A chill, colder than Eldoria's autumnal winds, had settled between us since the incident in the Grand Archive. Lord Kaelan’s disdain for me was no longer a whispered rumor but an open declaration. His formerly polite facade, cultivated for the Guild Masters and his House elders, had vanished. He now barely acknowledged my presence, his gaze sliding past as if I were a speck of dust on a hallowed scroll.
Beside him, always, sat Lysander. He occupied the very alcove, the very space, Kaelan and I had once shared for countless hours, poring over ancient city plans. Lysander was a constant, unwelcome shadow, a reminder of what was lost.
My nature rarely allowed me to display true sentiment, yet neither could I don a mask of indifference, pretending unaffected by the shame that clung to me like damp parchment. Such pretense was for the truly brazen, or perhaps, the truly innocent. I would not become some pathetic, groveling petitioner. But the courage to approach Kaelan, to speak as if the chasm between us did not exist, eluded me. It was a bridge burned to ash.
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of melancholy and a creeping boredom that dulled the edges of my keenest thoughts. Moments of petty vengeance would flare, brief and hot, but always, I endured. I pressed on, my stylus scraping across vellum, my memory sketching the forgotten pathways of Eldoria, even as my heart felt carved hollow.
That young lord, Kaelan, still prone to uncontrolled fits of temper despite his House’s teachings, now harbored a childish envy. A venomous resentment bloomed in his heart, clearly directed at me. And the seed of that bitterness, I knew, was Lysander.
My hatred for Lysander, however illogical, burned with a greater intensity. He was never mine to begin with, I knew this, a stark truth. But it wasn't enough that he had stolen Kaelan’s attention; he had also poisoned Kaelan’s mind against me. The thought gnawed at me: a vicious, scheming viper.
Perhaps it was not his intent. Perhaps he was merely a pawn, oblivious to the games played. Yet intent mattered little to a heart consumed by raw emotion. Blaming him became my grim solace, a scapegoat in this miserable tableau.
Despite the tumult within, my choices remained rational. I understood Lysander was merely swept along by Kaelan’s erratic tides. Never did I permit hostile emotion to show upon my face when our paths crossed. A tight-lipped nod, a fleeting dip of the head—that was all.
Partly, the embarrassment of revealing my jealousy was a powerful deterrent. To betray such a base emotion would make me appear a fool, stripped bare and vulnerable. Kaelan would despise me further. And the whispered judgment of the Eldorian court, the powerful guilds, the noble Houses… they would label me as one tainted, unfit for the meticulous craft of cartography, for any esteemed position within their circles. It was a death knell for one’s social standing.
“This is… unbearable,” I muttered, my voice thin, barely audible above the rustle of my own robes. A cold dread seeped into my bones, a bitterness that surpassed even Kaelan’s open contempt.
Then, unbidden, Master Corvus’s face rose in my mind. The reason for this sudden intrusion was unclear, perhaps merely his persistent, irritating presence in my daily life. What would he say if he knew the depths of my despair, the secret shame I carried? His likely retort twisted my gut: 'So young Elara is but a tainted draughtsman, consorting with illicit knowledge, unfit for the Guild.' The thought of Corvus's sardonic gaze, his knowing smirk, made my fists clench, my nails digging into my palms. It was a horrifying image, sickening in its vividness. No one, not a single soul, could ever know.
Guild alliances, like friendships, proved shallow in the shifting sands of Eldoria’s politics. Once Kaelan’s disfavor became apparent, my ties with his retainers and inner circle naturally frayed. Amusingly, Faelan, a quiet apprentice often on the fringes of Corvus’s workshop, had approached me yesterday with a rather pointless query.
“Elara, Master Corvus sought you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“I cannot say. He merely wished to find you.”
Such was the nature of our recent exchanges – empty words, devoid of true purpose. It was clear now: the whispers in the scriptoriums and council halls had shifted. I was seen as belonging more to Master Corvus’s less traditional, though respected, guild than to Lord Kaelan’s powerful, ancient House.
Yet, the threads to Kaelan’s circle were not entirely severed. Occasionally, during physical drills in the training grounds, or by happenstance at dawn in the market square, polite greetings were exchanged. Such brief encounters were mostly limited to Seren, Kaelan’s diligent retainer.
“Greetings, Elara. A fine morning to you.”
“And to you, Seren.”
I recalled one such awkward exchange. Seren had lowered his voice, muttering something under his breath, his eyes darting towards Kaelan, who stood a little distance away.
‘Lord Kaelan has been... peculiar of late. The way he treats Lysander... it is rather unsettling, is it not?’
A sour expression must have marred my face, for he seemed to interpret it as agreement. He continued, speaking of how Kaelan would insist Lysander sit only by him, how he would grip Lysander’s arm, not releasing him even during formal addresses.
My fists tightened, teeth gritting against the raw wound of his words. ‘Such unsavory matters are of no concern to me.’ My voice was a brittle whisper.
Seren fell silent immediately, his expression startled.
Lately, Seren had been seen attempting to ingratiate himself with Master Corvus and his artisans. He seemed to be discreetly seeking an exit from the suffocating shadow of Kaelan’s influence. Perhaps his sharing of such intimate observations with me was merely an attempt to forge a new alliance.
Today, as often now, only Master Corvus and I remained in the vast main workshop, the other apprentices having retired for the evening. Corvus leaned against a heavy oak drafting table, watching me across the room. Whether he ignored me or simply assessed my posture, I could not discern. Annoyed, I averted my gaze, electing to ignore him in turn.
“Elara.”
“What is it, Master Corvus?”
“Let us acquire some of that spiced cordial after our duties. The amber one, we sampled it last time. It had a pleasing warmth.”
Corvus chose to disregard my silence. As he spoke, he idly tossed a small, weighted plumb bob, letting it arc across the workshop, threatening to strike hanging tools. No one dared to caution him.
He cared nothing for the atmosphere, nor for the disruption he caused. Indifferent, selfish even. I watched the plumb bob describe its erratic path, finally breaking my silence. The irritation festering over his shameless disregard made my tone sharper than I intended.
“Do you speak of the cordial you consumed entirely by yourself? The flask you purchased solely for your own enjoyment?”
“Not entirely. I confess, I favor amber hues.”
“So, my preferences held no sway in your considerations?”
“How could I divine your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The plumb bob, by then, had rolled to rest near a junior artisan. Corvus extended a hand, a silent command. The young man hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the bob, placing it in Corvus’s outstretched palm. Corvus twirled the weight in his fingers, addressing the retreating artisan, “My thanks, fledgling.”
Such an irritating disposition. ‘Fledgling this, novice that.’ Every word he uttered grated against my ears.
Honestly, it defied logic that someone as boorish as Master Corvus now chose my company over Lord Kaelan’s. He ate beside me at the refectory, sat by my bench in the scriptorium, attended guild meetings in my proximity. Kaelan was not often present, true, but Corvus could easily send a messenger, arrange a private audience if he wished.
A thought, unbidden, sprang to mind. I voiced it without much reflection.
“Why do you not seek Lord Kaelan’s company these days?”
Corvus, in the midst of throwing and catching the plumb bob against the sturdy timber wall, froze. He turned to me, a puzzled frown creasing his brow.
“You had a falling out with him,” he stated, as if it were obvious.
“I?”
“Aye. You and Lord Kaelan.”
“I am aware. I am the one who suffered his disfavor. But why does that matter to you?”
“Your pronouncements grow stranger by the day, Elara. It matters because you are my associate.”
Corvus studied me then, his gaze unnervingly direct. Feeling a prickle of unease, I avoided his eyes. “Yet you were also Lord Kaelan’s associate.”
“Ha! You amuse me. Are you suggesting you are not my associate, then?” His tone was incredulous, a finger pointing directly at me.
“No, I am your associate. But you shared a bond of fellowship with Kaelan. Why then do you side with me in this matter?”
“Why? Because I have known you longer, draughtsman.”
“What nonsense do you utter? Our acquaintance began through Lord Kaelan, did it not?”
“Hold, Elara. What are you saying? We were close even during our early apprenticeship!”
“When was this?”
“Truly, you are an infuriating wretch. During our shared lessons in the Guild Hall refectory, we exchanged glances often, I recall!”
“Ah… then.” A distant memory of awkward, frequent encounters. His constant, unsettling stares.
“So, I was the sole one who perceived us as fellows? You, a deceiver! That is precisely why, when we found ourselves in the same scriptorium, I was the first to approach you! And you dismiss this? Unbelievable. I confess, I am quite disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Truly. Beyond belief. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?”
“Forgive me, Master Corvus. My apologies. I am sorry, do you hear?” I mumbled the words hastily, those strange, frequent glances from our earliest days now clicking into place.
So that, for him, constituted the foundation of fellowship. I felt cheated, a mark of his peculiar camaraderie. Those stares had not been friendly; they had been filled with a raw, almost hostile curiosity. Wait. Did that mean the one who first proposed sharing a meal, a conversation, was not Kaelan, but… Corvus?
The realization struck me like a stone, leaving me stunned. It was unsettling, profoundly so. Still, I wished not to become further entangled in his strange logic. I feigned understanding, nodding slowly.
“Alright, alright. I comprehend. My apologies, truly.”
“I was grievously offended just now.” Corvus glared at me, his gaze brief but sharp. Sometimes, I found his mind an impenetrable labyrinth.
“And besides,” he continued, turning his attention to a fresh piece of vellum, “Lord Kaelan behaves most strangely these days.”
My breath caught.
“That lord is quite mad, I think. He has always possessed a peculiar temperament, but this… this is beyond the pale.” Corvus grasped the plumb bob, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The sight conjured images of Seren and the other artisans, their awkward attempts to speak of Kaelan to me.
From that alone, one truth emerged: Lord Kaelan’s standing was plummeting within Eldoria’s intricate social hierarchy. “Tainted.” The word, a damning stigma in the world of young nobles and ambitious guild members, sent a shiver through me. My body trembled slightly at the thought, a cold echo of my own secret shame. At the same time, a perverse relief washed over me. No one knew of my own transgressions, my clandestine forays into forbidden cartography. Did that relief mean I valued my own skin more than Kaelan’s reputation, his very soul?
Unease settled upon me as I met Corvus’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous priest concealing a forbidden text before the High Confessor. “Truly, me,” I murmured, a strange, hollow laugh escaping my lips—a fragile blend of fear and derision.
It was almost darkly humorous. To others, I was Master Corvus’s closest confidante, his preferred associate. Yet, in truth, I was no different. A criminal, branded with an unholy stigma, barely concealed. Only a few months past, I had been Lord Kaelan’s trusted aide, his closest friend. Now, I merely hid within a different, yet equally perilous, trap I had barely escaped. I had only avoided public ruin. That was all.
---
It was the deep hours of dawn. A message, from an unknown cipher, arrived unexpectedly. A summons at the fourth bell, before first light. Half-asleep, I wondered if this entire sequence of events, this dizzying fall from grace, was but a dream. Even though I had actively avoided Kaelan to protect my own fragile heart, a foolish flicker of hope ignited within me, daring to imagine the message was from him.
I rubbed sleep from my eyes, checking the sender once more. My feelings were conflicted. Part of me wished it was merely a spam message, an illicit offer for dubious cartographic secrets. But as soon as my eyes registered the script, I knew it was not Kaelan.
“Lara, I beg your forgiveness for contacting you at this hour. Could you come beyond your dwelling’s gate for a moment? I am truly sorry. Deeply sorry.”
“Just this once. Only this one time.”
Kaelan would never apologize to me. Never.
Amongst my peers, only two ever dared call me ‘Lara.’ And of those two, only one was so utterly pitiful. How did Lysander even ascertain my dwelling’s location? The moment I read his desperate plea, my face twisted into a scowl. I desired nothing less than to see him—never wanted to witness his presence again. He always evoked such unpleasantness.
Despite my internal turmoil, I rose from my bed. My fingers fumbled with the clasps of my simple tunic, my traveling cloak. I walked to my dwelling’s heavy oak door but stopped short of stepping through, resting my forehead against the cold frame, letting out a deep, shuddering sigh.
“Damn it all.”
An overwhelming sensation, a tightly wound knot, formed in my stomach. That was the sole accurate description. I clutched my chest. I had always prided myself on my keen intellect, on the expansive vocabulary gleaned from countless ancient scrolls, but none of the words I knew could truly express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred I harbored for Lysander, the stark memory of his bruised face from that fateful day in the Archive, the desperate weeks I’d spent erecting a wall between Kaelan and myself—all swirled together, a tempest in my mind. Biting my lip, I fiddled with the heavy iron doorknob, then closed my eyes, turning it with a decisive twist.
In the small enclosed garden beyond, the cold morning dew clung to the air, a stark herald of autumn’s arrival. To avoid the wet, clinging grass, I stepped carefully onto the cool, moss-covered marble stones that formed a meandering path. The chilly dawn made me pull my cloak tighter around my shoulders. My toes, peeking from the front of my soft slippers, carried me to the very front gate.
I paused there, a soft click of my tongue, and gripped the handle. The groan of the ancient hinge made me flinch, and I opened the gate even more slowly, cautiously.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the guttering oil lamp on the cobblestone street, stood Lysander. He wore a travel-worn, unadorned tunic, his head hung low as he idly scrawled invisible shapes upon the gritty ground with the toe of his boot.
“Lysander.” My voice, though soft, cut through the pre-dawn quiet.
Lysander’s head snapped up like a startled bird.
“Lara, Lara!”
“What is t—