Two days had peeled away from the calendar like brittle parchment. In a narrow alcove near the master calligrapher’s station, tucked behind a stack of outdated treaties, Kaelen discovered a small, folded note.
“*Might you spare a moment in the antechamber to the Grand Archives, before this afternoon’s fencing practice?*”
A fleeting thought—a courtly assignation? Dismissed it quickly. Matters of the heart were rarely addressed with such terse formality, nor did Kaelen attract such whimsical overtures. He had forgotten the missive entirely until the chiming of the third bell, signaling the impending martial drills.
Changing from his Academy tunic into the lighter, more practical jerkin for sparring, Kaelen made his way to the Archives. A faint curiosity stirred, a whisper against his usual composure. Who might seek him out in such an unassuming fashion? He expected little, certainly nothing of consequence.
Yet, the sender proved startlingly familiar. Lord Elara of House Solis, a youth whose timid demeanor was as notorious as his carefully pressed dark hair. He stood by a dusty sarcophagus of forgotten scrolls, nibbling at his fingernail.
“Lord Elara?” Kaelen’s voice held a measured surprise.
Lord Elara’s head, small and neat, snapped up. He offered a wavering smile, much like the one he’d worn upon his transfer to the Duke’s Royal Academy. A faint line, almost imperceptible, tightened Kaelen’s brow. That smile, so guileless, always grated.
“Your presence here is… unexpected, Lord Elara. State your purpose.”
At Kaelen’s query, Lord Elara’s plump fingers twisted, a nervous dance.
“Ah, Kaelen… I… I have a matter… I wished to convey.”
“Indeed?” Kaelen’s patience wore thin.
He yearned to depart. A quick exit, before any lingering aide-de-camp or curious scholar might spy them together. Proximity to Lord Elara often bred whispers, and Kaelen guarded his reputation, offering only the barest courtesy to maintain an appearance of propriety.
Lord Elara, oblivious to Kaelen’s unease, continued to gnaw at his thumb, his gaze darting around the shadowed antechamber. Indecision warred with a fragile resolve on his face. Each time he seemed on the verge of speech, his lips clamped shut.
A prickle of irritation rose in Kaelen’s chest. He harbored no affection for Lord Elara; every hesitant gesture only deepened Kaelen’s ingrained disdain. The small, trembling movements of his mouth, which some might find endearing, were to Kaelen a fresh torment. Perhaps, Kaelen conceded, his own sensitivities were heightened this morning.
“Forgive my haste, but I am due for martial practice. Speak your piece, Lord Elara.”
Compounding Kaelen’s vexation, a dull ache throbbed behind his temples. His mind felt like a tangled skein of thread. Perhaps his agitation wasn't truly aimed at Lord Elara. Perhaps it sought any outlet. A persistent unease in his stomach had been plaguing him of late, a knot of stress he couldn't unravel.
Lost in these churning thoughts, Lord Elara finally seemed to steel himself. His voice, small and stammering, began to form words.
“Uh, Kaelen… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Kaelen managed, a hand absently rubbing his neck. The interval before fencing practice was almost over. He wished Lord Elara would simply utter it. A perverse impulse to pry the words from his mouth pulsed.
Then, the heavy oak door to the antechamber shuddered open. Both Kaelen and Lord Elara turned. Their eyes met, not with a passerby, but with Lord Gareth of House Blackwood, his chest heaving. No, not Kaelen; Lord Gareth’s furious gaze pinned Lord Elara.
“*Hff, hff…*”
Lord Gareth’s ragged breaths spoke of a frantic search. Kaelen’s own breath caught, a cold, suffocating constriction, imagining Gareth scouring the Academy halls for Lord Elara.
Letting out a slow, deliberate exhale, Lord Gareth strode into the antechamber. Kaelen’s hand, still at his neck, fell unconsciously. Lord Gareth’s eyes, fierce and cold, flickered between Lord Elara and Kaelen.
“Kaelen. What precisely are you doing with *him*?”
His words hung, sharp and unaddressed. Lord Gareth’s fists clenched, then relaxed, then clenched anew.
Beneath Kaelen’s controlled exterior, a tremor of dread began. After an agonizing pause, Lord Gareth’s burning stare settled on Kaelen. It was unbearable. Kaelen could not meet it.
“Gareth, what is this madness?”
*Please, please. Do not look at me so. Blame Elara for calling me here. Why do you fix me, your confidant, with such resentment? I am merely an unwitting participant in this folly.*
Lord Gareth’s blazing eyes remained locked on Kaelen. Kaelen recognized the intensity—not of ardor, but of raw fury, of possessive jealousy, of a simmering madness. It was the visage of a man consumed by an obsessive affection—a sight Kaelen found equally pathetic and contemptible.
“What are you doing with *him*!”
*You are a spectacle, Gareth. So utterly pathetic.* Kaelen met his gaze, a challenge in his own eyes. Yet, a sudden, disquieting thought wormed in: *The truly pitiable one is not you, but me.*
Before Kaelen could fully process the thought, Lord Gareth’s long strides closed the distance. As Kaelen looked into his face, the world lurched.
“...!”
Kaelen registered nothing but a shock. His body crumpled to the polished stone floor. Only then did his mind retrace the blur of motion.
“No… that cannot be…”
He had struck Kaelen.
Lord Gareth had *struck* him.
On the ground, Kaelen’s trembling fingers touched his cheek. Disbelief warred with a profound humiliation. *How could you… how could you do this to me?*
“K-Kaelen!”
“Insolent cur! I forbade you to utter my name, Elara! Do not presume!” Lord Gareth roared, like a man possessed. Lord Elara, horrified, stumbled towards Kaelen, but Gareth’s outburst stopped him cold. Lord Elara’s face blanched.
“I-I’m sorry, truly sorry.”
“You vowed! You swore an oath, damn you!”
Lord Elara retreated, tears glistening in his eyes. *No*, Kaelen thought, *he is not the one who should weep. It is I.*
Tears welled, threatening to breach Kaelen’s composure. Mercifully, before the dam broke, Lord Gareth cursed again, a venomous hiss, and dragged Lord Elara from the antechamber by his arm. It happened with a bewildering swiftness.
Left alone, slumped on the cold floor, Kaelen stared at the half-open door. A shaft of pale sunlight sliced through the crack, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. Something inside him finally fractured. The carefully constructed walls of his emotions crumbled, and tears flowed, hot and unbidden.
He detested it all. Lord Elara, whose timidity had ensnared Kaelen in this wretched display. Lord Gareth, who had laid hands upon him. A silent wish formed: *Let them both vanish, disappear from my sight.* Kaelen felt utterly miserable, reduced to a mere prop in their grotesque, tangled drama.
Rising stiffly, Kaelen skipped fencing practice. He walked directly to the Master of Studies’ office, requesting an early dismissal. His swollen, reddened face lent credence to his tale of sudden illness. Master Thorne, a man of few words, offered a sympathetic nod, asking no questions.
---
At Thorne Manor, Kaelen collapsed onto his bed, succumbing to an exhausted sleep. He woke hours later, his face puffy and a dull ache throbbing in his cheek. Out of habit, he reached for the small, ornate mirror on his bedside table. He saw a message etched onto its surface—a communication from Lord Alaric of House Drayton.
They rarely exchanged direct messages, their interactions usually tied to Lord Gareth’s presence. *Damn Gareth*, Kaelen thought.
Were it any other acquaintance, Kaelen would have ignored it. But Lord Alaric was not simply anyone. He stood as Lord Gareth’s unspoken second, a figure of subtle influence among the Academy’s cliques. Kaelen could not afford to dismiss him.
“*Thorne, you vanished from the practice yards.*”
Kaelen clicked his tongue, a soft, dry sound. He responded belatedly, the message hours old. “*A momentary indisposition, Lord Alaric.*”
He kept his reply deliberately light, a brittle shield. The thought of anyone discovering Lord Gareth’s assault was unbearable, a profound humiliation. And all because of Lord Elara.
“*Is all well with you, Kaelen?*”
Lord Alaric, displaying concern? An unsettling strangeness settled over Kaelen. He set the mirror aside, its etched surface blank.
Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over him. Even Lord Alaric’s message felt burdensome, another demand. Other Academy acquaintances had sent inquiries, polite and distant, but none were what Kaelen secretly yearned for.
No one searching for him was Lord Gareth. *I must be losing my wits*, Kaelen chastised himself. Still, he clung to a solitary, bitter consolation: *This is the fate of one consumed by such maddening affection.*
Even with this cold clarity, Kaelen lay there, an idiot, doing what he did best—closing his eyes and turning away from the harsh glare of reality.
“...I am not the only one.”
Perhaps Lord Elara and Kaelen were tethered by the same cruel thread. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought, mingling with a selfish, wicked, childish hope. As Kaelen lay staring at the ceiling, the mirror on his table glowed with another message. An unfamiliar sigil preceded it.
“*Kaelen, are you quite unwell?*”
Kaelen frowned. Who among his peers would address him so intimately, so informally? Lord Alaric? But this was not his family sigil. Before he could dwell on it, another message arrived, relentless and infuriating.
“*My deepest apologies, Kaelen. This is entirely my fault.*”
“*I am truly sorry.*”
“*Please, forgive me.*”
Three words or four, each hammered at Kaelen, making him want to scream. He hurled the mirror onto the rich rug beside his bed in a fit of frustration. *How did this imbecile acquire my sigil? And how is someone who supposedly carries no personal mirror sending me messages?*
Then, a cold realization struck. *Ah. I had sent him a message, had I not? Weeks ago, a simple query about a misplaced ledger.* Kaelen cursed his own doltish memory and let out a choked sigh of anger. He pounded his fists against the soft mattress until his arms ached, until exhaustion claimed him. Just before his consciousness fully receded, one last message, unread, echoed in his mind.
“*I beg you, do not harbor ill will.*”
*Amusing*, Kaelen thought. *I have harbored ill will for months.*
The next morning, Kaelen awoke, his face swollen like a baked brioche.
---
Kaelen declared himself indisposed, skipping Academy lectures. Though a diligent scholar, he lacked the fervent devotion to present himself with such a disfigured countenance.
Maidservant Anya prepared his mid-day meal: a bland, soothing gruel and softened vegetables. As she placed the tray, her gaze lingered on his face. “Lord Kaelen, you must be more careful,” she chided gently, her voice low. Kaelen swallowed the tasteless food without much mastication.
Setting down his spoon, he reached for a goblet of spiced water. Anya returned to clear the dishes. Plate in hand, she paused.
“Lord Kaelen, you have a caller.”
“A caller?” Kaelen’s heart gave a faint, unexpected flutter. Before he could name the emotion, his mind conjured an image.
*Could it be… Lord Gareth?*
A wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the Academy ever called upon Thorne Manor. Among his acquaintances, only a handful knew its precise location. If it were Gareth, then surely he had come to apologize, finally overcome by guilt. Lord Gareth had never struck Kaelen before, not once. Yes, he must be riddled with worry and regret.
“Yes, Anya. Please, admit them.”
The fantasy hardened into a certainty. Though Kaelen silently chastised his own naivete, a small warmth bloomed in his chest. Despite everything, he still held some measure of importance to Gareth. The thought offered an inexplicable solace. He turned towards the main door, his pace quickening with a flicker of hope.
But the figure awaiting him was not the one his mind had so eagerly pictured.
“Thorne. A surprising sight.” Lord Alaric of House Drayton, sharp-featured, a playful smirk curving his lips, held a small, dark satchel. His smirk dissolved upon seeing Kaelen’s face. His tone, usually laced with irony, turned uncharacteristically serious.
“By the Fates, Kaelen! What misfortune befell your countenance?”
Kaelen’s knees nearly buckled from the sudden plunge of disappointment. *How did Lord Alaric even know my private residence?*
“A momentary lapse in footing,” Kaelen replied, his voice flat.
Lord Alaric frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar manner before delivering a barbed remark. “Still as clumsy as a fledgling raven, I see.”
Kaelen offered no retort. He merely rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache mirroring the one in his heart. Embarrassment washed over him, a fresh wave of mortification for his earlier anticipation. He truly was an imbecile. Lord Gareth considered him an irrelevance. And here Kaelen was, fawning like a hopeful hound—a complete fool.
“A small offering. Perhaps this will soothe the ache.” Lord Alaric extended a wrapped package. Kaelen accepted it, unwrapping it to reveal a chilled confection. He lifted the lid to inspect the flavor.
“...It is Earl Grey.”
“Indeed? My focus lay elsewhere.”
“Of course not. Your concern for such trivialities is negligible.”
“A keen observation, Thorne. You wound me.”
“Pray tell, Lord Alaric, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?”
“To ascertain your welfare, naturally. May I step within?”
“Lord Alaric, I must protest—”
Without waiting, Lord Alaric’s long legs carried him across the threshold into Thorne Manor.
“Your private chambers, Kaelen?”
“Where do you believe you are going?”
“Where else might I seek refuge from the biting wind? Your dwelling offers scant other diversions.”
Kaelen had no swift retort. Lord Alaric was not wrong. Noble houses, despite their distinct veneers, often shared an underlying monotony. Feeling awkward, Kaelen followed Lord Alaric, who seemed oddly intent on scrutinizing the interior of his ancestral home.