A carefully cultivated veneer of calm defined Cassian Thorne. His entire existence, meticulously charted by his parents from the very first quill stroke of his life, had ingrained a deep-seated discipline. Above all, he abhorred the notion of revealing vulnerability. Thus, even when a storm churned within, his outward composure remained a fortress, unyielding.
Often, others perceived him as unexcitable, a man untouched by the fires of indignation. It was not that anger eluded him; rather, each indignity, every emotional discord, had calcified into an impenetrable shell. Over seasons, the ability to genuinely provoke him had withered.
This held true, even for the tumultuous presence of Lord Volkov.
His unflappable nature, in truth, served as his anchor within Volkov’s inner circle. Cassian was the impeccable son his noble lineage expected, holding a respectable, if subordinate, position within the Sunstone Archives’ intricate social hierarchy. This painstakingly constructed perch, he yearned to preserve.
“Thorne, your hand-script today looks as if a spider gargled ink.” Seraphin, slouched against a towering scroll-shelf, flicked a stray piece of vellum. “Remarkably ugly.”
“Oh, like your disposition?” Cassian’s voice, though even, held the faintest edge.
“Clever. For you.” Seraphin merely chuckled, a dry sound. A slight smirk tugged at Volkov’s lips nearby. Insults, when flung by Seraphin, were rarely taken to heart by Volkov, whose own estimation of himself was unshakable.
“Seraphin, do you not know any ladies of quality?” Volkov’s question was a casual pronouncement, his gaze sweeping over the polished mosaic floor.
“Quality, my Lord? Define your terms.”
“A… demure presence. Perhaps a charming naïveté. Someone to soften the edges of this dreary place.”
“Playing coy, are we?” Seraphin’s gaze sharpened, but he offered no further reply. Volkov, however, quickly lost interest in Seraphin’s evasions. His attention drifted, fixating on a figure hunched over a faint-inked codex at the far end of the Grand Scriptorium. Elara Vesta.
Volkov, scion of House Aerion, was all impulse and untamed appetites. His whims, as crude as they were sudden, were well-known throughout the Archives. From his earliest days in the Junior Scriptorium, his capacity for harassment had only amplified, devoid of any discernible subtlety.
Now, at the close of the summer season, Elara Vesta found herself utterly isolated. Yet, even this complete ostracization seemed insufficient to satiate Volkov’s restless spirit.
His retinue operated on varying levels of loyalty. Kaelan, Rhys, and Torvin—his immediate acolytes—would linger minutes after the bell signaling the Midday Repast, awaiting his pleasure. Meanwhile, lesser scions, like Lysander, Ronan, and Brennus, bolted from their lecture halls the instant the repast was announced, keen to avoid his orbit.
In Cassian’s first season in the Grand Scriptorium, he had been a constant fixture in Volkov’s entourage. But by the second, things shifted. A careless remark from Rhys — “Cassian, you eat with Seraphin, don’t you? Gods, you’re slower than a sloth copying illuminated texts.” — had been the catalyst. Without a word from Cassian, he had been silently, irrevocably, excluded.
The sting of that dismissal was a persistent ache. Volkov, blessedly, had not seemed to care. Cassian’s presence, or lack thereof, meant little. Damn him. Cassian had turned to Seraphin, his voice barely a murmur. “Am I truly that deliberate in my repast?”
“Of course. You pick at your plate like a scholarly mouse, while the rest of us empty our bowls in moments.”
“Aye,” Rhys had chimed in, “we’re always late to the sparring grounds because of your dainty bites.”
“…Ah.”
“Today, we have a challenge match against the West Wing’s blades. Go break bread with Seraphin.”
Pride locked Cassian’s tongue. He wouldn’t plead. Besides, the chronic indigestion that plagued him through his first season had likely stemmed from his frantic attempts to match their hurried pace. And, a more visceral truth, the thought of clinging to Volkov’s side, like a discarded fragment of parchment, curdled his stomach. So, he offered no protest, no plea.
Just like that, he was out. His will, utterly inconsequential.
Feigning indifference, Cassian’s gaze met Seraphin’s. The other man, lounging on a carved oaken desk, meticulously cleaning a tiny ivory knot, raised an eyebrow. “When do you take your repast, Thorne?”
Cassian’s throat felt dry. “…”
“I usually venture forth in ten bells.”
“Yes. That suits me.”
In truth, Cassian had never eaten at that hour. But the instinct for survival, for maintaining *any* association, even with Seraphin, demanded adaptation. Their first solitary midday repast saw Cassian leave half his plate untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Seraphin, ever observant, remarked. “Still finicky at your age, Thorne? What are you, a child of ten seasons?”
“What concern is it of yours?” Cassian shot back, a petulant heat rising.
“Frankly, you often act the part.”
“Even adults shun dried eels with spiced apricot glaze.”
He glared, the barb finding its mark. What did Seraphin truly care? It grated, nonetheless.
During their first season, Volkov and Cassian had been inseparable. By the second, those moments had dwindled to fleeting exchanges, and Seraphin was largely to blame. Still, Cassian harbored no right to complain. Seraphin, a scion of a Guilded House and a formidable Scribe, outranked him, albeit subtly.
Seraphin’s affiliations, much like Volkov’s, often overlapped with scions known for their truancy and disdain for scholarly pursuits. These were the types who would forge leave permits or slip away from lectures, exploiting the lax oversight of indifferent Overseers.
Volkov, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, usually remained until the end of formal duties. Seraphin, whose reputation was equally nuanced, once received a query from Cassian about his own adherence to the Archives’ schedule. His reply had lingered.
“Do you truly believe me so pathetic, Thorne?”
“No, but your… associates… are of that ilk.”
“Associates? What drivel. They are not my associates. They are mere background noise.”
“What?”
“A scribe’s duty is to attend lectures, to absorb lore, yes?”
“…That is true.”
“Do not lump me with such dross. It offends.”
“My apologies.”
“I sought no apology.”
A reasonable declaration, of course, yet its source — Seraphin, whose supposed ‘associates’ abandoned the Archives at least once a week — rendered it absurd. Regardless, Cassian found himself spending most of his second season navigating the delicate currents between Lord Volkov and Seraphin. He considered their shared space a sacred enclosure, inviolable by others. Without Seraphin, it would have been perfect, but surprisingly, they managed a truce. Cassian did not *like* Seraphin, but the man was not so insufferable as to compel outright flight. He was simply… nettlesome.
Then, Elara Vesta turned even those days into a harrowing ordeal.
Today, however, felt different.
“Damn them. Kaelan and Rhys, those craven fools,” Volkov cursed, pressing a hand to his temple as the fourth lecture neared its close.
At his voice, Cassian swiveled, a tremor of anticipation lacing his own. “They… abandoned you again?”
“Fools, the lot of them.”
“A pity. Who will accompany you to the Midday Repast?” A faint tremor coursed through Cassian’s fingers, clutching the back of his chair. Volkov let out a heavy sigh, his gaze settling on Seraphin, who sat nearby, idly polishing his ivory knot.
“Seraphin. I shall dine with you and Thorne today.”
“Do not. You were not extended an invitation,” Seraphin replied, blunt as a blunted quill.
“Continue that insolence, and I shall ensure your tongue is clipped.”
“Gods, today truly tempts me to introduce my fist to your noble jaw, Volkov.”
“Attempt it, you fool.”
“Brave words from a lord who would otherwise break bread alone.”
Cassian could no longer restrain himself, interjecting, “Come, let us all partake together. We cannot abandon Lord Volkov to dine in solitude.”
His desperation, naked and raw, must have been evident. Volkov smirked, a triumphant glint in his eye, casting a sly glance at Seraphin. “See? I possess loyal company.”
“…”
“What say you, Seraphin? Thorne proves… useful, does he not?”
Seraphin scowled, sweeping Volkov’s meticulously carved stylus case from the desk. It clattered to the stone floor. Whether Seraphin liked Cassian mattered little. What truly mattered was Volkov joining them for the repast.
It had been seasons since they shared a meal, and the sheer elation spurred Cassian to force down even the spiced lamprey, a dish he abhorred.
But Volkov paid scant attention to his plate. His eyes, keen and predatory, scanned the refectory like a falcon circling prey. Cassian, too fixated on Volkov, failed to notice Seraphin absently pilfering the candied figs from his own tray. Then, without warning, Volkov’s cutlery clattered. His free hand snaked out, gripping the arm of a figure passing by.
Cassian looked up. Elara Vesta.
“Sit here,” Volkov commanded, indicating the empty seat beside him. “You possess no one else with whom to dine, in any case.”
Elara’s face blanched. Her eyes darted, briefly catching Cassian’s, before she bit her lip and slowly, hesitantly, lowered herself into the seat Volkov had indicated.
Cassian was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Volkov concern himself with Elara’s company? And the very reason Elara had no companions was entirely Volkov’s doing. Volkov had always ensured no one else dared approach her.
A bitter, coppery taste coated Cassian’s tongue.
Unconsciously, Cassian slammed his spoon onto his tray, the sound jarringly loud in the cavernous hall. Only Elara reacted, flinching, her gaze snapping to him, laced with a nervous fear. Volkov, however, remained transfixed by Elara.
Damn it. In that moment, the protective shell, painstakingly built over the years, began to fracture. Cassian fought it, desperately, but the fissure widened. He was nearing a precipice he hadn't known existed.
Clinging to a fierce denial, he snapped at Elara. “Elara. You should leave.”
“H-huh?”
“Do not heed Lord Volkov. Go. It is permissible.”
“Thorne,” Volkov’s voice, dangerously low, cut through the din.
Cassian had told Elara to leave. Volkov, who had ignored the clang of his spoon, finally ground his teeth, his glare burning into Cassian. That icy stare only hardened Cassian’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Elara.
“I shall manage this. You may depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Elara’s voice was a whisper.
“And Volkov, cease this charade.”
“Aye, I concur,” Seraphin chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of candied figs. His interjection felt misplaced, almost deliberately so. He chewed and swallowed, slowly, deliberately, before casting an irritating smirk between Cassian and Volkov.
“What are you glaring at? You’re spoiling my appetite for roasted pheasant.”
As ever, Seraphin’s unnecessary provocations grated on Cassian’s nerves. The man was insufferable, regardless of the angle. Ignoring him, Cassian turned back to Volkov. “Release Elara.”
“Who gives you leave to command me, Thorne?” Volkov shot back, his voice tight.
“It grows tiresome for the rest of us to observe.”
Cassian did not blink, holding Volkov’s furious gaze. Volkov slammed his fist onto the table. The sudden impact made Elara, still perched awkwardly, flinch, squeezing her eyes shut. Seraphin, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender. “Count me out of this.”
He licked a bead of water from his lips, adding, “Let us decide by consensus. I am neutral. Thorne desires her gone. Volkov says she stays.”
Seraphin was one of the few who called Cassian by his surname, never his given name, and the subtle slight irritated him every time. That irritation now bled into his tone. “Cease meddling. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Seraphin, unfazed, smirked and gestured toward Elara with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Elara not a person?”
“You are unhinged.”
“Why is she silent? Let her voice her preference.”
As if Elara could possibly utter a word in this charged atmosphere. Cassian sighed at Seraphin’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his spiced grain. Volkov’s finger tapped rhythmically on the table.
“If you depart, Vesta, your life will become a living nightmare starting today. I swear it by the Sunstone itself.”
Tears welled in Elara’s large eyes, glistening as she looked at Cassian, a silent plea for help. Damn it. Cassian pressed his lips together.
“It will be fine. I will dissuade him,” Cassian said, attempting to reassure Elara.
“Thorne,” Volkov growled, his voice tight with anger, venomous.
Cassian forced himself to meet Volkov’s gaze, feigning calm, but within, an overwhelming urge to shatter threatened to consume him. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes to the arched ceiling for a fleeting moment before lowering his head, replying nonchalantly. “Yes, my Lord?”
“You…”
Volkov clenched his fist, his glare burning with an intensity that threatened to immolate Cassian. Still, Cassian had to endure. His instincts screamed that he could not abandon Elara to Volkov’s malevolent whims.
Yet, Volkov’s focus shifted back to Elara. “I-I will go,” Elara stammered, her voice trembling.
“…”
“Th-thank you, Thorne.”
Elara scrambled up, her footsteps unsteady, almost a shuffle, as she fled the hall. As soon as she was gone, Volkov turned abruptly, his face a mask of simmering fury, his gaze locking onto Cassian.