A full week of carefully orchestrated aloofness had passed. Valerius moved through the Grand Scriptorium with his usual retinue of Guild acolytes, a vibrant knot of ambition and privilege. Cassian, in turn, maintained a calm, almost icy distance, a subtle veneer of indifference that chafed his skin more than anyone could know. He spent his hours among the lesser-known scrolls, with Lysander and a few other junior archivists, meticulously cataloging forgotten treaties. It was a performance, and Cassian was a master of his own deceptive script.
His greatest vexation was the sudden void of direct news about Valerius. The formal separation from Valerius's circle meant gossip now arrived in truncated whispers, filtered through Lysander's occasional reports. So, when the ache of curiosity became unbearable, Cassian would seek out Lysander, feigning casual inquiry. His pride, a brittle thing, refused to crack. Yet, inside, a fire of questions burned.
When he would subtly broach the subject, Lysander, who often occupied himself with the tedious task of restoring faded ink on an ancient star-chart, would reply without much interest. “Ah, Valerius? He’s gone out again.” The answer always left Cassian momentarily speechless.
“...Damned pretender.”
Cassian understood the volatile emotions that seemed to drive Valerius. He was a creature of impulse, of raw, untamed ambition – a predator cloaked in fine silks.
“To some clandestine gathering, I presume,” Cassian ventured, his quill still poised over a page.
“Not this time. A formal introduction.” Lysander shifted, his fingers tracing a celestial constellation. “Lady Lyra arranged it. That young baroness who’s been circling him for months. Apparently, they departed almost immediately. Not even a full cup of spiced wine. She was no less eager. ‘A delightful proposition, certainly!’”
“...”
“Remarkable, their lack of pretense,” Lysander added, a dry laugh escaping him.
It wasn't admiration. His voice carried a biting derision, and for the first time in days, Cassian felt a strange lightness in his chest. He moved to Lysander’s workstation, tapping a hand on his shoulder. Lysander glanced up, then leaned back, offering more space on the bench. A small, unspoken acknowledgment.
Lysander was the only one who dared to openly critique the intricate, often sordid, dance of high society, and for that alone, Cassian found his presence tolerable.
“They’re disgustingly forthright,” Cassian murmured.
“Indeed. I, for one, possess far too many reservations.”
The way he said it, almost a boast, drew a faint smile from Cassian.
“Are you not meant to have reservations? We are scholars, not socialites.”
“One acquires such things. Human reason is a labyrinth,” Lysander countered, his gaze still fixed on the star-chart.
“Is that why you remain unwed?” Cassian teased.
Lysander finally set his stylus down. He looked at Cassian with an incredulous smile, tapping his hand still resting on his shoulder.
“I shall log a formal complaint regarding your impropriety.”
“How is this improper?”
“If the recipient experiences discomfort, it constitutes impropriety.”
“Lysander, you are truly insufferable.”
“Lecher.”
Cassian’s foot, clad in a soft-soled archive slipper, swung idly. Ignoring it, he nudged Lysander’s leg with his socked foot. Lysander feigned being pushed, then casually flipped a hand at him. His raised wrist revealed a simple rosary of polished jet beads, always wound around his left wrist. Cassian kicked his leg again, a lighter touch this time.
“That rosary does not suit you.”
“Why ever not?” Lysander asked, suddenly serious.
Why grow solemn now?
“It simply does not align with your temperament.”
“Does not align? Peculiar. Do I not strike you as a man of profound faith?”
“No. It looks like a mere trinket.”
“...It is not a trinket.”
Cassian had only recently learned of Lysander’s lineage – a family devoutly adhering to the ancient Veridian tenets. Even more surprisingly, Lysander himself claimed a fervent piety. But Cassian couldn’t take it seriously; Lysander stumbled over even the simplest canticle. He kept his skepticism to himself.
---
Cassian spent the following week a phantom in the Archives, careful to avoid any true encounter with Valerius. Whenever their paths crossed in the echoing hallways, Cassian would offer a fleeting glance, then divert his gaze to a distant scroll, a forgotten bust, anything but Valerius’s demanding presence.
He still lacked the will to approach him directly. Perhaps he feared a loss, the pathetic notion that whoever desires more, loses. Even knowing the absurdity, Cassian couldn’t bring himself to bridge the chasm.
In stark contrast, Lucien often sought Cassian’s quiet corner, probably because Cassian was the only one who acknowledged him without open disdain. Yet, the fresh, purpling marks beneath Lucien’s eye or the faint bruising on his jaw, visible nearly every day, made it clear that Valerius was still asserting his dominance, a predator marking its territory somewhere beyond Cassian’s sight. When Cassian’s gaze lingered, a frown creasing his brow, Lucien would hastily turn his head, shielding the injuries from view.
Four more days crawled by. One still morning, alone in a quiet research cell, Cassian buried his face in his hands. He wanted no part of the grim tableau unfolding around him.
The distance between Cassian and Valerius widened daily. What had been a narrow fissure now felt like an unbridgeable canyon of despair. Opening his eyes felt like risking being swallowed by it. Lucien’s bruises were as stark and undeniable as a sealed writ. That made Cassian even more reluctant to face either of them. He yearned for escape.
Then, as if fate had granted a small, dark mercy, Lucien ceased his attendance at the Archives. Archivist Master Elara merely recorded it as an absence, but the strained hesitation in her voice betrayed the truth: truancy. Cassian almost cheered aloud.
Valerius, meanwhile, spent his sessions in the Scriptorium fidgeting with his carved ivory tablet, snapping curt commands, or even striking one of his junior acolytes for a minor perceived insolence. A small part of Cassian felt a smug satisfaction. Another part savored a strange sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Lucien officially withdrew or vanished for good, Valerius would lose interest and turn his gaze back to Cassian. Confident in that thought, he waited patiently for the inevitable shift.
A few more days drifted by, each indistinguishable from the last.
“Valerius seems quite withdrawn,” Lysander remarked offhandedly, his voice low over a quiet afternoon. Cassian’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He longed to whip his head around, to study Valerius’s face from across the chamber, but he couldn’t. When it came to this strange, consuming attachment, Cassian was a true coward. All he could do was listen to Lysander’s casual words and try to conjure Valerius’s unspoken grief.
Yet, nothing changed. The day wore on, lectures ended, and the Sunstone Archives began to empty. Cassian told himself there would be another chance tomorrow. These things didn’t simply resolve overnight. He continued to wait, until, as he was slinging his satchel over his shoulder, Lysander spoke again, his tone uncharacteristically direct.
“You quarreled with Valerius, didn’t you?”
Cassian spun around reflexively at the question.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me this… estrangement has lasted since the incident in the Refectory?”
“...”
“Remarkable. This endures longer than I would have thought,” Lysander said, shrugging with his hands tucked into his sleeves. Cassian averted his gaze, mumbling a facile excuse.
“Truthfully, Valerius went too far. I despise seeing such… crude displays of dominance. It’s simply… unseemly, don’t you agree?”
“What is?”
“...Well, Lucien is a fellow acolyte, is he not?”
“And?”
“The manner in which Valerius treats Lucien is… I find it distasteful. One expects more restraint. I wish he would cease.”
“My, my.”
“...”
“You are surely destined for the Celestial Choir.”
The response to Cassian’s feigned magnanimity was dripping with Lysander’s signature sarcasm.
Annoyed by the malicious undertone, Cassian glared at him. But Lysander only smirked. Seeing that knowing expression, Cassian felt as if some hidden, ignoble truth had been exposed, and a flush crept up his neck. Swiftly, he turned his back on Lysander’s mocking grin and strode from the Scriptorium.
As he hurried down a vaulted hallway, intent on making his escape from the Archives, a hand suddenly settled on his shoulder. Assuming it was Lysander, Cassian spun around, irritation bubbling, and yanked his arm free. But it wasn’t him. It was Archivist Master Elara. Startled, Cassian quickly adjusted his composure.
“My apologies, Cassian. Did I startle you?”
“Oh, no, Master Elara. It is quite alright. Merely surprised…”
“I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I have a word with you?”
“Yes?”
“Just for a moment. Please.”
The Master Archivist’s usually composed face held an unusual gravity, so Cassian nodded.
“Today, Valerius requested Lucien’s family’s stipend records,” Master Elara said cautiously.
“Valerius?”
It was clear that, as the presiding Master, she could not be entirely unaware of the simmering tensions and implied cruelties within the Scriptorium. Yet, she lacked the resolve to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, she wasn’t so cold-hearted as to completely ignore it either. The fact that she sought out Cassian to discuss Lucien proved that.
“I am not accusing or blaming Valerius, but…”
“No, Master. I understand. I do not find it so strange,” Cassian replied quickly, though his heart beat a frantic tempo.
“Well, as you have often shown… a certain solicitude for Lucien’s welfare, I was wondering if you might consider accompanying Valerius should he choose to visit his residence. Do you comprehend my meaning?”
Cassian couldn’t answer immediately. His teeth clenched tightly. The strange, suffocating tendrils of Valerius’s obsession, which Cassian had projected onto Lucien, now seemed to creep toward him, seizing his feet and holding him rooted. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idly by.
“Might I… obtain Lucien’s personal contact scroll, then?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Here, let me provide it. Perhaps try sending a message first.”
“Indeed. I shall converse with him. Do not concern yourself overly, Master.”
“Very well. I am counting on you, Cassian.”
“Yes, Master.”
On the surface, Cassian appeared calm, but internally, a cold dread seized him. Archivist Master Elara handed him Lucien’s private contact cipher from the acolyte registry, her expression still awkward, before retreating down the hallway.
He had to stop Valerius from meeting Lucien. He absolutely had to prevent Valerius’s strange, possessive focus from intensifying. The moment Master Elara was gone, Cassian pulled out his own cipher-slate and immediately keyed in Lucien’s sequence. His leg jittered nervously, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he waited for the connection to be made. Surprisingly, the reply came quickly.
“Hello?”
“It is Cassian. This is Lucien, correct?”
As soon as he heard the voice, Cassian rushed to speak. There was a sudden clattering on the other end of the line—something falling, striking a hard surface, followed by some rustling. After a strained pause, Lucien’s voice returned.
“C-Cassian? Cassian! W-why… How… how did you obtain my cipher? Did you… already possess it?”
“No. I learned from Master Elara that Valerius inquired about your family’s stipend records today. So I asked for your contact.”
“...”
“I simply wished to caution you.”
“W-what of you? Are you well? Even though you attempt to intervene…”
“Do not concern yourself with me. Focus on your own safety. If you require further leave from the Archives, transmit a message to this cipher. I will intercede with Master Elara. My reputation, believe it or not, carries some weight.”
“...Thank you.”
“If Valerius attempts to harass you or employ force within the Archives, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak openly, merely touch my shoulder or some similar signal. It is far more difficult to mend things once they are irrevocably broken.”
“Understood…”
“Honestly, seeking an apprenticeship elsewhere would be your wisest course.” Cassian slipped that in, hoping Lucien would grasp the underlying urgency.
“...”
“Regardless, consider it. For now, either ensure you are not at your residence, or remove yourself to a distant location.”
“O-okay…”
“Very well, I am terminating the connection.”
“W-wait.”
“...?”
“Thank you, Cassian.”
After a long hesitation, Lucien’s voice came softly, trembling slightly. What was this? Honestly, it made Cassian deeply uncomfortable.
“T-thank you for always offering your aid…”
“It is nothing.”
“I merely… wished to express it. Thank you. S-see you soon.”
“Indeed.”
“...Farewell.”
‘Farewell’? Cassian didn’t bother responding to the awkward parting and ended the connection. Just hearing Lucien’s voice, imbued with such fervent gratitude, sent shivers down Cassian’s spine and left him thoroughly unsettled.
What transpired with Lucien that night, Cassian never knew. All he observed was that from the next day onward, Lucien began attending the Archives again. And within a week, the faint, unblemished complexion characteristic of his youth began to re-emerge, devoid of any marks. Lucien also ceased his sudden approaches to Cassian, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more self-contained.
His abrupt change planted seeds of suspicion in Cassian’s mind. Yet, when all the bruises on Lucien’s face finally vanished, Cassian couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope—however unlikely it seemed in the gilded cage of the Archives.
Then, two weeks later, Valerius approached Cassian out of nowhere.
“Cassian.”
“...”
“Cassian Thorne.”
“...”
Cassian didn’t look at him, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead on a distant, intricate mosaic. But his lips felt as if they might part in a gasp at any moment. Could it be that Valerius was finally tired of Lucien?