sense of obligation beyond what was convenient. And here he was, still clinging to a pathetic, canine hope. Adrian’s thin lips twisted. “Indeed. A rather spectacular misstep, it seems.” He extended the wooden box. “Perhaps this will aid your recovery. A soothing unguent, distilled from rare Collegium herbs. For... particularly stubborn ailments.” Elias accepted the box, his fingers closing around the cool, smooth wood. “Thank you, Lord Beaumont. An unexpected generosity.” “Hardly. One hears things, Thorne.” Adrian stepped further into Elias’s spartan chamber, his eyes taking in the stacks of scrolls, the precisely ordered books. “Though I confess, I find your quarters rather... singular. Such an ascetic dedication. One wonders if it leaves sufficient room for, shall we say, the more *intricate* aspects of Collegium life.” Elias had no reply. Adrian’s gaze, uncomfortably piercing, seemed to strip away the carefully constructed layers of Elias’s solitude, laying bare his vulnerability. He stood there, bruised and exposed, acutely aware of the noble’s dissecting stare, and utterly powerless to dismiss him.

A Bruised Silkscreen