A dull throb pulsed behind Lysander’s eyes, a relentless metronome against the soft down of his mattress. He lay sprawled, the chill of the morning air an unwelcome caress on his exposed skin. Unconsciousness must have been his ally; the heavy oak door of his bedchamber stood firmly latched from within, a silent sentinel against the world.
“Remarkable, even in such a state,” a whisper of a thought drifted through his dazed mind.
He remained still, allowing awareness to seep back into his battered form. Every muscle ached, a deep, pervasive soreness that spoke of strained sinews and bruising impacts. An attempt to lift his arm sent a spear of agony through his shoulder, rust having seemingly settled into every joint. A soft, involuntary groan escaped his lips.
“Ah…”
Tentatively, his fingers explored the tender landscape of his face, brushing against spots that had hardened unnaturally beneath the skin. After a long moment of supine stillness, he pressed a hand to the mattress and pushed himself upright. The effort was immense, each movement a fresh protest from his bruised flesh.
Seated on the edge of the bed, he stared blankly at the ornate carvings of the wall opposite. Then, a raw, choking sound tore from his throat, followed by a sudden, violent burst of tears. Raspy cries clawed their way out, his vocal cords feeling abraded, as though scraped by coarse sand.
Fury, sharp and clean, erupted through the haze of pain. He sprang to his feet, a wild, despairing energy coursing through him, and began to hurl anything within reach. Books, their ancient bindings groaning, crashed to the floor. An inkwell shattered against the hearthstone, spreading an obsidian stain. He wept and raged, the torrent of his anguish consuming him for what felt like an eternity, until exhaustion finally claimed him, leaving him slumped back onto the polished floorboards. His mouth clamped shut, eyes squeezed tight, yet defiant tears welled, tracing hot paths down his cheeks, his sobs catching in his throat.
“Damn it to the deepest void!”
Truthfully, he wished to simply cease existing. But the true target of his desire for oblivion was the previous night’s humiliation.
The window had been fast closed. Had anyone heard? Could the steward, or a passing guard, have caught the sounds? Damn it. Damn it all to the Aetherial Wastes. Lord Alaric. Lord Kaelen. Why had they come? Why had they shattered his carefully constructed life?
“...Damn it.”
Alaric had not merely struck Lysander; he had trampled Lysander’s very pride, and that particular wound festered far deeper than any physical blow. To be exposed, vulnerable, in front of Lord Kaelen – that was a devastation that brought him to his knees, unleashing this guttural rage.
Yet, even amidst this wretchedness, this utter unraveling, Lysander’s wretched consciousness still worried about outward appearances. This was one such moment.
The sudden stillness of the chamber registered, bringing a harsh jolt of clarity. He stopped crying. His gaze flickered to the antique orrery, its tiny planets marking the passage of time. It was just before the eighth bell. A chilling thought pierced his muddled brain: an encounter with the morning steward, in this state, would be an absolute catastrophe. A cold dread spread through his head, sharp and undeniable.
His mind cleared with a terrifying efficiency. He absolutely could not allow anyone to witness him in this pathetic, disgraced condition. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the heavy reading chair and swept the scattered parchments and broken inkstand beneath the bed, out of sight. Then, he sat, stiff and tense, awaiting the inevitable knock. It came minutes later, precisely as the eighth bell chimed, a soft rap from Steward Elara. Lysander forced his voice to an unnatural calm.
“Do not enter, Elara. I fear I have caught a chill. I am quite unwell. I shall forgo the Academy today.”
“Oh, truly? Should not a healer be summoned, young master?” Her voice, though muffled by the thick door, held a note of concern.
Lysander swallowed the bitter taste of bile that rose in his throat.
“I shall consider it later, should my condition not improve.”
“Very well. Might the steward prepare a light broth for you?”
“Leave it outside the door, if you would be so kind. My thanks.”
“As you wish, Lysander. Rest well, then.”
He had bought himself time. He would not attend the Academy. He lacked the strength, and possessed no desire to face the world beyond his door.
Thankfully, a jar of soothing salve lay tucked within his dressing table. He retrieved it, his movements stiff and painful, and smeared the cool ointment over his aching body, a desperate, silent plea for the pain to recede. Then, he crawled back beneath the heavy velvet comforter.
The empty salve jar slipped from his numb fingers, thudding softly onto the floorboards.
A tremor ran through his entire body, an uncontrollable shiver. But the humiliation, a deeper, more insidious pain than any physical bruise, gripped him. It was as if cruel, tiny fingers pinched at his very soul. It felt absurd, grotesque. To hide his tear-streaked face, his ruined visage, he pulled the heavy drapes shut, plunging the chamber into a near-total darkness. He burrowed deep under the voluminous blankets, the velvet folds a heavy, comforting weight, the only thing that felt capable of shielding him from the crushing despair. He needed to sleep. He had to sleep. Forcing his eyes shut, he whispered to himself that it would be fine. His parents did not know. Sir Alaric was not one to boast of such a display. It would be fine.
With that desperate thought, he buried himself deeper beneath the heavy covers.
—
In truth, it was far from fine.
Hidden beneath the oppressive warmth of the blanket, he continued to mouth words that lingered, sharp and acrid, on the tip of his tongue. To any listening ear — the gods, his parents, anyone — he yearned to scream it, a waterfall of bitter accusation pouring forth.
*Please. It was Sir Alaric. Alaric struck me. He shamed me. That knight, that wretched fool. Sir Alaric is mad. He has lost his mind. All because of Lord Kaelen, he… After all our years of shared study, all the loyalty I held… he crushed it. Crushed it before Kaelen Vesper’s very eyes. I am a dolt. I showed that pathetic, quivering side of myself to Lord Kaelen, too.* And the horrifying thought that someone else might have witnessed it all…
He halted the frantic, spiraling train of thought. A wave of profound self-loathing surged through him, so potent it made him physically recoil. He truly wished to die.
But the saddest truth was what he did after the storm of tears had subsided, deep within the confines of his bed. His first act was to scramble, fingers trembling, to delete every missive and record of communication from Lord Kaelen Vesper from the previous night. Then, in a rush of panic, he accessed the arcane schematics of the estate’s outer wards, systematically purging all recordings from the gate’s crystal lenses from the early hours of that ill-fated morning. That night had become an unspeakable secret, a shameful stain he could not, would not, allow to be seen by any living soul.
—
Lysander absented himself from the Grand Arcane Academy for three days. Despite his hideous appearance to his own eyes, his physical form began to mend with surprising speed.
Perhaps he had instinctively protected the most visible areas during the ignoble scuffle, or perhaps his well-nourished constitution was not as frail as his scholarly pursuits suggested. Regardless, the visible injuries were minimal – a few purpling bruises hidden beneath the high collar of his tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he remained entombed beneath the blankets, weeping intermittently, ignoring every scry-call and message that sought him out.
He had hoped to maintain his seclusion until he was fully recovered, but fate, as always, proved unkind. His parents, who had been away on a protracted visit to the Conclave’s Seat, unexpectedly returned to the manor. Panic seized him.
“...Son, what has happened to your visage?” His mother’s voice was sharp with concern, her eyes narrowed as they swept over him.
“Oh, well…” Lysander stammered, his mind racing.
“Did you engage in a brawl? You said you were ailing, that you had contracted a chill.” His father, a High Conclave Loremaster, fixed him with a piercing gaze that rarely missed a lie.
As his father’s questions rained down, Lysander scrambled to weave a believable narrative.
“Oh, um, I was not feeling well, so a companion offered to collect a particular tome from the Academy’s archives for me…”
“And?” His father prompted, an eyebrow raised.
“And I… encountered a petty ruffian on my way to retrieve it. A minor scuffle.”
“What? What manner of ‘minor scuffle’ leaves a noble’s son looking thus? Who was this ‘ruffian’?” His father’s voice, usually a measured cadence, rose sharply. Lysander frantically waved his hands, attempting to diffuse the escalating tension.
“No, truly, I wish no trouble to be made of it. It was not a serious altercation. We have already… settled our differences.”
“Come, tell me — what sparked this ‘altercation’?”
“...Well…” After a strained moment of contemplation, Lysander conjured a pathetic, yet surprisingly effective, excuse.
“I… I teased him for being spurned by a certain maid.”
“What?” His father’s expression shifted, a flicker of disbelief crossing his stern features. Then, to Lysander’s immense surprise, a dry chuckle escaped him.
“What are you young nobles, characters from a common minstrel’s ballad?”
“No…”
“Do not engage in such frivolous antics again.”
“...I shall not.”
The relatively minor appearance of his injuries, now mostly hidden by the carefully applied salve, also helped. Thankfully, the incident seemed to blow over.
Yet, a strange disquiet lingered. As they dined together in the grand solar that evening, his mother suddenly broached a name that made Lysander’s blood run cold. “By the by, are you still much in the company of Sir Alaric these days?”
“What?” The single word was ripped from Lysander, sharper than intended.
“I merely observe he does not frequent our manor as much as he once did.” For a woman who spent less than half her time within the manor’s walls, her sudden curiosity was unsettling. The mere mention of Sir Alaric forced his image into Lysander’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back with an irritable tone.
“It is as it always has been.”
*As it always has been, my ass.* Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. He felt such profound shame and humiliation, he wished the floor would simply open and swallow him whole.
“Did not another young lord visit recently? Steward Elara mentioned it. Are you close with this new companion?”
Lysander’s body went rigid. Slowly, his head turned towards the kitchen, where Elara was diligently wiping down the dining table. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Had she heard it? Could she have overheard anything that night? Was it possible she had been the one to catch the sounds of his degradation?
“Lysander? What troubles you?” His mother’s gentle query startled him. He blurted out a response without conscious thought.
“Yes. We are… close.”
What his mother said after that, Lysander could not recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped all else from his mind. But he distinctly remembered the subtle way she had looked at him when she mentioned Sir Alaric. It was the same veiled scrutiny she gave when delivering news of a perceived slight or political misstep.
*Why?*
That single question propelled him further into a spiraling chasm of fear. His fingers grew cold, trembling slightly. No. She could not have heard. Steward Elara possessed poor hearing and resided in a separate wing of the manor, far removed from his bedchamber. She could not possibly have heard anything. But why? Why did everything feel so terribly *wrong*? All he could do was offer a silent prayer to a deity he had long since ceased to believe in.
—
Three more days passed, and his parents began to urge his return to the Grand Arcane Academy. He absolutely did not wish to go. But if he persisted in his absence, his mother would surely suspect a deeper problem than a ‘minor scuffle’ with a friend. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced a cheerful façade upon his face, a brittle mask of composure. Nothing was amiss with him. Nothing at all.
The days leading up to his return were filled with endless, gnawing worry about encountering Sir Alaric, or worse, Lord Kaelen. Would Alaric lash out again? Would he humiliate Lysander before the entire lecture hall — or, the thought made his stomach churn — before Lord Kaelen once more? Would he continue to trample Lysander’s dignity as if it were less than dust?
The mere contemplation made him feel nauseous, a sour taste coating his tongue.
Upon his arrival at the Academy, he hung his satchel on the side of his private desk in the scholars’ antechamber, tossing a few well-worn parchments atop it. Then, he sank into his seat, staring blankly at the polished wood while the distant murmur of students in the main hall gradually grew louder. As soon as he detected approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be asleep, perhaps no one would notice his still-bruised face. At least not for a time. But he had not accounted for one critical detail: the seat directly behind his belonged to Lord Valerius. Valerius, a minor noble but a keen observer, was the sort of young lord who could read the delicate social cues of the Academy but often chose to disregard them entirely.
No sooner had Valerius arrived than he paused beside Lysander’s desk. A hand, surprisingly strong, slipped between Lysander’s shoulder and neck, and fingers, firm and unyielding, tilted Lysander’s face upwards. Lysander had no time to resist, no choice but to expose his still-tender visage. Valerius’s gaze sharpened, an eyebrow rising as he examined him. He asked, bluntly:
“By the Void, Lysander, what in the blazes happened to your face?”
“...It is naught.” Lysander mumbled, his eyes refusing to meet Valerius’s.
“Did you stumble over your own feet again?” Valerius’s voice held a note of genuine incredulity.
“Aye. Something of the sort.”
“Truly?” Valerius clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly before abruptly releasing Lysander’s face, causing his head to nearly strike the desk with a jolt.
“Blast it!” Lysander glared at him, startled, but Valerius merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts churned behind those shrewd eyes, Lysander had no means of knowing.
Neither Sir Alaric nor Lord Kaelen Vesper attended the Academy that day.
Yet, in the days of Lysander’s absence, a whisper had begun to drift through the hallowed halls of the Academy.
“Hark, have you heard? Sir Alaric… that knight, he actually…”
No one directly questioned Lysander about his injuries, but it was clear from the curious, sidelong glances he received that the rumor had already found purchase throughout the student body. He was, it seemed, luckier than he had dared to hope.
—
The rumors centered around Lysander and Sir Alaric. Neither had returned to the Academy since the whispers began, and even Lord Kaelen Vesper had disappeared shortly thereafter, leaving no one to contradict the spreading tales. With Lysander’s battered face serving as visible proof, the rumors solidified and propagated with terrifying speed.
The story, in its evolving form, painted a picture of scandal: Sir Alaric, the esteemed knight, had suffered a most ignoble fall from grace, entangled in a humiliating display of unseemly passion – and it was Lysander Thorne who had been the object of his desperate, public outburst.
“That fool, I tell you, he harbored an utterly unknightly devotion for the Quill-Bound Thorne.”
“What is a ‘Quill-Bound’? Ah, by the Conclave! Wait a moment. Ha! I cannot cease my laughter.”
“He truly resembles a scholar who has spent too long with naught but ink and parchment, does he not? Fragile, easily crumpled.”
The antechamber, usually reserved for quiet study, was filled with such conversations, thinly veiled and vicious.
“All those who once swore fealty to Sir Alaric have been stabbed in the back, I wager. Their own reputations sullied by his unseemly conduct.”
Lysander, though his heart hammered, felt a cold, calculated flicker of relief. The rumors, though humiliating for him, somehow twisted the narrative to Sir Alaric’s detriment. It seemed, for now, his shame was not entirely his own.