A dull ache throbbed behind Niccolò’s eyes. Awareness returned in fragments, a fractured mosaic of pain and memory. He lay sprawled across his bed, the heavy velvet of the counterpane cool against his cheek. His muscles screamed with a protest of rusty hinges, each breath a shallow, cautious affair. He must have locked the chamber door before the blackness consumed him. A faint, bitter satisfaction stirred within the numb haze. “Clever, even in dissolution.” He lifted a hand, a leaden weight, and the action sent a jolt of agony through his shoulder, between bones that felt scraped raw. A soft groan escaped his lips, raspy and thin. “Ah…” Fingers, trembling, sought the tenderness beneath his tunic. Flesh felt bruised, swollen, unforgiving. After a long moment of simply existing, of breathing through the pain, he pushed himself up. The world swayed, but his will held. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, eyes fixed on the patterned damask of the wall, a sudden, sharp tremor seized him. Tears, hot and uncontrollable, welled from his eyes. A choked sob tore its way from his throat, ragged and raw, as if his vocal cords had been abraded by sharp stone. Shame, hot and consuming, burned brighter than any physical wound. Rage, a serpent coiling in his gut, propelled him to his feet. He swept his hand across the bedside table. Vellum scrolls, inkpots, quills – they flew, scattering like startled doves. The fragile ceramic of a small perfume bottle shattered against the floorboards. He cried, he raged, a tempest contained within the elegant confines of his room, until his strength gave out. He sank back to the floor, breath hitching, eyes squeezed shut. Yet, the tears flowed, a ceaseless, bitter stream, tracing paths down his cheeks. “Damn them!” Death, a sweet, dark promise, beckoned. Not from the pain of his body, but from the searing humiliation of the night. That was the true wound. The window had been latched, the heavy shutters drawn. No one could have heard. Could they? The thought clawed at him. Valerius. That brute. And Marco, a grinning shadow in the flickering torchlight, bearing witness. Why had they come? Why had they violated the sanctity of his home, his very being, with such brutal disdain? “...Damn them.” Valerius had not merely struck him. He had struck down Niccolò Moretti, the cartographer, the scholar, the man who prided himself on his intellect and his careful control. He had shattered Niccolò’s carefully constructed façade of dignity, his social standing, in front of another. That public shaming was a deeper, more festering wound than any fist could inflict. It was an assault on his very identity, a violation that left him trembling with a rage he could not unleash. Even in this raw, pathetic state, a colder, more calculating part of him observed, critiqued. What if someone saw him like this? The thought, fleeting but chilling, brought a momentary halt to his sobs. Silence, heavy and vast, pressed in. He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. Just before eight bells. His mind, still muddled, sharpened with a sudden, dreadful clarity. The household staff. If Maestro Giorgio, the majordomo, found him in this state, bruised and weeping amidst the wreckage of his chamber, it would be a disaster. The shame would spread, whispered from servants’ hall to kitchen, through the entire Moretti palazzo. Panic cleared his thoughts like a sudden gust of wind. He could not, would not, allow anyone to witness this disgrace. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the overturned chair, swept the scattered objects beneath the bed with frantic, clumsy movements. He then sat, feigning calm, waiting for the inevitable knock. It came a few minutes later, punctual as ever. Maestro Giorgio, a man of precise habits. Niccolò forced his voice to a low, slightly hoarse cadence. “Do not enter, Maestro. I believe I have caught a chill. A fever takes me. I shall not attend the Duke’s Academy today.” A pause from outside the heavy oak door. “Ah, young master. Should I send for the physician?” Niccolò swallowed a bitter lump. “I will send for him later, if the malaise persists.” “Very well. Might I bring you a restorative broth?” “Leave it outside the door, if you please. Thank you, Maestro.” “As you wish, young master. Rest well.” He would absent himself from the Duke’s Academy. He was in no fit state to face the world, nor did he possess the desire. An old pot of soothing balm, a concoction of herbs and beeswax, lay forgotten in his armoire. He retrieved it, smearing the fragrant paste over his aching skin, wishing with every fiber of his being for the pain to vanish. Then, he crawled back into bed. But the balm offered no comfort for the deeper wounds. The small ceramic pot slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the floor. His body shivered uncontrollably, but it was the humiliation that truly gnawed, a cold, insidious dread pinching his stomach with tiny, cruel talons. It was absurd. To hide his tear-streaked face, his shame, he pulled the thick blankets over his head, blocking out the slivers of morning light that pierced the heavy drapes. Only the smothering warmth of the covers offered a fragile shield against the crushing despair. He needed to sleep. He had to sleep. Forcing his eyes shut, he whispered assurances to himself. His parents were still away. Valerius was not one to boast of such a tawdry affair. It would be fine. It had to be fine. He burrowed deeper, a small, fragile creature seeking refuge in the dark. --- It was not fine. Not at all. Hidden beneath the oppressive weight of the blankets, words festered, bitter on his tongue. He wanted to scream them to the heavens, to any listening ear, a torrent of righteous fury. Please. It was Valerius. Valerius struck me. He trampled me. That vicious brute. Valerius is a madman. He is insane. Over Marco. Everything that had passed between them, the shared studies, the intellectual sparring, the careful cultivation of his patronage – Valerius had crushed it. Crushed it right before Marco’s mocking gaze. He, Niccolò, was an idiot. To show such a pathetic, wounded self to Marco. And the horrifying thought: what if someone *had* seen it all? He clamped down on the frantic churn of his thoughts. A wave of self-loathing, raw and potent, washed over him. He wanted to die. The most pathetic act of all, following that tearful collapse, was his frantic scramble to erase the night. He had carefully retrieved the small, coded note Valerius had sent, confirming their meeting. It had been burnt, the ashes scattered into the night soil. He had meticulously polished the silver plate on his chamber door, as if scrubbing away any trace of the brutal encounter. The memory of the Duke’s personal guards, their shadowy forms patrolling the palazzo grounds, chilled him. Had they seen Valerius and Marco depart? He replayed their arrival, their hurried departure. No, he was certain. They had moved like specters through the moonlit gardens, avoiding the regular patrols. The night had become a shameful secret, something he could not, would not, allow to be seen. --- Niccolò feigned illness for three days. Despite his hideous inner turmoil, his body, remarkably, began to heal. Perhaps the blows had been less severe than his initial pain suggested, or perhaps his privileged constitution, accustomed to careful nourishment, recovered swiftly. The visible injuries were minimal—a few darkening bruises hidden beneath his tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he remained cloistered, weeping intermittently, ignoring the few perfunctory notes Maestro Giorgio left outside his door, the polite inquiries from distant family relations. He ignored the world. He imagined he could hold out until every mark vanished, but fate, it seemed, had other plans. His parents, who had been away at their country villa for an extended period, suddenly announced their imminent return. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced his fragile solitude. “...Niccolò, what has happened to your face?” His mother’s voice, sharp with concern, cut through the quiet of the morning room. “Oh, well...” He stammered, caught off guard. His father, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, brow furrowed. “I thought Maestro Giorgio said you had a chill. You claimed a fever.” As his father's questions, sharp and direct, peppered him, Niccolò’s mind raced, searching for a plausible, ignoble lie. “Oh, um, I was feeling unwell, yes. And a friend, a junior scholar, asked for my assistance with a particular cartographic problem. He delivered the query...” “And?” His father prompted, impatience coloring his tone. “And... on my way to deliver my response, I... I had a minor altercation.” “What?” His father’s voice rose, edged with an aristocratic hauteur that demanded explanation. “What manner of altercation leaves a young noble’s face thus? Who was this aggressor?” Niccolò waved his hands frantically, attempting to quell his father’s mounting ire. “No, truly, Father, I wished to avoid troubling you. It was nothing serious. We have already reconciled, I assure you.” “Speak plainly, boy. Why did you fight?” “...Well...” After a moment of desperate thought, he latched onto a truly pathetic, yet ironically effective, excuse. “I... I unwisely teased him about being jilted by a young lady.” “What?” His father blinked, then a surprised huff of air escaped him. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, then grew into a full laugh. “What are you youths, characters from a comic opera?” “No, Father...” “Do not repeat such a foolish escapade.” “...I shall not.” It helped, too, that his injuries, though still evident, were not as disfiguring as they might have been. The storm, to Niccolò’s immense relief, seemed to pass. Yet, a strange, unsettling incident followed. As they dined together in the grand salon, his mother, always socially astute, suddenly introduced a name that made Niccolò’s blood run cold. “By the way, Niccolò, are you still close with young Lord Valerius these days?” “What?” Niccolò’s fork clattered against his plate. “He doesn’t seem to call upon the palazzo with his usual frequency.” His mother regarded him with a polite, but probing, expression. For a woman rarely home, her sudden curiosity was unsettling. The mere mention of Valerius conjured his sneering face, souring Niccolò’s very being. He snapped back, an edge of irritation he struggled to hide. “It is as it always was.” As it always was, he thought, a lie that tasted like ash. Damn him. Damn Valerius. The shame, the humiliation, threatened to overwhelm him again. He wanted to vanish, to simply cease to exist. “Didn’t another friend, a young scholar from a lesser house, visit recently? Maestro Giorgio mentioned it. Are you cultivating a new acquaintance?” Niccolò’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head towards the grand archway leading to the kitchen, where Maestro Giorgio was supervising a footman. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Maestro Giorgio. Had he heard? Could he have heard anything that night, the muffled sounds, the shouting? Was it possible he was the one who had heard their brutal exchange? “Niccolò? Is something amiss?” His mother’s gentle query startled him. He blurted out a response, without thought, without guile. “Yes. We are well acquainted.” What else his mother said after that, Niccolò could not recall. The sheer terror, rooting him to the spot, erased all other sounds, all other words. He only remembered her gaze when she had mentioned Valerius. It was the look she gave when relaying unpleasant news, a subtle downturn of her lips, a slight narrowing of her eyes. Why? That single question propelled him further into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold. No. Maestro Giorgio could not have heard. The man, though sharp, was known to have a slight impairment in his hearing in his old age, and his quarters were far from Niccolò’s private chamber. He could not have heard a thing. But why? Why did it feel so wrong, so terribly, irrevocably wrong? All he could do was pray to a distant, indifferent god. Another three days passed, his parents gently urging his return to the Duke’s Academy. Niccolò absolutely did not want to. But prolonged absence would surely raise his mother’s suspicions beyond a simple 'minor scuffle'. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced a cheerful mask onto his face. There was nothing amiss. He was well. The days leading up to his return were consumed by endless, gnawing worry. What if he encountered Valerius? Or Marco? Would Valerius beat him again? Humiliate him before the other scholars, or worse, before the Duke’s court? Would he continue to trample Niccolò’s carefully cultivated reputation into the dust? The thought alone made his stomach clench with nausea. When he finally arrived at the Academy, the familiar scent of old vellum and beeswax doing little to soothe his frayed nerves, he hung his satchel on the side of his desk. He scattered a few loose parchments over its surface, then sat, staring blankly at the polished wood, as the murmur of the approaching students grew louder in the hallway. As soon as he heard the tell-tale thud of footsteps drawing near, he buried his head in his arms, feigning a deep slumber. If he pretended to be asleep, no one would notice his bruised, exhausted face. Not for a while, at least. But he had overlooked a crucial detail: the desk directly behind his belonged to Silvanus Rossi. Silvanus was a man of keen observation, one who often chose to ignore the unspoken rules of polite society for the sake of his own blunt curiosity. Silvanus arrived, paused beside Niccolò’s desk, then, without preamble, slipped a hand between Niccolò’s shoulder and neck. His fingers, surprisingly strong, tilted Niccolò’s face upwards. Niccolò had no time to resist, no choice but to let the light fall upon his still-healing features. Silvanus’s brow lifted in a slow, deliberate arch as he examined him. He asked, his voice low but cutting through Niccolò’s carefully constructed silence: “What in the blazes happened to your face, Moretti?” “...Nothing of consequence.” “Did you take another tumble?” “Indeed. Something of that nature.” “Truly?” Silvanus clicked his tongue, a soft, disapproving sound, and shook his head before abruptly releasing Niccolò’s face. Niccolò’s head nearly slammed back onto the desk. He glared at Silvanus, startled, but the other man only offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts churned in Silvanus’s mind, Niccolò could not fathom. Neither Lord Valerius nor Marco were present at the Academy that day. But during Niccolò’s absence, a whisper had begun to spread through the hallowed halls of the Duke’s Academy, creeping like ivy through ancient stones. “Have you heard? Lord Valerius... that scoundrel actually...” No one directly questioned Niccolò about his injuries, but the quick, curious glances, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased when he passed, told him the rumor had already found its way into every corner. It seemed, against all odds, he was luckier than he had dared to hope. --- The whispers solidified into a narrative that centred on Niccolò and Lord Valerius. Neither of them had been seen at the Academy since the day the rumors began, and even Marco had vanished shortly after, leaving no one to truly refute the escalating whispers. With Niccolò’s still-bruised face serving as visible proof, the tale spread with alarming speed. The story, increasingly embellished with each retelling, went thus: Niccolò Moretti and Lord Valerius had suffered a grave falling out. And, far more scandalously, Lord Valerius harbored an unnatural, unseemly obsession for Niccolò. “That brute, I tell you, he harbored an ignoble fixation for the little fledgling.” “What fledgling? Oh, by the Saints! You mean Moretti? Indeed, he is rather small.” “He looks like a startled sparrow, doesn’t he? All wide-eyed and fragile.” The classroom buzzed with such conversations, barely muffled. “All those who once courted Valerius’s favor found themselves utterly abandoned. He cast them aside like crumpled scrolls once his eye fell upon the little Moretti. It was an infatuation of the most scandalous sort, a passion that drove him to a barbaric display when Moretti rejected his unseemly advances.” The humiliation Niccolò had suffered in isolation was now being rewoven into a public spectacle that, impossibly, shifted the greater shame onto Lord Valerius. Niccolò, the small, quiet scholar, was now the delicate object of an obsessed, volatile noble’s unmanly rage. It was a bizarre, twisted form of protection, a reversal he could scarcely comprehend, yet one he clung to with a desperate, burgeoning hope. His pride, so recently shattered, began to mend itself with the frayed threads of rumor. He was no longer just the beaten, the humiliated. He was the innocent, the victim of a powerful man’s unnatural and socially unacceptable obsession. The Duke’s Academy, a microcosm of Volterran society, had rendered its verdict. And for now, it was in his favor. For now, Niccolò Moretti had survived. And perhaps, even, gained an unexpected advantage.

Chapter 3.1: The Stain of Night