A clatter of gauntlet on oak, barely a whisper of a challenge, sounded near the refectory entrance. Roric, a man-at-arms known more for bluster than skill, had balled his fist, a subtle menace aimed at a junior scribe who’d inadvertently blocked his path. Before the air could thicken with true hostility, Lady Elara, quick-witted and poised even in casual dress, lightly tapped Roric’s gauntlet with a scroll. The sound was a crisp *thwack*, utterly deflating the moment before it began.
Just like that, Roric’s weak show of dominance crumbled. He let out a strange, choked sound, a strangled protest. Lord Peren and Lady Isolde, minor nobles lingering by the hearth, let out sudden, barking laughter. Roric spun on them, his face reddening.
“Oh, you find this amusing, do you? Hmm? Laughing at a man’s frustration?” he sneered, lightly cuffing Lord Peren’s arm.
After that brief, predictable commotion, the three stormed out, their voices echoing down the Grand Hall. Before disappearing from view, Lord Peren glanced back, offering Lysander a casual nod. Lysander, having no reason to refuse the fleeting courtesy, returned the gesture with a slight dip of his head. He settled back into his alcove within the Archives, pulling a fresh sheet of vellum closer.
Lysander’s fingers wrapped around a fine-tipped quill. Before he could make the first stroke, his gaze lifted, sweeping over the shadowed, cubic stonework of the vast chamber. Dust motes danced in the slivers of weak sunlight filtering through high, arched windows.
He lowered his head to the desk, the polished wood cool beneath his arm. He was annotating the third missive in the collection, absently tapping the quill against the parchment, when he suddenly looked up.
Beyond the arched windows, the ancient thorn-trees of the outer courtyard were beginning to show the first blush of autumn gold. A sharp, earthy scent, carried on a cool breeze, filled the air. In stark contrast, the sky above was a crisp, startling blue.
“A cloistered convent would be a sanctuary compared to this,” Maester Alaric, the estate’s elder historian, often grumbled during his visits. His voice, raspy from years of lecturing and cold drafts, was a familiar drone in Lysander’s mind.
“It’s a veritable gauntlet. A gauntlet. These young lords and ladies, these squires and aides, they establish their pecking order first. By the mid-season feast, things settle slightly, and the venom becomes more subtle. But until then? It’s just veiled challenges, boastful displays, testing the patience of their betters, trying to claw their way up. Gods, my head aches. And I have to witness this annual spectacle anew when the next cohort arrives. Let’s see… what celestial alignment are they born under this cycle?”
Then, the Maester would spread his palm, counting the segments of his fingers one by one, muttering under his breath.
“The Ram, the Bull, the Twins, the Crab, the Lion, the Maiden, the Scales… Let’s see, that means—”
Lysander mimicked the motion, stretching out his own hand, tracing the joints on his fingers. He tried to follow the intricate astrological pattern the Maester used, but it always eluded him. He gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back instead.
One, the First Moon; three, the Third Moon; two, the Second Moon… He cataloged the moons, the seasons, the years. He never would have guessed, back in the languid embrace of high summer, that late Autumn would feel like spring all over again, the cycle of challenges recommencing.
“These young heirs are nothing but untamed beasts. Irrational, emotional, impulsive fools.”
Lysander stared at a prominent knuckle on his middle finger, absently tapping the desk like a soft drum. The distant, rasping voice of the Maester, likely hoarse from a persistent cough, droned on from the main hall, accompanied by the faint, sharp scrape of a scribe’s stylus on slate.
He glanced at the empty carrel near the front of the Archives. For a fleeting moment, he imagined he saw the imprint of a head on the polished surface—one side pressed down, the other floating just above.
His fingers stilled.
He turned his head slowly.
Cassian Thorne, a distant cousin of the Baron, was seated there, hunched over an illuminated manuscript. His face was half-buried in its pages, a lock of dark hair falling over his brow.
Cassian’s eyes were half-closed. He would fix his gaze on a passage as if about to devour its wisdom, only to suddenly abandon it, slumping forward again, pressing his forehead against the ancient vellum. Lysander watched as Cassian’s nose got squished between the pages and his head. Then, Lysander turned away.
“...Did I drift for a moment?” He didn’t feel entirely present.
Lysander placed a small, elegant star next to his current annotation and moved to the next missive.
---
Mid-day meal was a hearty venison stew with fermented milk.
Cassian finished his milk first, then suddenly asked, “Right, you’re second in the Archives for retention, aren’t you, Lysander?”
“Hmm? Yes, my lord.”
“And for the whole Estate staff, then?”
“Also second, my lord.”
“Gods above.” Cassian’s eyebrows shot up.
“My lord?”
“So, the primary archivist, Lady Seraphina, she’s the most learned in the whole Estate?”
“You were not aware, my lord? I have never surpassed Lady Seraphina in any formal assessment. Her capacity is truly prodigious.”
“She’s even more diligent than you, isn’t she?”
“Indeed. She often concludes her studies in the Baron’s private library past the first watch of morning.”
“By the Mother. That’s relentless.”
“Her dedication is profound.”
Lysander had no desire to prolong this discussion. He scooped a spoonful of rich stew into his mouth, savoring the savory herbs.
Fortunately, Cassian did not press further. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Ah…” The timing felt off. The conversation had ended too abruptly. Lysander debated whether to offer another remark. He detested awkward silences, so, without conscious thought, he blurted out, “And your standing, my lord? In the Baron’s retinue?”
Cassian’s spoon halted midair, a drip of stew hanging precariously. Lysander found himself staring at Cassian’s hand. He held his utensils with impeccable courtly grace. If there was one thing Cassian Thorne did with undeniable precision, it was that—observing proper etiquette.
“In the retinue…” Cassian began slowly.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Ninth.”
“...What?” Lysander’s surprise was involuntary.
“Why do you regard me so, Lysander?”
Lysander quickly averted his gaze from Cassian’s hands. Was Cassian serious? Not exaggerating? He was so taken aback he nearly asked aloud, but thankfully, he managed to swallow the words. *By the Shadow. That was close.* If he slipped up and offended Cassian, he would have to endure his unpredictable temper.
Lysander hesitated. Would Cassian prefer praise? Or would he rather Lysander feign indifference, as if it were an expected outcome? His mind, wired for survival in this labyrinthine court, was already weighing the optimal social response. Cassian didn’t seem particularly fond of some of the other minor nobles.
The latter option was safer.
“Hmm. You perform better than I might have anticipated, my lord.”
“What? Anticipated? How dull did you deem me, Lysander?” Cassian’s voice held a challenge.
“I never deemed you dull, my lord. It is simply… I understood your focus lay more with the martial arts, not arcane knowledge.”
“Martial arts are my weakness. Only the martial arts.”
“Yet you do not study under a Master of Arms.”
“To forgo formal training does not mean one cannot learn. Gods, did you truly imagine I was a simpleton?”
“No, no, not at all, my lord.” Lysander quickly waved a hand in a placating gesture. “It is impressive, nonetheless, that you achieve such standing without such tutelage.”
“…Truly?” Cassian’s defensive posture softened.
“Indeed, my lord. It is impressive.”
For some inexplicable reason, Cassian suddenly began mashing his spoon into his stew. And—was he blushing? Lysander caught a glimpse of the tips of his ears turning a faint red. Now that he considered it, Lord Valerius had ranked thirty-second among the retainers. And that was only because there were a few others who performed even worse. Thirty-second out of thirty-six.
Thinking back, Lysander realized he rarely paid attention to anything about Lord Valerius outside of the matters directly concerning his duties. With that realization, it struck him. He had been drowning in exactly the kind of pathetic, obsessive preoccupation he used to despise. Meanwhile, Cassian Thorne, completely oblivious to Lysander’s internal existential crisis, had clearly received a boost of confidence. His tone was entirely different now—brimming with self-satisfaction.
“Oh, right! You probably didn’t know, Lysander—I am proficient in the ancient tongues.”
“Indeed? How proficient, my lord?”
“Flawless recitation. I have never mispronounced a single phrase in High Drakanic.”
“*Khhkk*!” Lysander choked. The moment Cassian uttered the words, Lysander spat a mouthful of fermented milk. Cassian scowled and yanked his tray away from Lysander.
“What in the Shadow’s name? What kind of reaction is that?”
“I merely… was not expecting such mastery, my lord.”
“Is it that shocking?” Cassian frowned, pouting slightly. “Yes. My skill in the martial arts is regrettable, but such is life.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice, carefully placed.
So Lysander risked a jest. “Perhaps a few more hours studying the sword, my lord, might balance the scales.”
“What are you implying? I am entirely a scholar of ancient lore.”
“A scholar? I have never observed you studying anything but the latest gossip scrolls, my lord.”
“That is because I study my forbidden texts in secret, at my chambers.”
“Why in the nine hells would you need to conceal such pursuits, my lord?”
Cassian’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of stew into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled Lysander. He bit the inside of his cheek. Cassian met Lysander’s eyes as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip of it.
“Forbidden lore is still lore.”
That was definitely a jest. *Son of a serpent.* Lysander’s face burned. To hide it, he grabbed a crumpled napkin from beside his tray and threw it at Cassian’s face. It hit just below Cassian’s long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of his eyes twitched slightly. Not that Lysander cared, but just in case Cassian was actually angered, Lysander feigned regret.
“Do not indulge in such vulgar displays, my lord. Especially within the presence of the Baron’s retainers. It is thoroughly distasteful.”
“Oh? You mean this? You mean Valerius’s charming affectation?” Cassian raised an eyebrow.
“I do not care whose affectation it is, my lord. Just cease it.”
“Is this not, pray tell, rather… fashionable amongst us now?”
Lysander stared at him, trying to discern if he was jesting or entirely serious. He had been sleeping less. That was a sure sign his body was adapting to the pervasive unease of the Estate. Mornings, which had been dry and sluggish, now felt strangely crisp and refreshing. It was a welcome change—after all, in his mind, the gravest sins at his age were complacency and oversleeping.
“Ah, gods—” His jaw clicked painfully as he brushed his teeth. Ever since Lord Valerius’s… *unpleasantness* last month, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, this day felt strangely auspicious. But even in his newfound semblance of peace, there were sudden, sharp pangs of irritation. The cause was always Lord Valerius. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from him.
Most of those happened within the Estate walls.
“Oh, right. I saw Lord Valerius last night,” Lord Peren spoke, biting into a dense, unleavened breadroll from the kitchen—the kind rumored to contain scraps of all manner of meat.
Roric, who had been playfully jabbing at Peren’s ankle with a stick, suddenly perked up. “By the Shadow—that’s right! You just reminded me! I was entirely about to mention this. I heard something through the kitchen staff—you know Maester Corvin, don’t you? The eccentric recluse? I heard Valerius is lodging at his desolate tower.”
“Maester Corvin? That old fool Maester Corvin?” Cassian, rummaging through a small leather satchel, asked casually. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding two small, candied citron fruits. And for some reason, he handed one to Lysander.
“……?” Lysander stared at it, confused. “……What is this, my lord?”
He looked at Cassian questioningly, but Cassian merely gave a slight nod, as if that were explanation enough. The one who reacted most vehemently was Roric, whose satchel of provisions had been raided.
“By the gods! I purchased those! Why in the nine hells are you all pilfering my stores, you ingrates?”
“Oh, as if you’ve never raided mine, glutton,” Lord Peren retorted, making another mock jabbing motion at Roric’s throat. Roric instantly spun around, grabbed Peren’s tunic, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he wasn’t actually going to strike him. That was just how they were.
Lysander ignored their puerile squabbling and looked down at the candied fruit in his hand. The translucent wrapper had a small, halved citron printed on its surface. He peeled the wrapper, popped the sweet into his mouth, and lifted his head.
“What do you think? The taste of forbidden romance?” Cassian grinned, a knowing glint in his eye.
“I do not care for citron, my lord.” Lysander’s answer wasn’t just about the candied fruit—it was his evaluation of Cassian’s jest, too. And more than anything, he found the notion of “forbidden romance” singularly unamusing. That sticky, bitter feeling clung to the back of his throat. It killed his appetite. In the end, he couldn’t even finish the candy. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin.
“Oh no, such a waste,” Cassian mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Lysander reached into Roric’s satchel to find a different sweet. They were all candied citron or lime. Lime was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth.
“Anyway, Maester Corvin, hmm? Sounds just like Valerius.” Lord Peren mused.
“What, because they’re both dissolute wastrels?” Cassian’s words were sharp. Uncomfortable, Lysander turned to look at him. Cassian was sucking on his candied fruit expressionlessly, twirling the white stem between his lips. Lysander pulled his own out of his mouth. Something about this felt wrong.
Cassian didn’t seem to care. He tilted his candied fruit in the air like a tiny sword and started making random jabbing motions. “Corvin dallies with patrons—it matters not if they are men or women. And when he finds someone of enough… *interest*, he sends them straight to Valerius. It’s a whole rotation. Engaging in debauchery, passing each other around like common chattel.”
“So Maester Corvin is… unvirtuous in that manner, too?” Roric suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Lord Peren or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Lysander wasn’t sure. Roric rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing what he’d just heard.