A stillness settled upon Kaelen Thorne, a practiced inertia born of countless lessons. From the moment he could grasp a quill, his life had been a meticulously scripted parchment, each line dictated by the expectations of his family, the Thorne-gild, lesser scions within Aethelgard's intricate court. This rigorous tutelage had forged a formidable bulwark around his spirit, a disdain for revealing any chink in his armor. He had learned to endure, to absorb the barbs and slights of courtly life with an almost unsettling composure. His face, often described as placid, rarely betrayed the tremors beneath. His peers, and even some elder retainers, often dismissed him as dull, a quiet observer devoid of passion. But within, a fierce current flowed, dammed by years of rigid self-discipline. Anger, frustration, humiliation—they were not absent. Rather, they were transmuted, calcified into layers of this protective shell. Each emotional disturbance, each slight, merely reinforced the walls. Over time, it grew increasingly difficult for anything to truly pierce his composure, to elicit an uncontrolled response. This trait, Kaelen knew, was the very bedrock of his precarious position within Elias Volkov’s orbit. He was a capable enough scholar, his archival duties handled with diligence, preventing his parents from undue concern. More importantly, he occupied a respectable, if quiet, tier within the junior retainers' hierarchy—a position he had painstakingly, agonizingly, constructed for himself. “Thorne,” Lord Tristan Moreau’s voice cut through the rustle of vellum, a casual blade. “What’s with that vacant stare? Disgusting.” Kaelen merely turned his head, his gaze meeting Tristan’s. “And your face, my lord? A masterwork of the macabre.” Tristan merely chuckled, a dry rasp. A true insult only found purchase if the recipient held the observation to be true. Elias Volkov, slumped in his ornate study chair, simply waved away Tristan’s jab, a smirk playing on his lips. “Tristan, have you no… companions? Of the fairer sex? You command quite the following among the younger set.” Elias’s voice was a low growl, barely a question. Lord Tristan tossed a polished river stone from hand to hand, its smooth surface catching the light. “What manner of companions?” “Decent ones. From a reputable house.” “Do not feign ignorance, damn you.” Elias snapped, his patience fraying. Tristan’s lips curved into a slow smile, but he offered no further answer. Elias, for his part, did not press. His predatory gaze had already settled across the chamber, fixed upon a slight, unassuming figure hunched over a scroll at a distant lectern. Lord Veridian Ashworth, the very image of quiet desperation. “Perhaps… a face with a certain youthful charm,” Elias murmured, his voice laced with an unpleasant suggestion. “A timid, pliable demeanor, perhaps.” Elias Volkov was a force of nature—impulsive, often crude in his pronouncements, and given to bouts of sudden, unthinking cruelty. From the moment his voice broke, he had been a slave to his baser urges, his appetites unchecked by the court’s subtle reins. His harassment of Lord Veridian, utterly lacking in the customary courtly finesse, had only grown more blatant, more brazen. This season, by the final weeks of summer, Lord Veridian Ashworth had been utterly ostracized, a pariah within the junior court. Yet, even this complete isolation seemed insufficient to sate Elias. Elias’s circle of young nobles, and other similar cliques, operated with comparable levels of influence, but their methods diverged. Elias’s immediate confidantes, Lord Cedric and Lord Finn, would often linger, waiting for him even after the final bell of the morning’s studies. Other scions from the Western Guard-Chambers, however, would bolt from the room the moment the midday repast was announced, eager to escape his shadow. During his first season at court, Kaelen had been a fixture within Elias’s close-knit group. But by the second, things had shifted. It began with a dismissive comment from Lord Finn, tossed out idly during a break: “Kaelen eats with Tristan, doesn’t he? Gods, man, you are glacial.” Without any input or protest from Kaelen, his place had been revoked, rescinded as casually as a forgotten decree. Worst of all, Elias hadn’t cared. Kaelen’s presence or absence made no tangible difference to him. A bitter taste rose in Kaelen’s throat. He risked a glance at Elias, then spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “Am I truly so slow at the table?” “Of course, you are. You chew like a placid cow, Thorne, while the rest of us can finish our midday meal in five short minutes,” Elias scoffed. “Indeed, we are always late for fencing practice because of you,” Lord Cedric added, nodding in agreement. “...Ah.” Kaelen’s breath hitched. “We have a challenge bout with the scions from the next hall today. Go and dine with Tristan.” Elias’s decree was final. Kaelen’s pride, a brittle thing, refused to allow him to beg, to plead for a reprieve. Besides, he reasoned, the persistent indigestion he had suffered through his entire first season was likely due to the frenzied pace of meals, an attempt to keep pace with Elias and his boisterous companions. And honestly, the very thought of clinging to Elias like some discarded barnacle disgusted even him. So, he offered no protest, no plea. Just like that, he was out. His will, his desires, were utterly inconsequential. Feigning indifference, Kaelen found his eyes meeting Tristan’s across the chamber. Tristan, still lounging across his desk, idly bouncing his polished stone, met Kaelen’s gaze before speaking, his tone utterly devoid of judgment. “When do you usually take your repast?” Kaelen hesitated. “...” “I typically venture forth in ten bells or so.” “Yes, that suits me well enough.” Kaelen lied smoothly. He had never dined at such a time before. But survival instincts, honed by years of courtly maneuvering, kicked in. If he wished to remain tethered to *any* social group, even Tristan’s, he had to adapt. The first time Kaelen ate midday with Tristan alone, he left half his food untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Tristan, ever observant, raised a dark brow. “What are you, eighteen and still a picky eater, Thorne?” “What concern is it of yours?” Kaelen shot back, annoyance flickering. “Honestly, you are like an overgrown child.” “Even adults do not consume the river eel with that grotesque mustard sauce,” Kaelen retorted petulantly, glaring. Tristan’s casual assessment always grated. During his first season, Elias and Kaelen had been almost inseparable. By the second, those moments had dwindled significantly, and it was largely due to Tristan’s influence. Still, Kaelen knew he had no right to complain. Tristan, through some unspoken decree of courtly rank, outranked him, even outranked Elias in some circles. Tristan and Elias’s circles often overlapped, predominantly comprised of the less studious scions, those who consistently languished at the bottom of their year’s academic rankings. These were the types who would forge falsified warrants of leave or simply slip away from lessons, exploiting the lax attitudes of the tutors who rarely bothered to confirm their presence. Elias, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, usually remained within the lecture halls until the lessons concluded. As for Tristan, whose reputation was almost as infamous, Kaelen had once ventured to ask why he bothered to remain. Tristan’s response had stayed with him. “Do you believe I am so pathetic?” “No, my lord. But your companions are often… otherwise inclined.” “Companions? What absurd drivel is that? They are not my companions. They are refuse.” Tristan’s lip curled in disgust. “What?” Kaelen felt genuinely surprised. “A student’s duty, Thorne, is to attend his lessons and learn, is it not?” “...That is true.” “Do not lump me in with that refuse. It chafes.” “Yes, my apologies.” “I was not soliciting an apology.” Of course, the statement itself was perfectly reasonable. But hearing it from Lord Tristan Moreau, the scion whose so-called friends skipped their courtly duties at least once a week, felt utterly absurd. Regardless, Kaelen ended up spending most of his second season with Elias Volkov and Lord Tristan Moreau. He considered it a sacred, if tumultuous, space that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Tristan, but surprisingly, they got along better than Kaelen had anticipated. He did not particularly like Tristan, but the man was not so intolerable that Kaelen would storm off. He was simply… annoying. But Lord Veridian Ashworth’s constant plight turned even those days into a recurring nightmare for Kaelen. --- Today felt subtly different from the usual rhythm of courtly life. “Damn it. Lord Finn and Lord Cedric, those craven bastards,” Elias cursed, clutching his head as the fourth period of studies drew to a close. Hearing his voice, Kaelen immediately turned, a flicker of raw anticipation—a dangerous hope—tinging his tone. “They absconded again?” “Fools. Utterly worthless.” “That is unfortunate, my lord. Who will you break bread with, then?” Kaelen’s fingers trembled slightly, gripping the back of his chair, a desperate prayer forming on his lips. Elias let out a heavy sigh, his gaze settling upon Tristan, who sat beside him, idly polishing his stone. “Thorne, I’m eating with you two today,” Elias announced, his voice a declaration. “Do not. No one issued an invitation,” Tristan replied, his tone as flat as a flagstone. “Keep mouthing off, Moreau, and I shall shut it for you.” Elias’s voice was a low snarl. “Gods, today truly inspires me to strike you across the face, Elias.” “Attempt it, imbecile.” “Large words, for a wretch who would otherwise dine in solitary shame.” Kaelen could not hold back any longer. He interjected, his voice too eager, too strained. “Come, my lords, let us all break bread together. We cannot allow Elias to dine alone.” His desperation must have been glaringly evident. Elias smirked triumphantly, casting a sly, knowing glance at Tristan. “See, Moreau? I possess loyal companions.” “....” Tristan merely scowled, then deliberately shoved Elias’s inkwell from the desk, sending it clattering to the flagstone floor with a sharp crack. Whether Tristan harbored any affection for Kaelen was inconsequential. What mattered, what truly mattered, was that Elias would join them for the midday repast. It had been so long since they had shared a meal, a true repast. Kaelen felt a thrill, a fragile elation, that compelled him to force down even the spiced river-greens he abhorred. But Elias was not attending to his meal. His eyes, sharp and restless, scoured the Grand Dining Hall like a predator searching for vulnerable prey. Kaelen, too engrossed in the presence of Elias, failed to notice Tristan pilfering roasted partridge from his tray. Then, without warning, Elias’s silver chopsticks clattered onto his plate, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by. Kaelen looked up, a sickening lurch in his gut. It was Lord Veridian Ashworth. “Sit here,” Elias commanded, nodding towards the empty seat beside him. His voice was laced with a chilling sweetness. “You have no one else to dine with, in any case.” Lord Veridian’s face drained of color, then flushed a mottled red. His eyes darted wildly, landing briefly on Kaelen, before he bit his lip and slowly, hesitantly, lowered himself into the indicated seat. Kaelen was stunned. Utterly dumbfounded. Since when had Elias Volkov ever cared whether Lord Veridian had companions for his meal? And the very reason Lord Veridian possessed no companions was entirely Elias’s doing, his relentless machinations. Elias, Kaelen knew, abhorred it when anyone, *anyone*, showed the slightest kindness or proximity to Lord Veridian. A bitter, coppery taste rose in Kaelen’s throat. Unconsciously, Kaelen slammed his spoon onto his tray, the sharp clang echoing, loud and jarring in the cavernous hall. But only Lord Veridian reacted to the abrupt noise, flinching, his eyes wide with a nervous tremor. Elias, however, remained fixated on Lord Veridian, utterly oblivious to Kaelen’s outburst. Damn it all. At that moment, Kaelen felt the protective shell he had painstakingly constructed over the years begin to crack, a hairline fracture spiderwebbing across its surface. He tried to arrest it, to force it back into place, but he could not. Perhaps he was nearing a precipice, a breaking point he had never realized existed. Desperately clinging to denial, Kaelen snapped at Lord Veridian. “Veridian. Just leave.” “H-huh?” Lord Veridian stammered, his gaze fixed on Kaelen. “Do not heed Elias. Just go. It is fine.” Kaelen’s voice was firm, resolute. “Thorne,” Elias’s voice was a dangerous, low growl, the sound laced with menace. When Kaelen had told Lord Veridian he could leave, Elias Volkov, who had ignored the loud clamor Kaelen had made moments before, finally ground his teeth, his gaze snapping to Kaelen, alight with fury. That searing glare, far from wilting Kaelen, solidified his resolve. Kaelen fixed his eyes stubbornly on Lord Veridian. “I shall handle it. You may depart.” “Uh, o-okay.” Lord Veridian’s voice was barely a whisper. “And Elias, cease this nonsense already.” “Yes, I concur,” Tristan chimed in through a mouthful of roasted pheasant, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt utterly out of place, an unwelcome intrusion into the escalating tension. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate, infuriating slowness before glancing between Kaelen and Elias, a maddening smirk playing on his lips. “What are you staring at? You are quite spoiling my appetite.” As always, Tristan’s unnecessary provocations grated on Kaelen’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter the angle. Ignoring him, Kaelen turned back to Elias. “Leave Lord Veridian be.” “Who in the infernal depths are you to issue me commands, Thorne?” Elias shot back, his eyes narrowing to slits. “It is tiresome for the rest of us to witness.” Kaelen did not blink, holding Elias’s furious gaze. Elias slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Lord Veridian, still sitting awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Tristan, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me out of this quarrel.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by majority vote. I am neutral, Thorne wishes him gone, and Elias insists he remains.” For the record, Tristan was one of the few who still called him “Thorne,” and Kaelen found it irritating every single time. That irritation often slipped into his tone, just as it did now. “Cease your meddling. Your vote holds no weight.” “Why ever not? There is another person right there.” Tristan, unfazed, smirked and gestured with a casual flick of his hand towards Lord Veridian. “What? Is Veridian not a person?” “You are unhinged.” Kaelen muttered. “Why is he silent? Let him speak his mind.” As if Lord Veridian could possibly articulate a single word in this suffocating, tense atmosphere. Kaelen sighed at Tristan’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his bowl of spiced grains. That was when Elias tapped his finger on the polished tabletop, a sinister rhythm. “If you utter a single word about leaving, Veridian, you are dead starting this very day.” Tears began to well up in Lord Veridian’s large, luminous eyes, which shimmered as he looked at Kaelen, a silent, desperate plea for help. Damn it. Kaelen pressed his lips together. “It is fine. I shall stop him,” Kaelen said, his voice low, trying to reassure Lord Veridian. “Thorne,” Elias growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. Kaelen forced himself to meet Elias’s gaze, feigning a composure he did not feel, the overwhelming urge to break down a physical ache. To suppress it, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling of the dining hall for a moment, then lowered his head, replying nonchalantly. “What is it, Elias?” “You…” Elias clenched his fist, glaring at Kaelen with an intensity that felt like it could incinerate him. Still, Kaelen knew he had to endure it. Every instinct screamed that he could not, *would not*, leave Lord Veridian to Elias’s tender mercies. But Elias’s focus, a volatile thing, suddenly shifted back to Lord Veridian. “I-I’ll go,” Lord Veridian stammered, his voice trembling, utterly broken. “...” Elias’s jaw tightened. “Th-thank you, Thorne.” Lord Veridian scrambled up, his movements clumsy, his footsteps unsteady as he hurried away, vanishing amidst the other retainers. As soon as he was gone, Elias turned abruptly, his glare falling once more upon Kaelen, a promise of retribution in his eyes. ---

A Crack in the Facade