A cool, metallic taste lingered on Kaelen’s tongue. He stirred, the silken sheets rustling faintly, then pushed himself upright. The faint bruising beneath his eye, a stark bloom of violet against his pale skin, had softened overnight. A small mercy. The medicinal unguent, scented faintly of camphor and wild mint, had done its work. Only a discerning eye, or one searching for fault, would now catch the faint discoloration. It was, at least, manageable.
He dressed in the prescribed attire of the Ducal Academy – deep navy tunic, linen breeches, and a doublet embroidered with the house sigil. The fabric felt heavy, almost suffocating, against his skin. A subtle current of tension already hummed through the ancient stone corridors as he made his way to the morning lecture in the Grand Study Hall.
Air in the hall hung thick, oppressive, like dust motes caught in a sunbeam. Its source was immediate: Lord Valerius Thorne. Kaelen’s gaze instinctively sought out Lysander Vance.
Lysander entered just as the aged Scholar-Mentor, Elara, cleared her throat to begin the day’s discourse on ancient treaties. He slipped in, a shadow against the grand oak doors, barely avoiding the Mentor’s reproving stare.
Kaelen stopped breathing. The sight of Lysander’s face struck him mute. A jagged split marred his lower lip, purpled and swollen. One eye, nearly as puffy as Kaelen’s own cheek had been yesterday, was an angry plum-dark hue. A sickening wave of guilt washed over Kaelen. He had wished, in a moment of bitter weakness, that Valerius might have known a taste of his own medicine. Now, seeing Lysander, Kaelen felt a profound disgust at his own petty malice.
“By the Mother...” a whisper escaped his lips, lost in the rustle of parchment.
Lysander hesitated at the entrance, his eyes darting nervously across the gathered young nobles. Then, as if pulled by an unseen thread, his gaze snagged on Kaelen. Lysander froze, his expression a startled grimace, a tremor running through his thin frame. He snapped his head away, shuffling quickly to his designated seating block, his shoulders hunched, avoiding Kaelen entirely.
“What in the nine hells?” Kaelen muttered, the strange reaction leaving a knot in his stomach. He glanced around, and the reason became piercingly clear. Lord Valerius Thorne, seated across the hall, stared at Kaelen with an intensity that promised retribution, a predator’s silent snarl.
“Damn it all.” Kaelen’s breath hitched. He should have feigned illness. Regret, sharp as a dagger’s point, pierced him.
Through the morning’s lectures and the short breaks between scholarly debates, Lysander, who had once sought Kaelen’s company with a puppy’s eager loyalty, now kept his distance. He scurried away, always in Valerius’s wake, disappearing into the labyrinthine corridors of the ducal estate. Kaelen often wondered where they vanished, but the thought of following them, of witnessing some fresh brutality, made his stomach clench.
Left to his own thoughts, Kaelen found himself breaking bread with Ser Gideon Ashworth during the midday meal. The warm, yeasty scent of fresh-baked rolls did little to soothe the storm brewing in Kaelen’s mind. A part of him yearned to seek out Valerius and Lysander, to confront them, but a cold dread held him captive. He hated admitting it, but he was afraid of what he might find.
Surely Valerius wouldn’t be inflicting more punishment on Lysander… not after the boy’s already brutalized face. Such thoughts were not Kaelen’s concern, he told himself, but the image of Lysander’s swollen eye was seared into his memory, making detachment impossible.
Ser Gideon, meanwhile, remained oblivious to the tempest raging within Kaelen. He chewed on a candied fruit tart, humming a tuneless melody.
“Kaelen, did you feel the tension in the Hall today? Felt like I was breathing cobwebs.” Gideon gestured with a sticky finger.
“You seemed quite unperturbed yesterday, polishing off those sugarplums.” Kaelen’s voice was flat.
“A man must appear composed, Kaelen. Courtly composure is paramount, even when one’s nerves are strung taut as a lute string.” Gideon winked, a flash of carefree mirth. “Besides, sugarplums are meant to be devoured with gusto.”
Kaelen suppressed a sigh. He gave Gideon’s calf a light kick under the heavy oak table. Gideon merely chuckled, rubbing his chin, a faintly sheepish look on his face. Kaelen almost smiled. It couldn't be. Not Gideon, with his earnest simplicity.
Life possessed an unpredictable, cruel humor. Kaelen had held no intention of befriending Ser Gideon Ashworth. In fact, Gideon’s boisterous nature had initially grated on his refined sensibilities. Yet, here they were, sharing confidences in hushed tones, Gideon the closest confidant Kaelen possessed.
Gideon’s easygoing demeanor, his flippant remarks, had a peculiar way of anchoring Kaelen, preventing him from spiraling into the relentless weight of courtly anxieties. Kaelen had once dismissed Gideon as shallow, lacking gravitas. Now, he clung to that very lightness, a lifeline in the treacherous currents of the ducal court. Had he and Valerius remained bound by their old, fragile camaraderie, Kaelen might never have realized the solace Gideon offered.
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of study and apprehension. Valerius began to distance himself from the broader circle of young nobles, his absences growing more frequent. Sometimes, Lysander vanished alongside him. Other times, Valerius would draw a few other young men into his orbit, only for them to return later, their faces etched with a peculiar blend of unease and forced indifference. More than once, Kaelen overheard whispers of some refusing Valerius’s summons, their excuses flimsy, their expressions pale.
One afternoon, Kaelen encountered Ser Alaric Croft scaling a low wall near the kitchen gardens, trying to avoid the watchful eyes of a passing steward. Alaric, a minor noble known for his impulsive nature, recounted, with a mixture of nervous amusement and genuine disquiet, that Valerius had been ordering others to strike Lysander. “One blow each, Kaelen,” Alaric had explained, his face twisting. “As if Lysander were a training dummy for their petty grievances.” Kaelen felt a cold sickness spread through him. Alaric, catching Kaelen’s horrified expression, quickly added that he had been avoiding Valerius’s circle for that very reason. He then claimed he was on his way to the garrison’s sparring grounds with Ser Gareth, and urged Kaelen not to misinterpret his current company. With that, Alaric scrambled over the wall and vanished. Ser Gareth, Kaelen recalled, had once been close to Valerius in their early days at the Academy, but their paths had diverged after Gareth’s family relocated to a distant estate.
During a late afternoon stroll through the sun-dappled ducal gardens, Kaelen and Gideon shared small cups of chilled spiced wine. The sweet chill spread across Kaelen’s tongue, momentarily soothing the bitter knot of unease in his chest. Yet, he held his ground, meticulously schooling his features, refusing to let the turmoil show.
“Is it to your liking?” Gideon asked, his own cup already half-empty.
“Perhaps.” Kaelen offered him a taste, the rim of the silver cup cool against Gideon’s lips. Gideon, without hesitation, grinned and took a deep draught.
“You actually did it?” Kaelen raised an eyebrow.
“You offered.” Gideon shrugged, a flash of boyish charm. “And it’s quite good.”
A small, peaceful moment, untainted by the court’s machinations. The crisp autumn air rustled through the ancient oak trees, a stark contrast to Kaelen’s inner tempest. Where were Valerius and Lysander now? A few shadowed alcoves, neglected storerooms, or abandoned wings of the estate came to mind. Kaelen did not go looking. Perhaps he was simply afraid of what he might find if he did.
He tried to banish Valerius from his thoughts. Yet, the harder he tried, the more Valerius’s shadow seemed to loom, filling every corner of Kaelen’s mind.
How long would it take to excise someone like him from his heart? How much effort would it demand? Kaelen did not know. He felt lost in a vast, parched wasteland, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable.
Sometimes, Kaelen retreated into his own meticulously ordered thoughts. Like a scholar poring over a faded scroll, struggling to decipher lost script, he stepped back, trying to make sense of the unfolding chaos. When the weight became too much, he would occasionally confide in Gideon, however obliquely.
He turned to Gideon abruptly. “Tell me, Gideon.”
“Yes, Kaelen?”
“Can flowers ever bloom in a barren desert?” The question, so raw, so uncharacteristically emotional, brought a flush of embarrassment to Kaelen’s cheeks the moment it left his lips. He scratched his head, a rare, awkward gesture. But Gideon did not mock him.
“They will.” Gideon’s voice was surprisingly soft.
Kaelen looked up.
“They have to, Kaelen. Life’s a bitter draught as it is.”
Hearing those words from Gideon, a man Kaelen never imagined capable of such profound sentiment, somehow made Kaelen’s desperate hope feel even more futile. How much more time would it take to relinquish these meaningless loyalties?
“Aye. A bitter draught indeed.”
Valerius Thorne. That useless, cruel bastard. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging dog Kaelen had been in his presence? Valerius, who now flouted every basic courtesy a young noble should uphold, came and went from the Academy as he pleased. And always, by his side, was Lysander Vance, a pathetic, bruised shadow.
As Valerius’s violent whims escalated, the young nobles of the Academy buzzed with a mix of unease and morbid fascination. A creeping fog of resentment towards Valerius began to spread, slowly, subtly, throughout their ranks. None of it felt good.
So, when Kaelen saw Valerius dragging Lysander by the wrist through a quiet, shadowed corridor, Kaelen stopped in his tracks. His gaze flickered between their faces, a storm gathering within him, before he finally spoke.
“Your Lord Father has concerns, Valerius.” It was not an apology. It was certainly not flattery. It was a lie, a calculated gamble. That was the extent of Kaelen’s pride, his subtle weapon. Valerius, estranged from his stern father, would likely not know it was a fabrication. Even if he did, Kaelen could always argue that, at this rate, Valerius’s recklessness would indeed give his father plenty to worry about.
Kaelen always ensured he left himself an escape route.
“If burdens must be borne, let them fall on the one who casts them. What harm has Lord Lysander ever inflicted upon you?”
“Step aside, Kaelen.” The moment Kaelen uttered Lysander’s name, Valerius’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as shards of obsidian. Kaelen’s chest tightened, a suffocating pressure. He despised Valerius in that moment. Yet, pitiful, pathetic Lysander stood glued to Valerius’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide, trembling on the verge of weeping.
“Unless you wish for another lesson, Kaelen, move.” Valerius’s voice was a low growl.
“V-Valerius, please,” Lysander stammered, his voice reedy, barely a whisper. Valerius paused. His gaze, once fixed on Kaelen, now narrowed on Lysander. Kaelen saw only the rigid line of Valerius’s back as he turned slightly away.
“Your Lord Father, I said, has grave worries—” Kaelen pressed on, his voice strained.
Lysander, on the verge of collapse, clung to Valerius’s arm, a desperate, silent plea. Watching that wretched scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating Kaelen closed his eyes, a phantom pain throbbing in his own jaw.
After a long, taut moment, Valerius looked at Lysander, then, with a curt nod, turned and walked back down the corridor, disappearing into the Study Hall. For the remainder of the day, Valerius stayed within its confines, just as he had weeks ago, when his rages first began.
The long-anticipated day of the academic excursion arrived. A ducal coach, freshly polished and emblazoned with the House Thorne crest, was prepared to transport them to the ancient Archival Spire of Eldoria, a repository of forgotten lore. While a few older nobles grumbled about the distraction from their more serious studies, most of the younger wards were simply eager for a day’s escape from the estate’s stifling routine.
There was no need for packed provisions, as they would return before dusk. The Scholar-Mentors offered only perfunctory warnings about decorum and scholarly conduct before dismissing them. This was no giddy outing for fresh-faced children. Kaelen viewed it as another day of carefully managed interactions – leave without a misstep, return without a blemish on his repute. He had no premonition that today would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations would finally rupture. He had always known it would come, eventually, but not with such sudden, brutal finality.
During such journeys, Kaelen had always occupied the seat closest to Valerius. After all, he had once been Valerius’s closest confidant, his silent shadow. He hadn’t even considered where Gideon might choose to sit, having never shared a formal ducal journey with him before.
A flicker of unease had crossed Kaelen’s mind earlier, a baseless fear that Gideon might somehow usurp his customary place beside Valerius. Thinking back on it, Kaelen felt a pang of pathetic self-pity. Neither he nor Gideon would occupy that coveted spot.
He arrived in the bustling courtyard. The ducal coach, its polished wood gleaming, waited. Kaelen climbed aboard, navigating the jovial chaos of his peers. The rearmost bench, capable of seating five, was already claimed by a boisterous group of young nobles, including Ser Alaric Croft, who waved with an uncertain smile, then gestured vaguely towards Valerius’s preferred forward seat.
“Kaelen! There’s space here!” Alaric called out.
“Ah, yes.” Of course. He had always sat there. But today, Kaelen hesitated as he approached Valerius’s seat. He felt a small, bitter tremor of relief when he saw the space beside Valerius still empty. He swallowed hard, a fresh surge of stubborn pride hardening his resolve.
That was his place. His pride, the last vestige he clung to so fiercely, compelled him to claim it, even after Valerius’s brutal hand had left its mark upon Kaelen’s own face, all because of Lysander.
Kaelen’s fingers brushed the velvet upholstery of the seat back. He glanced around the coach, then quietly, his voice a tight thread, addressed Valerius.
“This seat, Valerius…”
“It is not yours. Find another.” Before Kaelen could finish, Valerius cut him off, his gaze fixed on the coach’s entrance. Kaelen followed his line of sight. Lysander Vance, pale and timid, was making his way towards them, his eyes downcast. Kaelen clenched his fists, the unspoken words catching in his throat.
“Fine. So be it.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, a casual shrug, but his heart felt as though it had been flayed raw.
He retreated swiftly, scanning the coach’s interior. An empty space beckoned near Gideon Ashworth’s group, just in front of where Gideon sat. Relieved, Kaelen hurried over, dropped into the seat, and spoke before a response could be formed.
“Gideon. Sit here.”
No answer. Kaelen looked closer. Gideon was already deep in slumber, his head resting against the window, bouncing gently with every slight jolt of the coach. Kaelen shook his head at the ridiculous posture, then, with a soft sigh, wedged his leather-bound calligrapher’s case between Gideon’s head and the pane. He leaned back into the plush, but still uncomfortable, seat.
Across the aisle, a lock of dark brown hair. Valerius’s. He was taller than most of their peers, easily distinguishable. Kaelen could not see clearly, but he knew.