Two days after the unsettling intimacy in Kaelen’s quarters, Elara discovered a small, folded slip of vellum. It lay nestled amidst her most treasured drafting quills, a foreign element in the meticulously ordered chaos of her workspace. Her fingers, usually so steady, brushed against the rough parchment. It felt like a misplaced whisper.
‘Seek me in the Archive Annex, just before your Physical Disciplines session,’ the script, neat but unfamiliar, commanded. No name graced the bottom.
Perhaps it concerned a misplaced ancient map, a query for a forgotten passage. Her mind, ever practical, offered these explanations first. The notion of any personal summons, any romantic overture, felt absurd, a ludicrous fantasy. Who would seek out Elara, the quiet cartographer, for such a frivolous purpose? She dismissed the thought with a sharp, internal scoff, her own lack of self-worth a familiar, unwelcome companion.
Other matters consumed her. The weight of House Volkov’s expectations pressed, and Kaelen’s recent displays of devotion, so profound and unsettling, still resonated in the soles of her feet, a phantom touch of reverence that both thrilled and repulsed her. The vellum note, a minor distraction, vanished from her active thoughts until the chimes for Physical Disciplines sounded through the Grand Archive’s vaulted halls.
She changed into her exercise tunic, the coarse linen feeling stiff against her skin. A prickle of curiosity, faint but persistent, stirred within her. Who had penned the missive? Her steps, usually measured and deliberate, carried her towards the Archive Annex, a rarely used chamber tucked away behind dusty shelves of ancient, neglected ledgers. The air grew cooler, thick with the scent of aged paper and forgotten lore.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door, a faint creak echoed in the silence. Within, a small figure stood, nervously picking at a thread on his simple tunic. Elias. His dark hair was slicked back, clinging to a timid face, eyes darting about like trapped sparrows. He was a junior scribe, barely out of his apprenticeship, known for his hushed presence and hesitant speech.
“Elias?” Elara’s voice, a little sharper than intended, sliced through the quiet. Her brow furrowed, a faint ache already beginning behind her temples. The surprise, rather than the intended curiosity, dominated her mood. This was an inconvenience.
His small head, previously bowed over his fidgeting fingers, snapped up. A faint, almost sickly sweet smile, the same one she remembered from when he first joined the Grand Archive, stretched across his face. That smile, she realized with a jolt of irritation, scraped against her nerves.
“What is it? Why here, and so suddenly?” Elara asked, her tone clipped. She shifted her weight, impatient.
Elias wrung his plump fingers, twisting them until the knuckles blanched. He looked like a child caught raiding the larder, caught between fear and a desperate need to confess.
“Ah, I… I have something I wish to impart…” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
“Speak it, then.” Elara’s patience frayed. She wanted to depart this stale room, to avoid any chance encounter that might spark unwelcome gossip. Her tenuous standing within the noble strata of Eldoria permitted no such missteps. She offered courtesies to junior scribes, yes, but only enough to maintain an impeccable veneer of civility, no more, no less.
Unaware of her rising agitation, Elias continued to gnaw at his thumb, his gaze flickering nervously around the cramped annex. Indecision warred with a fragile resolve on his face. Each time he seemed on the verge of articulation, his mouth would clamp shut, a silent battle waged within.
Still, he remained mute. Her irritation, a familiar, unwelcome guest, clawed at her. Elara had never found Elias particularly endearing. Every nervous gesture, every hesitant breath, only deepened her existing disquiet. His small mouth, twitching with unspoken words, might have been charming to a softer heart, but to Elara, it was simply unbearable. She wondered, briefly, if her temper was unduly short, if the stress of Kaelen’s fervent claims had coiled too tightly within her.
“Forgive me, Elias, but my presence is required elsewhere,” Elara said, her voice strained. “Can you not simply say what must be said?”
Her head felt like a knot of tangled frustration. Perhaps her anger was not truly directed at Elias, but at the suffocating weight of her own circumstances, a nameless fury searching for an outlet. Lately, a persistent unease in her stomach mirrored the tumult in her mind, gnawing at her peace.
Amidst Elara’s racing thoughts, Elias finally seemed to gather his scattered resolve. In a voice so small it was almost lost to the dust motes dancing in the dim light, he began.
“Uh, Elara… I… uh, you see, I…”
“Yes?” Elara prompted, her response half-hearted, her fingers idly tracing the curve of her collarbone. The chimes for the full Physical Disciplines session would soon ring. She longed for him to simply *spit it out*. A dark thought flickered: to pry open his reluctant mouth and wrench the words free herself.
Then, abruptly, the annex door burst inward. Both Elias and Elara whirled, their eyes locking with Orin, who stood framed in the doorway, gasping for breath. No, not at Elara. Orin’s fierce gaze was fixed squarely on Elias.
“Hmph, hmph…” Orin’s ragged breaths filled the silence, a clear sign of a furious search. A suffocating ache constricted Elara’s chest as she pictured Kaelen’s sibling tearing through the Grand Archive in a desperate hunt for Elias.
Orin let out a long, ragged exhale, then strode purposefully into the annex. Unbidden, Elara’s hand, which had been rubbing her neck, dropped. Orin’s eyes, burning with an almost feral intensity, flickered between Elias and Elara, an unspoken accusation hanging in the air.
“What are you doing here with him?” Orin’s voice, usually cool and composed, was rough, laced with a barely controlled fury. The knuckles of Orin’s clenched fists were white.
Beneath Elara’s calm exterior, her insides churned, a violent tempest. After a long, agonizing pause, Orin’s gaze finally settled on Elara. The intensity of that stare, searing and condemnatory, was unbearable.
“What in the Seven Hells, Orin?” Elara managed, her voice barely a whisper.
Please, please. Do not look at her thus. Blame Elias, the one who sent the note, who summoned her. Why did Orin stare at her, Kaelen’s… confidante, with such bitter resentment? She had been dragged into this messy entanglement, an unwilling participant.
Even as these thoughts raced, Orin’s blazing eyes remained locked on Elara. She recognized the gaze: not of passion or fervor, but of raw rage, consuming jealousy, and a frightening, unhinged madness. The face of someone utterly deranged by possessive attachment—a sight Elara found both pitiable and despicable in equal measure.
“Why are you here with him!” Orin repeated, a growl rumbling in their chest.
You appear pathetic, Orin. So utterly pathetic. Elara met the furious glare with one of her own. Yet, in that moment, she felt the true pity resided not with Orin, but with herself.
Before Elara could even flinch, Orin’s long strides closed the distance between them. The moment Elara focused on Orin’s face, a sudden, jarring shock reverberated through her very bones.
“...!”
The world reeled. She could not comprehend what had transpired. Her body toppled, striking the hard flagstones, and only then did her mind rewind the swift, brutal sequence of events.
“No… it cannot be…”
Orin had struck her.
Orin had truly struck her.
Lying on the cold floor, Elara’s trembling fingers tentatively touched her cheek. Disbelief, a cold, sharp blade, pierced her. How could Orin… how could Orin do this to her?
“E-Elara!” Elias cried, horrified.
“You craven! I told you to refer to me as your protector! No, do not address me at all—do not speak, you wretched worm!” Orin shrieked, a madwoman’s rage contorting their features. Elias’s face, already pale, blanched further at Orin’s furious outburst.
“I-I am sorry, so sorry.” Elias stumbled backward, tears welling in his eyes. But he was not the one who should weep—Elara was.
Her own tears welled, hot and stinging, threatening to spill. Thankfully, before she could truly break, Orin uttered a violent curse and stormed from the annex, dragging Elias by the arm. The entire confrontation unfolded with a terrifying swiftness.
Left alone, slumped on the cold flagstones of the Archive Annex, Elara stared at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight, golden with dust, streamed through the crack, and something deep within her finally gave way. The dam holding back her carefully contained emotions burst, and hot, silent tears flowed freely down her bruised cheek.
She hated everything. Elias, who, with his timid note, had dragged her into this degradation. Orin, who had raised a hand against her. She wished them both to simply vanish, to cease to exist. The sheer misery of being reduced to a mere bystander in their twisted, unspoken drama was unbearable.
Pushing herself up, Elara abandoned all thought of Physical Disciplines. She walked directly to the Grand Scribe’s office, requesting early dismissal. Her swollen, reddened face, still smarting from the blow, made her excuse of a sudden illness believable. The Grand Scribe, a wizened old man, seemed to understand without prying, his gaze lingering with an unusual concern.
---
Elara reached her chambers in House Volkov and collapsed onto her bed, seeking the oblivion of sleep. When she awoke, her face felt puffy and sore, a tender purple bruise blossoming on her cheekbone. Out of habit, her hand sought her communication slate. A message from Seraphin. They rarely exchanged pleasantries, but a distant connection existed through Orin’s circle. *Damn it all.*
For anyone else, she would have ignored the missive. But Seraphin was not just anyone. Second in influence to Orin, Seraphin commanded a silent sway among the younger noble scions of Eldoria. She could not afford to dismiss such a message.
‘So, you vanished, did you?’
Elara clicked her tongue, the sound dry in her mouth, and belatedly replied to the three-hour-old query.
‘Ah, felt rather indisposed.’
She kept her response deliberately light, a brittle shield against her humiliation. The thought of anyone discovering Orin had struck her, and worse, over Elias, was an unbearable prospect.
‘Are you well?’ Seraphin’s follow-up was unexpected, tinged with a strange concern. The peculiarity of it made Elara shut off her slate, the stone cold against her palm.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over her. Even Seraphin’s message, with its feigned concern, felt suffocating. Other acquaintances from her academic circles had also sent messages, but none offered what she truly yearned for.
No message, no inquiry, came from Orin. She must be mad to even wish for it. Still, she consoled herself, telling herself this was the inevitable fate of one consumed by such maddening possessiveness. Even knowing the cold truth, she lay like an imbecile, doing what she did best—closing her eyes and turning a blind eye to the stark reality.
‘...It is not only I,’ she murmured into the silent room. Perhaps Elias and she shared a similar predicament. The strange, twisted, grotesque thought lingered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it, like ivy strangling a fragile vine. Lying on her bed, staring at the painted ceiling depicting ancient constellations, another message arrived. An unknown sender.
‘Elara, are you feeling gravely unwell?’
A frown creased her brow. Who among her peers would address her so informally? Seraphin? But the sender’s cipher did not match. Before she could ponder further, a second message arrived, relentless and infuriating.
‘My deepest apologies. Truly. It is entirely my fault.’
‘I am sorry.’
‘Please, forgive me.’
Whether three words or four, each one made her want to scream in frustration. She hurled her communication slate onto the floor. How had that wretched boy obtained her private cipher? And how, if he supposedly possessed no such device, was he sending these infuriating missives?
Then, a sudden, mortifying realization struck. *Oh*. She had called him, hadn’t she? To instruct him on a cartographic correction, weeks ago. A single, fleeting exchange, yet enough.
Elara cursed her idiotic memory, letting out a frustrated sigh. To vent her simmering rage, she pounded her fists against the embroidered quilt until exhaustion claimed her. Just before her thoughts completely faded into sleep, one last message, unheard, burned itself into her mind’s eye.
‘Please, do not despise me.’
*Funny*, she thought, a bitter laugh dying in her throat. *I have despised you for months now.*
When Elara awoke the next morning, her face felt like a swollen, bruised fruit.
---
She skipped her morning academic session. No matter her diligence, she lacked the resolve to appear at the Grand Archive with a face disfigured thus.
Her household steward, a stern but kindly woman, prepared a lunch of soft porridge and bland, seasoned vegetables. As Elara ate, the steward offered gentle scolding, urging her to be more circumspect in her comings and goings. Elara swallowed the food mechanically, without much chewing, the flavors flat on her tongue.
As she set down her spoon, reaching for a glass of spiced water, the steward returned to clear the dishes. With a porcelain plate in one hand, she said, “Mistress Elara, a friend awaits your presence.”
“What?” Elara’s voice was hoarse.
“Shall I admit them?”
A friend. The word, a rare commodity in her solitary life, caused a faint flutter in her chest. Before she could even identify the nascent emotion, her mind, despite itself, began to imagine the visitor.
Could it be… Orin?
The thought seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the Grand Archive ever sought her at House Volkov. Of her acquaintances, only a handful even knew the location of her chambers. If it were Orin, surely they had come to offer an apology, a sign of belated guilt, a validation of her importance. Orin had never raised a hand against her before, not once. Yes, surely, they were worried, perhaps even distraught.
“Yes, please, admit them,” Elara said, her voice steadier now. The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as she chastised herself for such naive hope, a small, undeniable warmth bloomed in her chest. Despite everything, she was still *something* to Orin. That thought, treacherous and alluring, filled her with an inexplicable comfort. She turned towards the ornate front door, her pace quickening with a fragile anticipation.
But the person awaiting her in the antechamber was not the one she had envisioned.
“Yo, what troubles you, draughtswoman?”
Seraphin’s sharp-featured face greeted her with a playful smirk, a small, embossed pouch of candied fruits dangling from one hand. As soon as Seraphin’s eyes fell upon Elara’s bruised cheek, however, the smirk vanished. Seraphin stopped mid-stride, asking in an unusually serious tone, “By the Great Architect, what in the name of Eldoria happened to your face?”
Elara’s knees nearly buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. How, in the name of the Silent Whisper, did Seraphin even know where she resided?
“...I tripped,” Elara replied, her voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Seraphin frowned, twisting their lips in that familiar, sardonic way before speaking. “You truly are an imbecile, are you not?”
Elara offered no argument. She simply rubbed her swollen face, a dull ache throbbing near her cheekbone. Embarrassment, hot and visceral, surged through her at the memory of her foolish anticipation. She was indeed an imbecile. Orin did not consider her important. And here she had been, metaphorically wagging her tail like a hopeful cur—a complete moron.
“Here, take this.” Seraphin extended an ornate, chilled confection wrapped in silver leaf. Elara accepted it, immediately tearing away the leaf to examine the contents.
“...It is almond-paste.”
“Is it? Did not even notice.”
“Figures. Why would you care?”
“Damn, that is harsh.” Seraphin feigned offense. “What, pray tell, are you doing here?”
“What do you surmise? Came to ascertain your well-being. Do you mind if I enter fully?”
“Hey, wait!”
Without hesitation, Seraphin’s long legs carried them further into the house, a casual invasion of privacy.
“Where are your private chambers?”
“Hey, where do you stride?” Elara protested weakly.
“Where else? There is no other destination within your abode of consequence.”
“...”
Elara had no retort. Seraphin spoke the truth. All noble houses, in their essence, were much the same, were they not? Feeling acutely awkward, Elara followed Seraphin, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of her home, their gaze lingering on every detail, as if searching for something hidden within the quiet walls of House Volkov.