Two days later, a slender parchment, sealed with a glyph unfamiliar to Guild Enforcers, appeared tucked beneath the weighty tome of Sunstone’s earliest charters on Cassian’s desk. Its presence was a disquieting anomaly in the meticulous order of the Archivist’s chambers. “May I beg a moment of your time, Master Thorne? In the smaller scriptorium, before the Guild Masters’ morning pronouncements.” Cassian’s fingers traced the elegant script. For an instant, a flicker of absurdity — a romantic overture? — brushed his mind, only to be dismissed with a wry, internal scoff. Such sentimental folly had no place within the Sunstone Archives, much less amongst those of his station. The idea was quickly exiled from his thoughts. He forgot about the note entirely until the moment before the morning pronouncements, a mandatory daily assembly that preceded the day’s work. After ensuring his robes hung impeccably, free of dust or wrinkle, he made his way toward the designated scriptorium. A prickle of curiosity, faint but persistent, stirred within him regarding the sender. He assumed nothing significant awaited him. Yet, the figure waiting amidst the towering shelves, the filtered light illuminating the fine dust motes dancing in the air, was undeniably Lucien. Lucien. His dark hair, usually dishevelled from restless nights spent hunched over forbidden texts, was smoothed, almost pressed flat. His hands, usually stained with ink, gripped each other, twisting nervously. “Lucien?” Cassian’s voice, a low murmur of surprise, cut through the quiet hum of the archives. Lucien’s small head, previously bowed in contemplation of the polished floor, snapped up. He offered a fragile, almost hesitant smile, a pale imitation of the one he’d worn when first admitted to the Archives, years ago. The sight of it stirred a familiar knot of discomfort in Cassian’s stomach. “What is it? Why summon me so abruptly?” Cassian’s tone was carefully neutral, a practiced veil over his rising irritation. Lucien’s fingers continued to twine, his gaze darting around the scriptorium as if searching for an escape. “Ah, I… I have something I wish to impart…” “Speak plainly, Lucien.” Cassian shifted his weight, a subtle gesture of impatience. He desired nothing more than to conclude this encounter. To be seen alone with Lucien, especially after the incident two days prior, invited speculation, whispers that could tarnish his carefully cultivated reputation. He always maintained a precise distance from Lucien, enough to appear benevolent, never enough to become entangled. Oblivious to Cassian’s thinly veiled aversion, Lucien continued to bite at his thumb, his eyes wide with a peculiar mix of indecision and fervent resolve. He would part his lips as if to speak, only to clamp them shut again, the words seemingly lodged in his throat. Cassian’s jaw tightened. He had never harboured genuine affection for Lucien; every one of the younger man’s mannerisms, his meekness, his obsessive devotion, served only to deepen Cassian’s quiet disdain. This hesitant dance, this protracted silence, amplified his annoyance to an almost unbearable degree. Perhaps he was overly sensitive, overly attuned to the nuances of social expectation. “Forgive me, Lucien, but the hour approaches. I must attend the pronouncements. State your purpose, now.” Cassian’s voice was sharper, betraying the strain. He felt an unwelcome tension in his temples, a dull ache that mirrored the agitation churning within him. Perhaps his frustration wasn’t solely directed at Lucien. A part of him simply yearned to lash out, to vent the pressure that had been building since that humiliating reverence. His sleep had been poor; his stomach churned with a persistent unease. While Cassian wrestled with these thoughts, Lucien finally seemed to gather his courage. His voice, a reedy whisper, barely carried through the quiet space. “Master Thorne… I… you see, I…” “Yes?” Cassian responded, scratching idly at the nape of his neck. The time for the pronouncements was nigh. He wished Lucien would simply spit out whatever inconsequential pronouncement he needed to make. A part of him, dark and impulsive, almost wished to pry the words from the younger man’s lips himself. Then, the heavy oak door of the scriptorium swung inward with a soft thud. Both Lucien and Cassian turned, their eyes meeting those of Lysander, who stood framed in the archway, breath heaving. No, not entirely. Lysander’s gaze fixed first on Lucien, a possessive, burning intensity in his eyes. Lysander’s chest rose and fell rapidly, the fine silk of his tunic stirring with each gasping breath. The implication was clear: he had been searching, relentlessly, through the sprawling halls of the Archives. Lysander let out a slow, deliberate exhale, then strode into the scriptorium, his polished boots silent on the marble floor. Cassian’s hand, which had risen to rub his neck, dropped to his side, a suffocating dread coiling in his gut. Lysander’s eyes, fierce and cold, flickered between Lucien and Cassian. His fists, clenching and unclenching at his sides, were the only tell of his inner turmoil. “Why do you linger with him?” Lysander’s voice was low, taut, not quite addressing either of them directly. An icy apprehension settled in Cassian’s chest. The calm facade he usually presented threatened to crack, revealing the frantic beating beneath. After a long, brittle silence, Lysander’s gaze finally locked onto Cassian. The weight of that stare, searing with an accusation Cassian refused to acknowledge, was unbearable. “What in the name of the Sunstone, Lysander?” *Please, please, do not look at me so. Blame Lucien, who ensnared me here. Why do you turn that burning resentment upon me, your esteemed colleague? I am merely an unwitting participant in his foolishness.* Even as the thought surged, Lysander’s eyes, alight with a terrifying intensity, remained fixed on him. Cassian knew those were not the eyes of a man burning with intellectual fervor or artistic passion. They were the eyes of one consumed by a monstrous rage, an unyielding jealousy, a destructive madness. It was the face of a man deranged by obsession—a countenance Cassian found both pitiable and utterly repulsive. “Why do you linger with him!” Lysander’s voice cracked, the refined veneer momentarily shattering. *You appear pathetic, Lysander. So utterly pathetic.* Cassian met his gaze with a cool, disdainful stare. Yet, a chilling thought pierced through his defiance: *The pitiful one, perhaps, is not you. It is I.* Before Cassian could react, Lysander’s long stride brought him directly to where Cassian stood. A sudden, jarring impact rattled Cassian’s teeth. The world seemed to tilt. His body, caught off guard, stumbled backward, crashing against a low table of archival tools. Only then, sprawled amidst scattered quills and parchment, did his mind reconstruct the blinding speed of the blow. *No…* He had been struck. Lysander had struck him. Lying on the cool marble, Cassian’s trembling fingers rose to his stinging cheek. Disbelief washed over him, a cold wave of humiliation. *How could you… how could you possibly do this to me?* “M-Master Thorne!” Lucien, horrified, rushed forward, a desperate plea on his lips. But Lysander’s voice, a guttural snarl, cut him off. “You worm! Stay away from him! In fact, do not approach him at all, you accursed blight!” Lucien flinched back, his face ashen, tears welling in his eyes. He shouldn’t be the one weeping, Cassian thought numbly. It should be him. He felt the sting of unshed tears behind his own eyes, a dam threatening to burst. But before he could surrender to the ignominy, Lysander cursed violently, a string of expletives that echoed harshly in the sacred quiet of the Archives. He seized Lucien by the arm, his grip bruising, and dragged the smaller man from the scriptorium. The heavy door swung shut behind them with a definitive thud. Left alone, sitting in the midst of the scattered tools, Cassian stared at the half-open door. A shaft of morning light streamed through the narrow gap, illuminating dust motes. Something inside him finally gave way. The carefully constructed edifice of his composure crumbled, and tears, hot and bitter, coursed down his cheeks. He hated everything. Lucien, for his insidious devotion, for drawing him into this tangled mess. Lysander, for his vicious betrayal, for the searing blow. He wished they would both simply vanish. He felt wretched, reduced to a mere pawn in their deranged, convoluted relationship. Cassian forced himself up. He skipped the pronouncements, the thought of presenting his bruised, trembling self before the Guild Masters an unbearable prospect. Instead, he presented himself to the Head Archivist, his swollen face and carefully worded excuse of a sudden, debilitating headache surprisingly convincing. The elderly scholar, sensing his distress, dismissed him without further inquiry. **** Back in his private chambers, Cassian collapsed onto his silken cushions, succumbing to an exhausted, dreamless sleep. When he awoke, his cheek was throbbing, a dull ache radiating from a bruise that had blossomed into an unsightly puffiness. Out of habit, he reached for his communication slate. A message from Elias greeted him, its glow illuminating the dim room. They did not exchange messages frequently, but Lysander’s influence often required such contact. *Confound it all.* Were it any other acquaintance, Cassian would have ignored it. But Elias was not simply anyone. He was Lysander’s most trusted aide, a powerful scion of House Atheria, holding significant sway within the Guild Enforcers. To ignore him would be an act of social suicide. “*Master Thorne, when did you abscond?*” Cassian’s lips thinned. He replied to the three-hour-old summons, composing his response with deliberate lightness. “*Haha, a sudden indisposition overcame me.*” He refused to betray the true nature of his predicament. The thought of anyone discovering Lysander had struck him, and all because of Lucien, was an unbearable humiliation. “*Are you well?*” Elias’s response was immediate, laced with an unexpected concern. What insidious game was this? The unsettling query prompted Cassian to shut off the slate, the glow fading to black. Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy enveloped him. Even Elias’s message, however polite, felt suffocating, another reminder of the delicate social tightrope he walked. Other colleagues, scholars with whom he meticulously collaborated, had also sent perfunctory inquiries. Yet, none offered the solace he sought. No message, not one, bore Lysander’s sigil. *I must be losing my wits.* He consoled himself, whispering that this was the inevitable fate of a man consumed by a maddening, deranged affection. Even knowing the bitter truth, Cassian lay there, a fool, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, turning a blind eye to the stark, ugly reality. *Perhaps… I am not the only one.* That grotesque, twisted thought surfaced, a peculiar kinship forming between himself and Lucien. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While staring blankly at the vaulted ceiling, another message materialized on his slate. An unknown sender. “*Master Thorne, do you suffer greatly?*” Cassian frowned. Who among his circle would address him so intimately? Elias? Yet, this was not his encrypted frequency. Before he could dwell on it, another message arrived, relentless, infuriating. “*I am deeply sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.*” “*I am sorry.*” “*Please, forgive me.*” Each word, whether three or four, made him want to scream. He flung the communication slate across the room, watching it clatter harmlessly against a velvet curtain. *How did this imbecile acquire my frequency? And how does someone who supposedly possesses no personal devices send such relentless missives?* Then, the realization struck. He had called Lucien before, hadn’t he? Cursing his idiotic memory, Cassian let out a frustrated sigh. To vent his fury, he pounded his fists against the luxurious cushions until exhaustion claimed him and he drifted into sleep. Just before consciousness fully receded, one last message, unread, echoed in his mind. “*Please, do not despise me.*” *Humorous. I have despised you for months.* The next morning, his face was swollen, a grotesque parody of his refined features. **** He did not attend the Archives. Though a model scholar, his passion for ancient lore did not extend to appearing publicly with such a disfigurement. His house steward, a dour woman named Elara, prepared his midday meal. As he ate, she could not resist a gentle chiding, reminding him to exercise greater caution when navigating the city’s uneven cobblestones. The meal itself was unremarkable: a bland, restorative broth and thinly sliced, seasoned gourds. He swallowed it all without much interest. As he set down his spoon and reached for a glass of spiced water, Elara returned to clear the dishes. Plate in hand, she announced, “Master Thorne, you have a visitor.” “A visitor?” Cassian asked, his voice muffled by the water. “Shall I admit them?” A visitor. His heart, against his will, fluttered with a nascent hope. Before he could fully identify the emotion, his mind, foolish and eager, had already conjured an image of who might stand beyond his receiving room doors. *Could it be… Lysander?* It seemed a wild fantasy, utterly improbable. Few from the Guild Masters’ circle ever graced his private residence. Among his most trusted associates, only a select few even knew the location of his secluded manor. If it were Lysander, then perhaps he had come to atone, finally afflicted by guilt for the abhorrent act. Lysander had never, not once, laid a hand upon him. Yes, he must be troubled, burdened by remorse. The thought bloomed, filling him with an inexplicable, fragile warmth. “Yes, Elara. Pray, admit them.” His fantasy solidified into an undeniable certainty. Though he inwardly chastised himself for such naïve optimism, a small, vindictive satisfaction bloomed in his chest. Despite everything, he still held some significance to Lysander. The thought was a bitter confection, yet he savored it. He rose swiftly, turning towards the entrance, his pace quickening with a surge of anticipation. But the individual awaiting him was not the one his desperate mind had conjured. “Well met, Cassian. A pleasure.” Elias of House Atheria stood there, a wry smirk playing on his sharp features, a small, ornately carved box clasped in his hand. As soon as his gaze fell upon Cassian’s bruised face, the smirk vanished, replaced by an unusually serious expression. “By the Mother Sun, what befell your countenance?” Cassian’s knees almost buckled, a sudden, crushing wave of disappointment washing over him. *How did Elias even know where I reside?* “A… a clumsy fall,” Cassian replied, his voice flat, devoid of its usual cultivated warmth. Elias’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that characteristic way he always adopted before delivering a sarcastic remark. “You remain as graceful as ever, then, Master Thorne?” Cassian offered no retort. He merely rubbed his throbbing cheek, the dull ache a physical manifestation of his profound embarrassment. He was an utter fool. Lysander did not consider him important. And here he was, like a desperate cur, wagging his tail with pathetic hope, a complete imbecile. “Here. This might alleviate the sting.” Elias extended the carved box. Cassian accepted it, lifting the lid to reveal a delicate arrangement of candied sunberries, known for their cooling properties. “…Sunberries.” “Indeed. Did not notice the cultivar. Are they not to your liking?” “Expected. Why would you notice such trivialities?” “Harsh, Cassian. Quite harsh.” Elias chuckled, the sound devoid of genuine mirth. “What, pray tell, do you imagine I am doing here?” “That remains a mystery.” “I came to ascertain your welfare. May I enter?” Elias asked, his tone less a question than a polite declaration. “Wait, Elias—!” Without pause, his long, confident strides carried him past Elara and into the formal receiving room. He did not wait for an invitation. “Which of these chambers is yours?” “Where are you headed?” Cassian called out, a frisson of unease running through him. “Where else? There are no other private retreats in a manor of this design. Unless you entertain guests in your larder?” Elias’s retort was delivered with casual disdain, a subtle jab at Cassian’s somewhat modest noble standing. Cassian had no coherent response. Elias spoke the truth. Manor houses, especially those of lesser noble houses, followed similar architectural conventions. Feeling a profound awkwardness, Cassian followed Elias, who seemed intent on scrutinizing every detail of his private residence, his expression unreadable. Elara, ever the silent observer, watched them disappear down the corridor, her gaze lingering on the retreating figures before she resumed clearing the half-eaten meal.

A Bitter Confection