Propriety. That was the cornerstone of happiness, of stability, of every enduring alliance within the Duchy of Aethelgard. Advantage flowed from kinship of station, from congruent lineage, from an education that polished the same facets of ambition, and from influence meticulously balanced. Like recognized like, and in the intricate dance of the court, this understanding was the very breath of survival. Kaelen Thorne, even as a youth, grasped this with chilling clarity, seeing it as the only pathway to a life unmarred by the sharp edges of misfortune. Then, in the year he turned seventeen, a fissure had appeared in his carefully constructed world. It arrived as a sensation both raw and exquisite, something akin to the first tremor of a quakewave beneath ancient stone. He recognized it, with a part of him he preferred to keep locked away, as something extraordinary. Perhaps it had been present long before, a quiet undercurrent, only now surging to the surface. Yet, a mind honed on rationality and logic could not tolerate such a disruption. He dismissed it as a fleeting folly, an adolescent overindulgence, and set it aside with the practiced ease of an archivist filing away a misfiled document. Still, the feeling persisted. It coiled deep within his gut, a constant, low thrum, slowly tightening, constricting, until the very act of breathing felt strained. It pressed against his throat, a constant, unspoken lament, threatening to choke him with its insistent, illogical presence. “A missive, Master Thorne. From Lord Caspian’s steward.” Sound rippled through the pre-dawn stillness of Thornehold. A sudden, unwelcome intrusion, like a cracked pane in a frosty window, shattering the quiet focus of his solitary hours. He had been meticulously cleaning his preferred quill, the goose feather gleaming under the soft lamplight, preparing for the day’s meticulous copying of ducal decrees. Now, the peace was gone, stolen by a messenger too urgent to respect the hour. Resting the quill, Kaelen sat on the edge of his bed, the cool silk of his nightrobe a faint comfort. A slow exhalation emptied his lungs of breath, but not of the tight knot that had settled there. He muttered a low, guttural curse, rising with a stiffness that belied his age. Downstairs, the household staff slumbered in their quarters, the night watchman’s slow patrol the only other sign of life. No one would mark his absence. So, he would go. Stepping beyond the main gates of Thornehold, the air bit at his exposed skin, carrying the crisp scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. Pale light was just beginning to etch the eastern sky. Across the cobbled alley, nestled against the weathered stone wall of the neighboring property, stood a solitary riding horse. It was a sturdy bay, not of the prized Aethelgard breeds, but well-muscled and clearly cared for, its tack worn but impeccably maintained. The family next door had moved in a year ago, their departure as sudden as their arrival, yet Kaelen had never once encountered them. Given the high walls and secluded gardens of this district, such anonymity was not uncommon. The horse, unadorned by any family crest or livery, spoke of practicality rather than pomp, suggesting a resident who valued utility over display. Or perhaps, one who moved with discretion. Its tether was pulled taut, the animal patiently awaiting its rider. Sometimes, it was casually left, other times carefully secured. Like a part of himself, Kaelen thought, held tightly or left to stand alone. He stared at the animal for a moment longer, a flash of recognition in his cool gaze, then turned, slipping into the closed carriage that awaited him. The carriage wheels rumbled, a low thrum against the ancient cobblestones, carrying him deeper into the waking city. Kaelen kept his eyes fixed on the narrow sliver of grey light visible through the small, high window, but the motion, the subtle sway and jostle, soon unsettled him. A familiar queasiness stirred in his stomach. With a quiet sigh, he leaned back against the plush velvet, closing his eyes against the rising tide of nausea. ... For nearly a year now, the feeling had clung to him. A persistent, physical malaise, as if his very insides rebelled against something he could not name. It was the same tightness lodged in his chest, the constant knot, pressing against his ribs, making each breath a conscious effort. He had long made a habit of ignoring emotions that threatened to unravel his meticulous composure. He had cultivated a facade of serene indifference, one he now pulled around himself like a cloak, stepping out of the carriage onto the narrow, quiet lane of the Silver Vein district. Inside the discreet townhouse, Kaelen bit down on the soft flesh of his lower lip, a sharp spark of pain grounding him. His fist clenched, then slowly, deliberately, released. He focused on the small, folded vellum note clutched in his hand, its edges slightly damp with the moisture of his palm. His eyes traced the numeral ‘3’ etched onto the paper. He approached the corresponding oak door, its surface unblemished, revealing nothing of what lay beyond. Slowly, knuckles brushed the wood, a soft rap. Then two more, firm and evenly spaced. “Lord Caspian. Open the door. Now.” His voice was low, taut, a barely suppressed snarl. Silence answered him from the other side, thick and heavy, like velvet drapes drawn against the world. Kaelen stared at the unyielding wood, a void of unresponsiveness. A sharp exhalation hissed through his teeth. He lifted his hand again, this time striking the door with an open palm, a louder, more insistent thud that echoed in the hushed corridor. “I said, open the damned door, Caspian!” This situation, honestly, was abhorrent. The mere thought of what might have transpired within those chambers, of the careless dalliances, the casual transgressions of propriety, made his skin crawl. Yet, he could not stop himself from pounding. Caspian had summoned him, had delivered that insufferable missive, and Kaelen was enduring this repulsive scene because Caspian was the one who had first infected him with that insidious, unbearable “illness.” “Why in the blazes are you calling for me, you self-indulgent wastrel, when you’re busy wallowing in some sordid, pointless liaison?” Gods, this was insufferable. The life of an eighteen-year-old. Filled with such brutal, disquieting lessons. From such unexpected teachers.

A Morning's Unraveling