My life, a meticulously drawn chart since childhood, had always charted a course of deliberate composure. Volterra’s sun, bright and unforgiving, often revealed the flaws in others, but I prided myself on my unblemished surface. Vulnerability was a weakness, an unmapped territory I dared not traverse in the presence of others. Every tempest, every squall of emotion, had merely thickened the protective shell around me, rendering me, to most eyes, a man of unwavering calm, even dullness. It was not a lack of feeling, but a profound discipline, an intellectual mastery over my own internal landscapes.
Such self-possession was vital. It anchored my precarious position within the ducal court, a man of gentry birth navigating the treacherous currents of nobility. My intellect was my only currency, my detailed maps and calculations my shield and sword. To preserve this painstakingly constructed standing, to maintain the precise coordinates of my social map, I clung to my composure above all else.
---
Before, my place had felt more secure, closer to the ducal scion, Leandro. He was the sun around which minor constellations like myself orbited. Then, without warning, a shift in alignment. Not a dramatic expulsion, but a subtle re-drawing of the social map, a quiet exclusion from his favored retinue.
“Niccolò, you linger over every morsel,” the young Matteo had remarked, a few seasons past, his voice light but carrying the weight of Leandro’s unspoken judgment. “We are always late for our exercises at the palazza because of your… contemplation.”
I merely inclined my head. My pride, stiff as aged parchment, forbade a plea. Besides, the frantic pace of those meals had often left a sourness in my gut, a physical discomfort from rushing through sustenance as if it were a chore. The thought of clinging to Leandro’s coattails, like a barnacle to a ship’s hull, repulsed me. My will, however, was immaterial. I was simply… out.
And so, I found myself, more often than not, at the refectory table with Lorenzo Santini. He was an anomaly on my social charts – a mind of surprising depth beneath an irritatingly casual exterior. He would often sprawl across the polished wood, tossing a carved wooden sphere, observing the bustling hall with an almost dispassionate gaze.
“When do you break your fast, Moretti?” Lorenzo had asked, the first time I joined him, his voice flat, devoid of pretense.
“In a quarter-hour,” I replied, the lie catching in my throat. I had never eaten so late. But survival demanded adaptation. To maintain any position, even beside Lorenzo, one bent to the prevailing winds. That first meal, I left half my food untouched, citing a phantom lack of appetite.
Lorenzo merely raised an eyebrow. “Eighteen years old and you still pick at your food like a petulant child?”
“What concern is it of yours, Santini?” I retorted, my voice sharper than intended. His casual assessment rankled.
“You lack conviction, even in your hunger,” he mused, tossing the sphere again. “A curious thing.”
His words, though annoying, often held an unsettling accuracy. Lorenzo could be a nettle under the saddle, but he was rarely dull.
---
Today, the last blush of late summer warmed the scriptorium, promising the approaching Feast of Saint Niccolò. A restless energy pulsed through the hall. Leandro, slumped at a heavy oak table, ran a hand through his dark hair, a scowl deepening the lines around his mouth.
“Damnation,” he muttered, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet space. “Where are Matteo and Giuliano? Off gambling again, no doubt.”
I felt a sudden, ignoble flicker of hope. My fingers tightened on the quill. They were absent. Leandro, then, was without his usual entourage. I turned, my voice carefully modulated. “They have deserted you, my lord?”
“The fools,” he bit out. “Left me to dine alone.”
A small tremor coursed through me. The opportunity. My breath caught, then smoothed. “How unfortunate. With whom will you share your midday meal?” The question hung in the air, weighted with unspoken possibility.
Leandro sighed, a sound of profound annoyance, and turned to Lorenzo, who was, as ever, twirling his wooden sphere. “I shall join you two today.”
Lorenzo caught the sphere, his gaze level. “No one invited you, my lord,” he stated, blunt as ever.
Leandro’s eyes narrowed. “Choose your words, Santini, lest I choose them for you.”
“Your ill temper curdles the air, my lord,” Lorenzo returned, unperturbed. “It makes me wish to box your ears.”
“Try it,” Leandro sneered, a dangerous glint in his eye. “A lonely dog barks loudest, does it not?”
My meticulously charted social instincts screamed. This was my moment. I leaned forward. “Come, my lords, let us all share a table. We cannot leave the esteemed scion of the ducal house to break his fast in solitude.” My desperation must have shone through, despite my careful phrasing. Leandro’s lips curved into a smirk, a flash of triumph in his eyes as he looked at Lorenzo.
“See, Santini? I am not so friendless after all.”
Lorenzo merely rolled his eyes, sweeping Leandro’s inkwell off the table with a flick of his wrist. It clattered to the stone floor. Whether Lorenzo’s disdain for me was genuine or merely a default setting, it mattered little. What mattered was Leandro joining us.
---
The refectory buzzed with the low hum of conversation, the clatter of earthenware, and the aroma of roasted meats and fresh bread. It had been too long since I had shared a table with Leandro, and a profound, secret joy buoyed me. I even forced myself to eat a portion of stewed lamprey, a dish I usually abhorred, as if by doing so, I might truly re-enter his orbit.
Leandro, however, seemed to pay little heed to his food. His gaze, sharp and predatory, roamed the hall, mapping the faces and forms of the lesser scholars and functionaries, searching for a target. I was so intent on observing him, on interpreting the nuances of his mood, that I barely noticed Lorenzo deftly pilfering a few dried figs from my plate.
Then, abruptly, Leandro’s chopsticks clattered to his plate. His free hand shot out, seizing the arm of a slight figure passing by. My head snapped up. Elias. The quiet scholar, his shoulders hunched, his face pale and drawn. The name burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it, a bitter taste rising.
“Sit,” Leandro commanded, nodding to the empty seat beside him. “You have no other companions, do you?”
Elias’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes, wide and startled, darted about, meeting mine for a fleeting, terrified moment before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated chair.
I stared, dumbfounded. Since when did Leandro care about Elias’s solitary dining? The truth was, Elias’s isolation was largely Leandro’s design. He actively discouraged any who sought to extend kindness to the younger scholar. A profound, sickening revulsion, unlike any I had ever felt, curdled in my gut. My finely crafted map of Leandro – the cruel scion, the impulsive lord – now had an uncharted, monstrous territory within it.
Unconsciously, my own spoon clanged against my plate, a sudden, jarring sound. Only Elias flinched, his head snapping towards me, his gaze laced with fear. Leandro, however, remained fixated on his prey.
My protective shell, years in the making, felt a sharp, splintering crack. I tried to reinforce it, to maintain the facade, but it was failing. Perhaps this was the breaking point I had so assiduously avoided, the moment my careful internal cartography shattered.
Desperate, I snapped, my voice rough, uncharacteristic. “Elias. Depart.”
“H-huh?” Elias stammered.
“Do not heed his words. Leave. It is permitted.”
“Niccolò Moretti,” Leandro’s voice, low and dangerous, cut through the din. The scion, who had ignored my clattering spoon, now turned, his jaw clenched, his eyes blazing. His glare hardened my resolve. I met Elias’s pleading gaze, holding it steady.
“I shall intercede. You may go.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Elias’s voice was a whisper.
“And Leandro,” I continued, my voice steady despite the tremors within me. “Enough of this.”
“Indeed, enough,” Lorenzo chimed in, through a mouthful of roasted fowl. His words, muffled and unexpected, felt strangely out of place. He swallowed, a deliberate, slow movement, before glancing between Leandro and me, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. “What stares are these? You ruin my appetite.”
Lorenzo’s pointless provocations always scraped at my nerves. He was an irritant, a pebble in my shoe. I ignored him, turning my attention back to Leandro.
“Leave Elias unmolested.”
“Who are you to command me, Moretti?” Leandro shot back, his voice thick with fury.
“Your sport grows tedious to observe.”
I did not blink. Leandro slammed his fist on the table, a resounding thud that made Elias, still perched awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Lorenzo, on the other hand, chuckled, raising a hand in mock surrender.
“Count me out of this quarrel.” He licked a bead of water from his lips, then added, “Let us decide by majority. I remain neutral. Moretti desires his departure, while Leandro wills him to stay.”
Lorenzo often called me ‘Moretti’, a slight alteration from the customary ‘Niccolò’, and it always pricked at my pride. That irritation now seeped into my tone. “Cease your meddling, Santini. Your vote is irrelevant.”
“Why so? Is there not another soul present?” Unfazed, Lorenzo smirked, gesturing with an open hand towards Elias. “What? Is Elias not a man?”
“You are absurd,” I hissed.
“Why does he remain silent? Let him voice his preference.”
As if Elias could possibly speak in this charged atmosphere. I sighed at Lorenzo’s thoughtless antics, picked up my spoon, and idly stirred the lentils on my plate. It was then that Leandro tapped his finger against the table, a soft, ominous rhythm.
“If you depart, scholar, your fate will be… unenviable. Your studies, your patronage, your very presence here, will vanish.”
Large, luminous tears welled in Elias’s eyes. He looked at me, a silent, desperate plea. My lips pressed together. “It is well. I will protect you,” I murmured, attempting to reassure him.
“Niccolò Moretti,” Leandro growled, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, projecting a calm I did not possess. My every instinct screamed to recoil, to break down. To suppress the rising tide of emotion, I looked briefly at the high, arched ceiling of the refectory, then lowered my head, feigning nonchalance. “What is it, my lord?”
“You…” Leandro’s fist clenched. His glare burned with an intensity that threatened to consume me. Still, I endured. I could not, would not, abandon Elias to his cruelty. My internal map, torn and fractured, refused to yield.
But then, Leandro’s gaze flickered back to Elias.
“I-I will go,” Elias stammered, his voice a trembling thread.
Silence descended.
“Th-thank you, Moretti.” Elias pushed himself up, his movements clumsy, and hurried away, his footsteps uneven, echoing faintly on the stone floor. No sooner had he vanished from sight than Leandro turned abruptly, his face a mask of thwarted fury, his eyes now fixed entirely on me.
My carefully constructed chart, my self-controlled landscape, had dissolved into uncharted waters. And for the first time, I felt utterly, terrifyingly lost.