A searing ache pulsed behind Elian’s eyes as awareness slowly filtered back. He lay sprawled across the silken sheets of his bed, a disoriented heap amidst the opulent furnishings of his private suite. Dim light, muted by the heavy velvet drapes, painted the room in bruised purples and greys. He must have somehow found the strength to lock the chamber door before succumbing to utter exhaustion, a small, cold victory in a night of crushing defeat.
“Remarkable, even in such disarray.” The thought was a whisper of self-congratulation, immediately drowned by the throb in his jaw.
He remained still, allowing the fog to dissipate, each blink a struggle against the dull, numbing pain that encompassed his entire face. A hand, stiff and unwieldy, lifted itself. His shoulder creaked with the protest of rusty joints, a sharp, unfamiliar agony shooting through the spaces between his bones.
“Ah…” The sound was a pathetic gasp, barely audible.
His fingers, hesitant and trembling, brushed against the tender, unnaturally hardened points along his cheekbone, the subtle swelling beneath his eye. A moment of prone stillness, then he pushed himself upright, pressing a palm against the yielding mattress.
Seated on the edge of the bed, Elian stared blankly at a section of the wall adorned with an ancient, meticulously etched star chart. A sudden, visceral wave of grief surged, stealing his breath. A whimpering sound, raw and ragged, clawed its way from his throat, escaping his lips in rasping, painful sobs. His voice felt scraped, as if sandpaper had abraded his vocal cords.
Uncontrollable fury seized him. He sprang up, grabbing a heavy tome on Chronological Sorcery from his bedside table, sending it crashing against the wall with a dull thud. Scrolls of alchemical formulae, their delicate vellum crackling, were swept from his desk, scattering like discarded thoughts. He cried and raged, a tempest contained within his lavish chamber, until the last vestige of strength abandoned him, leaving him to sink to the floor.
He clamped his mouth shut, pressing his eyes closed with a fierce intensity. But even in the suffocating darkness, tears stubbornly welled, tracing hot paths down his cheeks as his sobs hitched, an unbidden testament to his despair.
“Damn him!”
He wished for oblivion, a complete erasure. But the true object of his death wish was the ignominious spectacle of last night.
His chamber windows had been sealed against the chill night air. Had anyone in the adjacent suites, or the patrolling Collegiate guard, heard his cries, his pleas? The thought was a fresh wave of humiliation. *Damn it. Damn it. Rhys Alaric.* Why had he chosen that moment, that audience? Why had he stripped Elian bare of all dignity before Cassian, before a potential ally? Why did he have to shatter everything?
“...Damn them all.”
What Rhys Alaric had trampled upon, in the cold light of Cassian’s watchful gaze, was not merely Elian’s physical person—it was his meticulously constructed pride, his very identity as a scholar of intellect and refinement. That humiliation cut deeper, burned hotter, than any dismissive glance or subtle slight Rhys had ever directed his way. It was a devastation so profound it tore a primal scream from his soul.
Yet, even amidst this wretched dissolution, a perverse, ingrained concern for his outward appearance gnawed at him. This moment was no exception.
The sudden, oppressive silence in the room registered. He stopped crying, abruptly aware of the ticking orrery on his desk. The clock indicated a few minutes past eight. A chilling thought pierced his muddled brain: an encounter with the morning dorm matron in this state would be catastrophic. A cold, dread clarity spread through his mind.
He could not allow anyone to witness him in this pathetic, disgraced condition. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the heavy tome, gathered the scattered scrolls, shoving them carelessly beneath his ornately carved bedframe. He settled back onto the mattress, forcing his breath to even, waiting for the inevitable knock. It came moments later, precisely on schedule, a polite rap at his door.
“Master Vance? Are you quite well this morning?” The matron’s voice, a crisp, professional query.
He spoke, forcing a semblance of normalcy. “Pray, do not enter, Matron. I believe I have contracted a particularly virulent strain of Collegiate fever. I am quite indisposed. I shall be compelled to absent myself from today’s lectures.”
“Oh, dear. Indeed? Should I summon the Collegiate Healers?”
Elian swallowed a bitter taste that rose in his throat, a mix of bile and resentment. “I shall send for them myself, if my condition does not abate later.”
“Very well. Might I prepare a restorative draught for you, or perhaps a light broth?”
“Simply leave it outside the door, Matron. Your consideration is, as ever, appreciated.”
“Of course, Master Vance. Endeavor to rest.”
He had bought himself time. Skipping the day’s curriculum was a small mercy. He was in no fit state to engage with the intricate debates of Archaic Runology or the demanding practicals of Luminaflux Manipulation. Nor did he possess the slightest desire to.
Fortunately, a small vial of soothing liniment, typically reserved for minor sprains from late-night scholarly tumbles, lay amidst the clutter of his arcane implements. He seized it, slathering the cool, fragrant salve over his aching body, wishing with desperate fervor for the pain to recede, for the physical manifestations of his humiliation to simply vanish.
Dropping the empty vial, he threw it carelessly onto the polished floor. His entire body shivered, an uncontrollable tremor that had nothing to do with the chill of the morning. Yet, it was the humiliation, the profound indignity, that wounded him more deeply than any bruise. It felt as though invisible, cruel fingers were pinching his very soul. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming. To hide his tear-streaked face, his compromised dignity, he blocked out the meager light streaming through the window and burrowed deep under the heavy blankets. The thick, insulating fabric felt like the only sanctuary capable of shielding him from the crushing despair that now defined his existence.
*I must sleep. I have to sleep.* Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated a fragile mantra. *It will be fine. My parents are away, immersed in the affairs of the House. Rhys… Rhys would not boast of such a dishonorable act. It will be fine.*
With that desperate, self-deluding thought, he buried himself deeper beneath the covers.
***
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the oppressive weight of the blankets, he muttered words that clung bitterly to the tip of his tongue. To any unseen entity, to the distant gods, to his oblivious parents, he wanted to scream it aloud, a torrent of righteous indignation.
*Please.* It was Rhys Alaric. Rhys Alaric struck me. He defiled me. That viper. Rhys Alaric is a monster. He is deranged. He has lost all semblance of reason. Because of Cassian, because of his ruthless ambition… After everything I offered, the alliance I sought, the esteem I held… he crushed it. He crushed it utterly, right before Cassian. I was an idiot. I displayed that pathetic, vulnerable side of myself to Cassian, too. And the insidious thought, that someone, *anyone* in the Collegiate might have seen it all, might discern the truth of my abject defeat…
He cut off the frantic, spiraling train of thought. A wave of self-loathing, sharp and acrid, surged through him. He truly yearned for death.
The most agonizing detail was what he did immediately after his tearful capitulation under the blanket. His first desperate act was to scramble, fingers trembling, to delete every missive, every communication from Cassian from his personal scrying mirror’s archives. Then, in a feverish rush, he purged the limited surveillance records from the outer perimeter of his suite, erasing any lingering traces from the early hours of that morning. That night had become an indelible stain, a shameful secret he could not bear for anyone to know, a hideous truth he would never allow anyone to witness.
***
Elian absented himself from the Collegiate for three days. Despite his hideous appearance, his young, noble body, accustomed to the finest elixirs and restorative treatments, was healing at a remarkable pace.
Perhaps it was providence, or a subconscious instinct to shield the most visible areas during the brief, brutal exchange, but the visible injuries were mercifully minimal – a few dark bruises, easily concealed beneath the high collars of his Collegiate robes, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself beneath the blankets, the despair an ever-present companion. He ignored every single message, every summoning from his tutors, every concerned inquiry from his designated Academic Counsellor.
He had foolishly believed he could endure, to remain sequestered until his recovery was absolute. But fate, as ever, proved unkind. His parents, who had been engrossed in a protracted diplomatic mission in the distant Silverwood Dominion, returned to the city-state with unexpected haste. Panic, cold and raw, gripped Elian.
“…Son, what has happened to your face?” His mother’s voice, a sudden, sharp intrusion.
“Oh, well…” Elian stammered, caught utterly unprepared.
“Did you engage in a brawl? Your Academic Counsellor conveyed you were afflicted by a fever. A mere contagion, you said.” His father’s tone, laced with an unsettling blend of concern and suspicion, punctuated by a rising inflection.
As his father peppered him with pointed questions, Elian’s mind raced, frantically constructing a plausible narrative, one that would preserve the fragile illusion of his composure.
“Ah, um, I was feeling indisposed, you see, so one of the junior Collegiates, a kind soul, offered to collect the decree for the upcoming Arcane Theory seminar for me…”
“And?”
“And I… I encountered a minor disturbance on my return.”
“What manner of disturbance?” His mother’s hand flew to her lips.
“It was nothing serious, I assure you. I merely… misjudged a step, you see, and struck my face against the paved path near the Celestial Observatory.”
“What manner of misstep leaves a noble’s face looking thus? Who was involved?” His father’s voice tightened, a dangerous edge creeping in. Elian frantically waved his hands, a placating gesture.
“No, truly, Father, I do not wish to cause any unnecessary friction. It was hardly a serious altercation. We have already… reconciled.”
“Come now, Elian, tell us—what precisely transpired?”
“…Well…” After a fraught pause, Elian conjured a completely pathetic, yet oddly effective, excuse.
“I… I may have inadvertently mocked a fellow student for his recent academic failure in the Transmutation Practical. He was quite distraught.”
“What?” His mother let out a disbelieving gasp.
Surprisingly, his ridiculous, self-deprecating answer seemed to diffuse the tension. His father let out a long sigh, a mix of exasperation and faint amusement, before a sudden, low chuckle escaped him. “Are you young scholars engaging in some arcane melodrama, Elian?”
“No, Father…”
“Do not let such trivialities escalate again. Your comportment reflects upon the House.”
“…Of course.”
The relatively minor nature of his visible injuries also proved fortuitous. Thankfully, the incident, at least in its domestic iteration, seemed to blow over.
Yet, something peculiar occurred. While they were partaking of their evening repast in the grand dining hall, his mother abruptly introduced a disquieting topic. “By the by, Elian, are you still closely aligned with Rhys Alaric these days?”
“What?” The question hit him like a physical blow.
“He simply… does not appear to frequent your suite as he once did.” His mother’s gaze was unsettlingly keen.
For a woman who spent less than half her year within the city-state, her curiosity felt entirely too prescient. The mere mention of Rhys Alaric’s name forced his image, insidious and mocking, into Elian’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back, an irritable edge to his voice. “It remains precisely as it always was, Mother.”
*The same, my arse.* Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. Such a profound shame and humiliation welled within him that he wished the very marble beneath him would swallow him whole.
“But did not another… companion visit your suite recently? The dorm matron mentioned it. Are you now so close with this new acquaintance?”
Elian’s body went rigid. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he turned his head towards the grand arched doorway leading to the servant’s passage, where a junior matron was busily clearing the dining table. A cold dread, sharper than any winter wind, ran through him. Had *she* heard? Could she possibly have overheard anything that night? Was it conceivable that *she* was the one who had discerned the sounds of his utter undoing?
“Elian? Is something amiss?” His mother’s voice, concerned, drew him back.
Startled, he blurted out a response without conscious thought. “Yes. We are… quite close, Mother.”
What did his mother say after that? He could not recall. The sheer, paralyzing terror that rooted him to the spot wiped all subsequent words from his memory. What he did remember, with horrifying clarity, was the look she had given him when she first mentioned Rhys Alaric. It was the subtle, knowing glance she reserved for matters of ill tidings, for unfortunate revelations.
*Why?*
That single, chilling query propelled him further into a spiraling abyss of fear. His fingers grew cold, clammy. No. She could not have heard. The junior matron had notoriously poor hearing and her quarters were situated in a distant wing of the Collegiate, far removed from his private suite. She could not have heard anything. But *why*? Why did it feel so wrong, so terribly compromised? All he could do was offer a desperate, silent plea to a distant god he had long ceased to believe in.
***
Three more days elapsed, his parents’ gentle urging to return to the Collegiate growing steadily more insistent. He absolutely did not want to. But if he continued his unexplained absence, his mother would undoubtedly suspect a deeper, more troubling issue than a mere minor scuffle with a fellow student. That was the last, most dangerous perception he could afford. So, with a herculean effort, he forced a cheerful, if somewhat strained, facade. Nothing was amiss. Everything was fine.
The days leading up to his forced return were a continuous torment of anxiety. What if he encountered Rhys Alaric? What if he crossed paths with Cassian? Would Rhys beat him again, a more public, more devastating humiliation? Would he expose Elian’s weakness, his pathetic pleas, before an assembly of his peers—or worse, before Cassian? Would he continue to trample upon Elian’s aspirations, treating him as though he were utterly inconsequential?
The very thought turned his stomach, a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm him.
Upon his arrival at the Collegiate, the hallowed halls already bustling with early morning students, he swiftly hung his ornate satchel on the side of his desk, haphazardly scattering a few academic journals atop it. He sank into his seat, staring blankly at the polished surface, as the distant murmur of the hallway gradually intensified. As soon as he discerned approaching footsteps, a familiar, confident stride, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be lost in slumber, perhaps no one would notice the subtle swelling, the faint discoloration that lingered on his face. At least not for a while. But he had made one critical miscalculation: the suite behind his belonged to Lord Kael. Kael possessed an uncanny ability to perceive the unspoken currents of social dynamics, yet often chose to act with a calculated, infuriating disregard for them.
As soon as Kael arrived, he paused beside Elian’s desk, a shadow falling over him. A slender, elegant hand slipped between Elian’s shoulder and neck, fingers cool and firm. Kael’s grip tilted Elian’s face upward, exposing it to the harsh morning light. Elian had no time to resist, no opportunity to hide. He was forced to reveal the vestiges of his injury. Kael’s brow arched in a perfectly sculpted line as he meticulously examined Elian’s battered features, his voice a low, blunt inquiry.
“What in the blazes happened to your face, Vance?”
“…It’s nothing of consequence, Kael.”
“Did you stumble on another obscure archaic inscription, Elian?” The sarcasm was thinly veiled.
“Something of that nature. A misstep.”
“Indeed?” Kael clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive sound, shaking his head slowly. He abruptly released Elian’s face, causing Elian’s head to nearly strike the desk with a jolt.
“Damn you, Kael!” Elian glared, startled by the rough treatment, but Kael merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, his eyes distant, as though lost in a complex calculation. Whatever machinations unfolded behind that aristocratic mask, Elian had no means of knowing.
Neither Rhys Alaric nor Cassian appeared at the Collegiate that day.
But during Elian’s absence, a subtle, insidious rumor had begun to spread through the hallowed halls.
“Did you hear? Rhys Alaric… that scoundrel actually…” The whispers were faint at first, then gained insidious momentum.
No one directly questioned Elian about his injuries, but the curious, appraising glances he received, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased upon his approach, made it chillingly clear that the rumor, in its nascent form, had already permeated the collegiate consciousness.
Perhaps, Elian thought, a sliver of dark fortune had indeed fallen upon him.
***
The rumors, Elian soon gathered, centered around himself and Rhys Alaric. Neither Elian nor Rhys had attended the Collegiate since the whispers began, and even Cassian had been conspicuously absent shortly thereafter, leaving no one in a position to effectively dispel the insidious murmurs. With Elian’s battered face serving as unwitting, visible proof, the whispers metastasized, spreading with alarming alacrity.
The story, in its evolving permutations, suggested a bitter schism between Elian Vance and Rhys Alaric. And, more damningly, that Rhys Alaric had revealed a shockingly ruthless, almost predatory, ambition.
“That serpent,” someone hissed in the scriptorium, their voice barely a murmur. “He utterly humiliated Vance, I tell you. Used him as a stepping stone.”
“What’s a stepping stone? Ah, wait. Gods. Wait a moment. I heard Vance was utterly crushed.”
“He truly looked like a… a broken automaton, didn’t he? All those intricate gears, shattered.”
The common rooms, the refectory, the very courtyards of the Collegiate, were now thick with these kinds of hushed, damning conversations.
“Every associate who thought themselves close to Alaric… they all found themselves subtly undermined, or worse, sacrificed for his upward climb. Vance was just the latest casualty.”