A full week curdled into an uneasy quiet. Lysander, meticulously organizing codices within the Grand Library’s deepest archives, exerted himself in the pretense that Lord Cassian Thorne’s absence from his usual haunts held no consequence. He moved with a practiced detachment, his posture stiff, shoulders held just so, to convey only diligent occupation, nothing more. He sought out Master Elara, a junior scribe with an irreverent wit and an uncanny ear for the estate’s whispers, keeping up appearances of casual discourse. Yet, every question, every carefully phrased inquiry, burned with a private, insistent ache. Most frustratingly, this strained distance severed Lysander from the direct currents of news regarding Lord Cassian. He could no longer observe the young lord’s comings and goings, nor glean insight from the subtle shifts in the court’s atmosphere around him. Occasionally, fragments of information reached him through Elara’s network of contacts among the stewards and chamberlains. So, when the gnawing curiosity became unbearable, Lysander found himself seeking out Elara in the Scribe’s Nook, ostensibly to consult on a particularly archaic cipher. Elara, perpetually hunched over a desk littered with half-eaten pastries and discarded parchments, merely tapped a quill against his cheek, eyes still on a complex astrological chart. “Ah, His Lordship?” Elara’s voice, a dry rasp, held little interest. “He departed the estate again. Earlier this morn, for a formal visit to House Blackwood.” Lysander’s breath hitched. A visit to House Blackwood, known for its formidable matriarch and unmarried daughters. The implication hung heavy in the air. “...Damned gall,” Lysander muttered, barely audible. He understood, then, the raw, untamed force behind Cassian’s every impulse. Cassian was a creature of primal will, a storm in the guise of nobility, driven by instinct and fleeting desires. “Likely another of those tedious social calls,” Lysander guessed, feigning disinterest. He turned a page in a ledger, the crisp rustle too loud in the silent room. “No, not merely a call,” Elara corrected, twisting to retrieve a forgotten scone. “This was a formal audience. Arranged by the Dowager Lady Thorne herself. With Lady Isolde.” Lysander froze, his hand tightening on the quill. Lady Isolde. A beauty, from a line of notorious schemers, known for her sharp mind and sharper tongue. “They… took to each other?” Elara merely shrugged. “From the whispers, the meeting was brief. Utterly without friction. Lady Isolde agreed to further correspondence, apparently with startling alacrity. As if she’d waited for this very opportunity. ‘Why, of course,’ she reportedly uttered, ‘a pleasure beyond measure.’ Such sickening ease.” Lysander’s knuckles whitened against the vellum. “Such effortless charm.” “Right?” Elara’s voice dripped with disdain. For the first time in days, a faint, fragile lightness stirred within Lysander’s chest. A sliver of the oppressive weight lifted. He leaned against Elara’s desk, tapping a knuckle against the younger scribe’s shoulder, a silent acknowledgement of shared cynicism. Elara was the sole voice within the Thorne estate who dared openly mock the elaborate, often vulgar, courtly machinations of its highest echelons. For that alone, Lysander tolerated his lack of decorum. “They are disgustingly effortless,” Lysander finally said, the words a thin veil over a bitter taste. “Indeed,” Elara agreed, his eyes still on his charts. “Not like us, slogging away at our scrolls and figures. No effortless charm here.” Lysander managed a weak smile. “Are you not supposed to be uncharmed? You are a scholar, after all.” “No ‘supposed to’ about it,” Elara scoffed, finally turning from his work. He tapped a finger against a small, ancient charm carved from fossilized bone, suspended from a leather thong around his neck. “One learns these things as one navigates the labyrinthine halls. Human nature, in all its perplexing glory.” “Is that why you remain unmarried?” Lysander teased, the words a quiet jab. Elara’s eyes, usually sharp with calculation, widened fractionally. He turned from his chart completely, an incredulous smile playing on his lips, then tapped Lysander’s hand resting on his shoulder. “I shall log a formal complaint of verbal insolence against you, Lysander.” “How is this insolence?” “If the recipient feels discomfort, it crosses the line.” “Elara, you are truly beyond reason.” “Petulant.” Lysander’s slippered foot, hanging idly, brushed against the leg of Elara’s stool. He ignored it, nudging Elara’s shin with his sock-clad foot. Elara feigned a dramatic stumble, then casually raised a hand, revealing the polished bone charm. Lysander kicked his leg again, a little harder. “That trinket of yours seems rather… ill-suited.” “Why ever so?” Elara asked, a sudden seriousness entering his tone. Why such gravity for a simple charm? “It just does not align with your… disposition.” “Does not align? Peculiar. Do I not strike you as one deeply attuned to ancient, forgotten lore?” “No. It looks rather like an affectation.” “...It is not, I assure you.” Elara’s family, Lysander knew, had a long, perplexing history of dabbling in obscure, often frowned-upon, magical practices. Elara himself claimed a devout reverence for a minor, half-forgotten deity of knowledge, though Lysander had never once witnessed him perform even the simplest ritual correctly. --- Lysander spent the ensuing days actively avoiding Lord Cassian Thorne. Whenever their paths threatened to cross in the vaulted corridors or the bustling Great Hall, Lysander would divert, head bowed, pretending intense focus on an imaginary scroll. He allowed himself only fleeting glances, then averted his gaze, a knot tightening in his stomach. He still lacked the courage to directly address Cassian. Perhaps he feared a loss, the silent admission that whoever desired more, lost. A pathetic, childish notion, yet it clung to him with the tenacity of a burr. Even knowing its absurdity, he could not bring himself to speak. Ser Roric of the Oakhaven, however, frequently sought out Lysander. Roric, a junior knight in Cassian’s retinue, was often the only one who responded to Lysander’s polite, albeit reserved, conversation. But each passing day revealed new, faint bruises beneath Roric’s collar, or a shadowed eye, stark evidence that Cassian’s brutal discipline continued unseen, a beast marking its territory. Lysander frowned, a flicker of concern crossing his face. Roric, catching the glance, instinctively turned his head, attempting to conceal the fresh injury. Four more days crawled by. One quiet morning, alone in a deserted corner of the scriptorium, Lysander buried his face in his hands. He wished to avoid the grim play unfolding before his eyes. The chasm between him and Lord Cassian widened. What had once been a mere crack had, over weeks, expanded into an unbridgeable gulf of despair. Opening his eyes felt like risking the abyss swallowing him whole. The faint bruises on Roric’s cheek, though healing, remained as glaring as a seal on a royal writ. They made Lysander all the more reluctant to face either man. He yearned to simply vanish. Then, as if a thread of luck had unexpectedly favored him, Ser Roric ceased appearing in the courtly routines. Master Theron, the Head Archivist, spoke of a “leave of absence,” but the hesitance in his voice betrayed a deeper truth: truancy, or perhaps, enforced sequestration. Lysander nearly sagged with relief. Lord Cassian, conversely, grew increasingly agitated during his daily duties. He fidgeted with the signet ring on his finger, snapped irritably at his personal guards, and once, in a fit of pique, struck a junior aide for a misplaced document. Part of Lysander felt a smug satisfaction. Another, darker part reveled in a strange sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Ser Roric officially departed the estate, or was permanently reassigned, Lord Cassian would lose interest and turn his attention back to Lysander. Confident in this fragile hope, he waited patiently for that moment to arrive. A few more days blurred into the relentless rhythm of the Barony. “Lord Cassian seems rather… preoccupied,” Master Elara remarked offhandedly, a stack of freshly copied inventories in his arms. Lysander’s heart gave a heavy thud against his ribs. He longed to immediately turn his head, to catch a glimpse of Cassian’s face, but he dared not. In matters of the heart, or perhaps, obsession, he was a coward. All he could do was listen to Elara’s words and construct an image of Cassian’s brooding countenance. Yet, nothing changed. The day wore on, and all duties concluded without incident. Lysander told himself there would be another chance tomorrow. These things, he knew, rarely shifted so abruptly. He kept waiting, until the final bell tolled, and he was slinging his satchel over his shoulder. Then, Elara spoke, a strange note in his voice. “You had some disagreement with Lord Cassian, did you not?” Lysander turned, a reflex, at Elara’s words. “A trivial matter.” “Do not tell me the rift from that incident in the solar still remains?” “...” “My, this is proving more enduring than I imagined,” Elara said, shrugging, his hands shoved into the deep pockets of his robes. Lysander avoided his gaze, mumbling an excuse. “To be honest, Lord Cassian’s methods were… excessively severe. I detest witnessing such unwarranted harshness. It’s simply… unseemly, you understand?” “What is?” “...Well, Ser Roric is a knight, is he not?” “And?” “The way Lord Cassian treats him… they are both men of honorable station, and it’s simply distasteful. I wish he would cease.” “Oh, indeed.” Elara’s voice was utterly flat. “...” “You are destined for the Celestial Choir, Lysander.” The response to his carefully chosen words of concern was dripping with sarcasm, like venomous honey. Annoyed by Elara’s malicious tone, Lysander glared at him. But Elara merely smirked, unconcerned. Seeing that knowing expression, Lysander felt as if something vital, something shameful, had been laid bare. Heat flushed his face. He quickly turned his back on the mocking grin and hurried from the scriptorium. As he made his way down the winding corridor, intent on returning to his modest chamber, a hand suddenly gripped his shoulder. Assuming it was Elara, Lysander spun around, irritation bubbling, and pulled his arm free. But it was not Elara – it was Master Theron, the Head Archivist himself. Startled, Lysander quickly composed his features, forcing a deferential bow. “My apologies, Lysander. Did I startle you?” “Oh, no, Master Theron. It is quite alright. Merely… surprised.” “I see. I am truly sorry, but… might I beg a moment of your time?” “Master Theron?” “Just a moment. Please.” The usually composed archivist’s face was etched with unusual seriousness. Lysander nodded, his heart beginning to quicken. “This morn, Lord Cassian inquired after Ser Roric’s private lodgings,” Master Theron stated cautiously. “Lord Cassian?” Lysander’s mind raced. It was clear that, as the Head Archivist, Theron could not be entirely unaware of the subtle currents of bullying within the estate. Yet, he was not bold enough to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, he was not so cold-hearted as to completely ignore it either. The fact that he came to Lysander, specifically, to discuss Roric, proved that. “I am not accusing or placing blame upon His Lordship, but…” “No, Master Theron, I understand. I find nothing amiss in his inquiry,” Lysander replied swiftly, though the lie tasted like ash. “Well, given your past interactions with Ser Roric, and your… diplomatic nature, I was wondering if you might consider accompanying Lord Cassian, should he choose to visit Roric’s chambers. Do you comprehend my meaning?” Lysander could not answer immediately. His teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. The volatile emotions Lord Cassian held for Ser Roric, emotions Lysander had tried so hard to deny, now seemed to creep toward him, flooding his feet, anchoring him in place. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idly by. “Might I… secure Ser Roric’s current whereabouts, then?” Lysander managed, his voice steady despite the internal tremor. “Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me. I shall dispatch a runner to his residence for a confirmation. Perhaps a message would be best.” “Indeed. I shall send word to him. Worry not, Master Theron.” “Very good. I am counting on you, Lysander.” “Yes, Master Theron.” On the surface, Lysander appeared calm, but internally, a frantic panic seized him. Master Theron, looking awkwardly relieved, sent for a messenger to deliver the note. Lysander had to stop Lord Cassian from confronting Ser Roric. He absolutely had to prevent Cassian’s strange obsession from escalating further. The moment Theron was gone, Lysander pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from his satchel and quickly scribed a short, urgent message. His leg jittered nervously beneath his robes, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he waited for a junior page to take it to Roric’s stated chambers. “Inform him it is from Lysander Kael, and it is most urgent,” he instructed the young page, his voice firm. Moments later, a breathless page returned, a response scroll in hand. Lysander unrolled it, his eyes scanning the familiar, slightly shaky script. “Greetings, Lysander. It is indeed Roric. Why… why did you send for me? Have you… received my personal address from another source?” Lysander’s heart pounded. “No, Roric. I heard from Master Theron that Lord Cassian inquired after your private lodgings today. So I sought to confirm your whereabouts.” “...” “I simply wished to caution you. Be circumspect.” “W-what of you? Are you well? Even though you always intercede…” “Think not of me. Focus on your own safety. If you wish to extend your leave from duty, inform me. I can communicate with Master Theron on your behalf. I am, believe it or not, rather well-regarded in such matters.” “...My thanks.” “If Lord Cassian attempts to harass or physically admonish you upon your return to court, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, a subtle gesture, perhaps, a tap on the shoulder. It is far more difficult to rectify matters once they are fully wrought.” “Understood…” “Honestly, seeking a transfer to another Barony would be the wisest course.” Lysander slipped that suggestion in, hoping it would plant a seed of serious consideration. “...” “Regardless, contemplate your options. For now, either pretend not to be in residence or remove yourself to a distant part of the estate.” “V-very well…” “Alright, I must conclude this exchange.” “W-wait.” “...?” “Thank you, Lysander.” After a long, strained hesitation, Roric’s voice came softly, trembling slightly. What was this? Honestly, it made Lysander profoundly uncomfortable. “Th-thank you for always offering your counsel…” “It is nothing.” “I simply… wished to express it. Thank you. T-till we meet again.” “Indeed.” “...Farewell.” Farewell? Lysander did not bother to respond to the strange adieu. He simply handed the scroll back to the waiting page, dismissing him. The lingering resonance of Roric’s voice, faint yet persistent in his ears, sent shivers down Lysander’s spine, leaving him utterly unsettled. What transpired with Ser Roric that night, Lysander could not say. All he knew was that from the very next day onward, Roric began to appear in the courtly gatherings once more. Within a week, the last faint peach fuzz of his youthful skin, once overshadowed by bruised shadows, began to show again. Roric also ceased his past habit of suddenly approaching Lysander to speak, his demeanor shifting dramatically, becoming more guarded, almost deferential to everyone. The abrupt alteration in Roric’s behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Lysander’s meticulous mind. And when all the faint marks on Roric’s face finally vanished, Lysander could not help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope—however improbable it seemed. Then, two weeks later, Lord Cassian Thorne approached Lysander, out of nowhere, in the hushed quiet of the Grand Library. “Lysander.” “...” “Lysander Kael.” “...” Lysander did not look at him, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, ostensibly on the shelf of ancient scrolls before him. But his lips felt as if they might part in a silent, desperate gasp at any moment. Could it be that Lord Cassian was finally, truly, tired of Ser Roric? ---

A Gilded Promise, Faint and Fraught