Lysander. My family name is Kael, my given name Lysander. Yet, throughout the Barony of Thorne, most speak of me simply as Kael Lysander. It flows with a certain gravity, a reminder of the ancient lineage I carry, however diminished. The first to suggest this particular phrasing was Lord Gareth Thorne, during our early tutelage, a time when our paths first began to intertwine. Since then, I have been ‘Kael Lysander’ to all who matter. A select few, mostly aging retainers from my family’s fading household, still address me by my given name, but that is a tale for another, quieter hour.
Lord Gareth, who shared my lessons for the first time that year, was conspicuously unlike me. From the easy breadth of his shoulders to the confident tilt of his head, his bearing bespoke privilege and effortless power, a stark contrast to my own understated demeanor. Even in the rigorous academic pursuits demanded of us, we stood at opposing ends – he, content to master the arts of war and governance, while I immersed myself in ancient texts and meticulous record-keeping.
Did I instinctively dismiss him as soon as our eyes met? Typically, I adhere to the strictures of societal order, believing each soul occupies its appointed station. So, yes, that would have been my natural inclination. But with Lord Gareth, a peculiar exception arose. His gaze, even then, held a magnetic pull, a force that commanded attention without demanding it, and I found myself unable to regard him with the usual aristocratic detachment.
Lord Gareth exuded an indefinable essence. A faint, almost imperceptible fragrance clung to him, not of perfumed oils, but something inherent, akin to sun-warmed stone or distant hearth smoke. It drew me in, an unconscious allure, and I found myself initiating discourse, a rare transgression against my own reserved nature.
Often, I sought common ground between Lord Gareth and myself. Superficial resemblances, such as our shared noble birth or our presence among the favored few at court, offered flimsy justification for my persistent fascination.
Our ancestral estates, for instance, lay across the Barony. The Thorne lands sprawled vast and ancient, while my own family’s demesne, though once esteemed, had dwindled to little more than memory and faded titles.
I hailed from the gentry, though our fortune was now but a shadow. Yet, I was an only child, my parents’ adoration a fragile shield against our decline. This, coupled with the lingering echoes of our family’s historical prestige, was a silvered chalice placed, however emptily, in my infant hands. It instilled a certain calculated caution, a survival instinct that sharpened my intellect.
For these reasons, the court of Thorne presented a strange confluence of those clinging to power and those who had already lost it. Lord Gareth, naturally, resided at its apex. Once this was confirmed in my mind, a fragile sense of validation settled. With that flimsy excuse, I approached him without hesitation, and a cautious acquaintance blossomed into something resembling camaraderie.
Just as I excelled in matters of scripture and script, Lord Gareth commanded respect in the martial arts and social maneuvering. He swiftly gathered about him the most formidable young lords and knights, and before a year had passed, his influence within the Barony’s inner circle was undeniable. That was how Lord Gareth Thorne secured his preeminent position, even before ascending to the full title.
---
The tightly shut door to the secluded guesthouse remained impervious for what felt like an eternity, until a fresh wave of nausea coiled in my gut. My hand instinctively pressed against my aching abdomen. At that moment, it finally yielded. Through the narrow gap, a flash of flushed skin caught my eye. Gareth’s hand, red from exertion, released the latch. The heavy oak began to swing shut again, threatening to conceal him entirely. Desperate, I slipped inside before it could fully close.
Within the small parlor, Gareth was already seated on a low divan, clad only in loose breeches. A half-smoked pipe, its bowl cool and unlit, was clamped between his teeth, gnawed on with absentminded vigor.
“Curse it all. My father presses me again. Should he send a messenger, swear upon your family’s honor we were reviewing the archival scrolls together.”
He clicked a small, ornate tinderbox open and shut, never igniting the pipe. His face, though, bore the languid exhaustion of one recently sated. My stomach tightened, a raw knot, and I rubbed it as I approached him. Snatching the abused pipe from his mouth, I spoke with a sharper edge than intended.
“Why should I?”
“Because we are… friends.”
Yes. Friends. The way he drew out the word, a subtle hesitation in his voice, always struck me with a peculiar melancholy. It felt as though a blade tore through my chest, yet I maintained an expression of practiced composure.
“Know that I shall collect on this debt, Lord Thorne, one way or another.”
“Your loyalty is noted, Kael.”
The air hung heavy, thick with the cloying sweetness of jasmine and a subtle, musky scent I had learned, through Gareth’s various liaisons, to associate with a woman’s intimate presence. Honestly, only through observing Gareth’s casual indiscretions had I ever learned to discern such odors with any precision.
Whispers circulated among the stable boys and younger squires: Gareth had been bedding serving wenches and minor noble daughters since his mid-teens. The rumors spoke of dalliances in forgotten antechambers and stolen nights in distant hunting lodges. Such tales, though scandalous, were hardly surprising.
Even then, he possessed an almost startling maturity. Gareth’s bearing, his deep-set eyes and strong jaw, belied his youth; most encountering him for the first time mistook him for a seasoned knight or a minor lord. His bold, defined features lent him an air of brooding sophistication.
Once he reached a certain age, he openly indulged his whims, frequenting the taverns and pleasure houses of the nearest market town whenever boredom struck. He possessed ample coin, and through some means, acquired official papers altering his birth year. He brandished them with careless confidence, ensnaring attractive women for fleeting encounters, making one-night liaisons a common pastime. His undeniable charisma played a significant role in masking his hedonistic tendencies.
Individually, his eyes, nose, and mouth were not extraordinary. But combined, they formed a face of inexplicable allure. His aura was so potent that few believed him merely a young noble; most assumed he was at least five-and-twenty, already well-versed in the ways of the world.
My gaze drifted around the room, as if searching for something tangible to anchor my disquiet, though I knew it was a futile gesture. The oppressive atmosphere, thick with the aftermath of his escapade, intensified my nausea.
“Where is Sir Cassian?”
“He departed.”
“...”
“That fool, truly, no matter how I consider it. He’s a jest.”
Gareth rested his chin upon his hand, a wry smirk playing on his lips. My brow furrowed.
Sir Cassian Vance, the second object of my profound resentment.
Their acquaintance had only deepened during our second year of studies. As much as I loathed to admit it, their shared duties and increasingly frequent companionship justified their burgeoning friendship. While Gareth held sway over the East Wing’s court, Sir Cassian, a knight of growing renown, commanded a similar respect among the West Wing’s wardens and guardsmen.
Still, our paths rarely intersected. The only times I truly encountered Sir Cassian were within the main dining hall, a common space for all Thorne’s retainers.
Once, during supper, a young scribe nudged my elbow and whispered, “That is Sir Cassian Vance.”
Curiosity, a fleeting indulgence, prompted me to rise slightly and peer over the crowded tables. Among the multitude of dark-clad figures, a tall, sharply defined man stood out. I knew instantly it was him.
“He appears to possess a difficult disposition,” I remarked, more to myself than to the scribe.
One of Gareth’s younger companions, nearby, responded, “Aye, somewhat. They say he is exceedingly self-regarding.”
A tight smirk touched my lips at the comment, but I offered only a noncommittal nod.
Much as I despised the truth of it, I could understand why he was considered a peer to Gareth. That insight only deepened my animosity, yet for some reason, my gaze kept returning to him.
A brilliant austerity—that was my initial impression of Sir Cassian.
By chance, our eyes met across the bustling hall. It was singular that he perceived my gaze amidst such a throng of faces turned toward him. His long, assessing eyes and narrow pupils made an indelible impression. Instinctively, I flinched, as if struck by an unseen force.
‘What are you staring at?’
He must have read the unspoken question on my lips, for he narrowed one eye in return. Honestly, I felt a flicker of intimidation, so I merely pretended my attention had been elsewhere and turned away. Then, loud enough for the man beside me to hear, I murmured:
“He has the look of a viper.”
After that, Sir Cassian and I often exchanged glances, but we always maintained a practiced indifference. Whenever our gazes met, he would be the first to lower his head, only to raise it again moments later, his eyes seeking mine. Nine times out of ten, he was the one to break contact, but I found myself following his lead on occasion. I ceased counting after the eighteenth such encounter.
---
As if by some twist of fate, Gareth and I found ourselves once more tasked with joint duties in our second year, a continued connection that, despite my internal struggles, thrilled me in its own quiet way. Yet, amidst the familiar faces of the court, I spied another. It was genuinely startling – and utterly infuriating. For the first time, I received a proper, close look at the man behind the infamous reputation: Sir Cassian Vance.
It was Sir Cassian who first addressed me.
“Kael. Shall we break fast together?”
Damn him.
And just as all had foreseen, the two men formed an alliance. Gareth, a man who relished his own prominence, found in Sir Cassian, his subtle rival, a worthy companion. Sir Cassian was formidable, respected among his peers, and held in high esteem. Their friendship, though I chafed at it, was inevitable.
Among the court, the question often arose: if Lord Gareth and Sir Cassian were to truly clash, who would prevail? From my perspective, such a direct confrontation was improbable. While Gareth and I appeared superficially disparate, Gareth and Sir Cassian were remarkably alike in their ambition and their command of respect.
Yet, a singular distinction existed between them.
Sir Cassian possessed an odd, almost austere rectitude. Despite his battle-scarred appearance, he sometimes behaved with the rigid propriety of a novice cleric.
For instance, when Gareth’s desires were roused, he would simply choose a woman who caught his eye and spend the night. When questioned about his morning escapades, he would recount his steamy adventures with unashamed pleasure. In contrast, Sir Cassian would merely scoff at the typical lewd jests about illicit desires. Sometimes, he would mock them outright by gripping the paunch of a portly guard nearby, squeezing hard enough to elicit a yelp.
“This pig possesses more flesh than most women. Why not ‘sample’ him instead? And good heavens, man, you look repulsive. Wear a tunic, for the love of the Barony. Cease parading that gut—it offends the eye.”
Even his vulgar remarks were laced with a scathing wit.
Yet, given the opportunity, Sir Cassian would sometimes utter baffling pronouncements, such as, “My virtue is held sacred for the Lord of my future.” That was the undeniable difference.
Gareth once offered to procure forged travel documents for Sir Cassian—a gesture he had never extended to me—but Sir Cassian dismissed it as a useless proposition and refused outright.
Gareth’s companions found Sir Cassian’s eccentricities amusing, but I did not. The reason was simple: he was close to Gareth. And they moved about the court like trusted confidantes. That alone was sufficient cause for my resentment, a slow, burning jealousy.
Still, I managed to maintain a civil façade with Sir Cassian. One of my ingrained strengths was the ability to conceal my true sentiments, regardless of the circumstances. Moreover, his proximity to Gareth was undeniable. Yes, every facet of my precarious existence revolved around Lord Gareth Thorne.
To be honest, there were more days when I felt a crushing frustration with myself for this fixation than there were days I considered Gareth without a pang. I often felt a complete fool. But even so, I remained ensnared.
While Gareth tossed a few casual words in my direction before disappearing into a washroom to bathe, I remained lost in thought. A few minutes later, the summons arrived – a young page, rapping discreetly at the guesthouse door. Fresh from his bath, Gareth snatched a fine linen shirt from the divan and tossed it to me. I caught it, and through the page, I heard the Baron’s unmistakable voice.
Clearing my throat, I answered. Why did I even attempt to sound composed?
“Yes, it is Kael, my Lord.”
“Kael? Are you with Gareth at this very moment?”
“Indeed, my Lord, I am.”
“Ah, I see. My worries were unfounded. I feared Gareth might be pursuing his usual diversions again. You possess such a resonant voice, Kael.”
“My gratitude, my Lord.”
“No, truly. How fares your health?”
“I fare well, thank you, my Lord. And you?”
“The same. You speak with such refined eloquence. If only Gareth exhibited your manners. That boy possesses no grace. So, you were reviewing the archives together?”
“Yes, my Lord. Gareth must have forgotten to send word. He has been deeply immersed in ancient texts, preparing for his formal presentation to the Council.”
“So, you have been with him this entire morning?”
“Yes, my Lord. He has remained in my company throughout.”
“Well, that is a relief. If he is with you, I can rest easy.”
“It is nothing, my Lord, merely my duty.”
“No, it is significant. If he is with you, he cannot fall into mischief.”
“Truly, it is of no consequence. I shall ensure he reaches the main keep safely.”
“Good. Watch over him, Kael. Remain staunch companions, and avoid all strife.”
“Yes, of course, my Lord. Farewell.”
Lies flowed from my tongue with chilling ease.
After concluding the exchange, I tossed the linen shirt back to Gareth, who muttered a brief “My thanks” while beginning to dress. Without another word, I turned to leave. Gareth made no attempt to detain me.
“Until later, Kael.” That was the extent of his farewell.
It was to be expected. This, ultimately, was the precise measure of our relationship. The vast chasm between us, a silent abyss, was painfully clear. Perhaps that is why I quickened my pace, a frantic need to escape.
On the path back to the main keep, my throat ached, a dry, constricted burning that had nothing to do with thirst. I hurried out of the guesthouse, the stench of jasmine and forgotten intimacy clinging to my clothes like a shroud.