A metallic taste coated Lysander Thorne’s tongue, dry and acrid. He registered the velvet-lined bed beneath him, the cool silk sheets tangled around his legs. Sunlight, strained and pale, pierced a sliver through the heavy drapes of his bedchamber. He was alone. He had locked the door, a primal instinct asserting itself even in the throes of disoriented collapse. His awareness swam back in disjointed fragments. A dull, insistent throb radiated from his left cheekbone, a persistent bass note in the silent room. Raising a hand, Lysander’s arm moved with the stiff reluctance of an automaton. A jolt, sharp and brittle, shot through his ribs as his fingers brushed against the hardened tenderness beneath his silk nightshirt. “Ah…” A shallow breath escaped his lips, tasting of dust and stale fear. He lay there, suspended between waking and the desire for oblivion. Eventually, he pressed his palms flat against the mattress, the effort sending tremors through his weary frame, and pushed himself upright. Perched on the edge of the ornate bed, Lysander stared at the patterned wallpaper, its faded damask swirling into meaningless shapes. A tremor started in his chest, rising, tightening. Then, a low, guttural sob ripped itself from his throat, raw and searing. His voice felt scraped, as if he had swallowed thorns. Anger, hot and blinding, surged through him. He lunged from the bed, a sudden, desperate energy fueling his bruised limbs. With a swipe, a silver-backed hairbrush, a crystal carafe, and a delicate porcelain inkwell were swept from his bedside table. The inkwell shattered against the hearthstone with a sharp, sickening crack, scattering obsidian fragments across the Persian rug. He cried. He raged. He wanted to tear down the very walls of the room, to erase the memory of the night. His breath hitched, a choked gasp, and he sank back onto the cold marble floor, clamping a hand over his mouth. Tears, hot and ceaseless, streamed down his cheeks, wetting his fingers. “Damn them,” he whispered, the words tasting like ashes. Death. He craved it, a silent, swift escape. But it wasn’t the sting of his injuries that spurred the morbid wish. It was the memory of last night, an indelible brand on his soul. The window had been latched. The heavy velvet curtains drawn. But could sound penetrate the thick stone walls? Could Mrs. Hemlock, his family’s venerable housekeeper, have heard? The thought was a fresh stab of dread. Cassian Beaumont. Alaric Volkov. Their faces, superimposed over the shattering porcelain, mocked him. Cassian’s boot hadn’t just bruised his body; it had trampled his pride, his fragile sense of worth. The humiliation had been worse than any of Cassian’s usual disdain, any of his sneering dismissals. It had been witnessed. By Alaric. That was the crushing weight. That was the torment that made him weep until his eyes felt raw. Even in this crumpled heap of despair, a chilling self-awareness asserted itself. What would he *look* like? What would they *think*? It was an instinctive, ingrained reflex, cultivated by years within the Conservatory’s unforgiving hierarchy. A distant chime drifted from the Grand Hall’s grandfather clock. Eight strokes. Mrs. Hemlock. Her quiet, rhythmic steps would soon approach his door, a ritual as unyielding as the tides. A cold dread washed over Lysander, clearing the fog from his mind. He couldn’t be seen. Not like this. Never like this. Scrambling, he righted the overturned nightstand, swept the shards of porcelain and the fallen objects beneath the bed with frantic haste. Then he settled back on the mattress, heart hammering, feigning a composure he was far from feeling. The soft pad of Mrs. Hemlock’s slippers grew audible, closer, closer. A gentle rap at the door. “Master Lysander? Are you well this morning? It’s rather late.” Her voice, soft and reedy, was a familiar comfort that now twisted into a source of fear. Lysander cleared his throat, forcing an even cadence. “Mrs. Hemlock. Do not enter. I believe I’ve caught a chill. A dreadful malaise. I shall forgo my lessons today.” “Oh dear. Should I send for the physician, Master Lysander?” The concern in her voice was genuine, a balm and a goad all at once. A bitter taste rose. “No, thank you. I shall rest. If it worsens, I’ll consider it.” “Very well. Perhaps a restorative broth? Or a simple porridge?” “Just leave it outside the door, if you please. Thank you, Mrs. Hemlock.” “As you wish, dear boy. Do try to get some rest.” Her footsteps receded, leaving Lysander suspended in the chilling silence. He would skip school. The thought of facing the opulent halls of Eldoria, his face a testament to his weakness, was unbearable. An ornate silver box on his dressing table held a small vial of soothing unguent. He uncorked it, the scent of camphor and crushed lavender filling the air. With trembling fingers, he spread the cool balm over his aching ribs, the tender curve of his jaw. The physical pain, though sharp, was a dull ache compared to the searing humiliation. He pulled the heavy velvet curtains tight, plunging the room into a deep, velvety twilight. He burrowed beneath the thick eiderdown and blankets, seeking refuge from the world, from himself. The silk and down offered a paltry shield against the crushing despair. Sleep. He *had* to sleep. His parents were away, touring the northern estates. Cassian Beaumont was too proud, too arrogant, to boast of such a sordid affair. It would be fine. It had to be fine. He forced his eyes shut, wishing for the darkness to consume him. Yet, curled within the suffocating warmth, the words churned in his mind, a venomous current. He wanted to scream them to the heavy, silent air, to the gods he barely acknowledged: *It was Cassian. Cassian beat me. He trampled me. The bastard. Cassian is deranged. Mad. He crushed me, my music, everything I am, right in front of Alaric Volkov. I’m an idiot. I let Alaric see me like that. And what if Mrs. Hemlock…* The frantic monologue abruptly halted. A fresh wave of self-loathing washed over him, a dark, churning tide. He *did* want to die. His first conscious act, after the tears had finally subsided beneath the blankets, had been to erase every communication Alaric Volkov had sent him. Not just delete, but scrub, obliterate. Then, a rush to the Conservatory’s remote server, accessing the external vision-plates of the Thorne estate’s gates. He meticulously purged the early morning recordings, eradicating any visual trace of Cassian’s and Alaric’s departure. That night, that ignominious truth, was a secret he could not bear for anyone to witness. --- Lysander remained closeted for three days. His bruised body, surprisingly, began its slow mending. Perhaps it was the practiced grace of a cellist, or his well-nourished frame, but the most egregious marks were confined to areas easily hidden by clothing: a network of purpling shadows across his ribs, a fading discoloration on his cheekbone that could almost pass for shadow play. For seventy-two hours, he wept, he slept fitfully, and he ignored the insistent chimes of his personal communication slate. He planned to remain in hiding until he was fully recovered, until the very memory of the incident had faded from his own mind. Fate, however, had other plans. Lord and Lady Thorne, whose usual peregrinations kept them away from the Eldoria estate for weeks, returned without warning. Lysander, descending the grand staircase for dinner, felt a spike of pure, unadulterated panic. “Lysander, my boy, what on earth happened to your face?” Lord Thorne’s voice, usually a low rumble, held a sharp edge of concern. Lysander’s heart pounded. “Father, I… I wasn’t feeling quite well, you see. A chill…” “A chill that manifests as contusions?” Lady Thorne’s gaze, cool and analytical, settled on him. “Mrs. Hemlock mentioned you were unwell. Did you fall?” He scrambled for an explanation, something plausible, something that wouldn't hint at the truth. “No, not precisely a fall. It was… a misunderstanding. A minor scuffle on the Conservatory grounds. I was… teasing a fellow student about a rather dramatic rejection he’d faced, regarding a certain young lady.” Lord Thorne raised a skeptical brow. “A scuffle? Over *that*? Lysander, you’re not a street urchin. What kind of melodrama are you involving yourself in?” “No, Father, truly. It was foolishness. We’ve already reconciled. It’s entirely resolved.” Lysander waved his hands dismissively, feigning nonchalance. The lie, pathetic as it was, seemed to work. Lord Thorne let out a dry, exasperated chuckle. “Such trivialities, Lysander. Don’t repeat it.” “Of course, Father.” The immediate crisis passed. His injuries, miraculously, were not so grotesque as to demand further inquiry. He was safe, for now. Later, during dinner, a chilling undercurrent disrupted the fragile calm. Lady Thorne, delicately cutting into a roasted pheasant, spoke casually. “By the by, dear, are you still quite close with Cassian Beaumont? He doesn’t seem to call upon you as he once did.” The name, like a shard of ice, pierced Lysander. His porcelain façade threatened to crack. “As always, Mother,” he replied, his voice brittle. The same, he thought, his stomach churning. *The same, my arse. Damn him. Damn him for everything.* The shame, fresh and raw, made him want to melt into the damask tablecloth. “Did not another young man visit, recently?” Lady Thorne continued, her gaze drifting towards the kitchen archway, where Mrs. Hemlock was quietly polishing a silver tray. “Mrs. Hemlock mentioned a visitor. Are you acquainted with him?” Lysander froze. His entire body went rigid. Slowly, his head turned towards the housekeeper, her back to them as she attended to her duties. *Did she hear?* A cold dread seeped into his bones. *Could she have heard anything that night? The shouts? The impact?* “Lysander? Are you quite well?” Lady Thorne’s voice snapped him back. “Yes! Yes, Mother. We are… acquainted.” He blurted it out, the lie feeling like ash in his mouth. He barely registered the rest of the conversation. The terror that gripped him wiped all other details from his memory. He only remembered the way Lady Thorne had looked at him when she mentioned Cassian, a fleeting, almost pitying glance, a look she reserved for ill tidings. *Why?* The question echoed in his mind, fueling a spiraling panic. His fingers grew numb. No, Mrs. Hemlock lived in her own annex, far from his chambers. Her hearing wasn’t keen. She couldn’t have heard. Yet, the unease persisted, a cold serpent coiling in his gut. He prayed, a desperate, silent plea to any forgotten god that might listen. --- Three more days crawled by. His parents, now fully returned, began to press for his return to the Conservatory. Lysander dreaded it. But continued absence would only provoke more questions, suggest a deeper malaise than a mere tiff. He forced a cheerful mien, reassuring them of his complete recovery. The days leading up to his return were consumed by a tormenting anxiety. What if he encountered Cassian? Or Alaric? Would Cassian unleash another brutal assault? Would he publicly humiliate Lysander, perhaps in the grand hall, before a crowd of students, before Alaric again? Would he continue to grind Lysander’s fragile dignity under his heel? The mere thought made him feel nauseous. Finally, the dreaded morning arrived. At Eldoria, Lysander hung his cello case by his desk in the practice room, tossing a sheaf of sheet music on top to create a small barrier. He sat, staring blankly at the polished wood, as the murmur of students grew louder in the hallway. As soon as he heard the tell-tale approach of footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep. Perhaps, if he remained still, his still-fading bruises would go unnoticed, at least for a while. He had, however, forgotten Quentin Marchand. Quentin, whose seat was directly behind his, possessed a keen, cynical intellect and an infuriating disregard for social niceties. A moment later, a cool hand slipped between Lysander’s shoulder and neck. Quentin’s fingers, surprisingly strong, tilted Lysander’s face upwards. Resistance was impossible. His battered visage was now exposed. Quentin’s eyes, usually veiled with boredom, sharpened. He examined Lysander’s cheek, his brow arching. “Well, Thorne. What in the name of the Ancestors happened to *your* delicate visage?” His tone was blunt, devoid of sympathy. “Nothing,” Lysander mumbled, pulling away. “Did you trip over a misplaced score again? Or perhaps a particularly aggressive cello bow?” Quentin’s lip curled slightly. “Something of the sort.” “Indeed.” Quentin clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive sound, before abruptly releasing Lysander’s face. Lysander nearly collided with his desk. He glared at Quentin, startled, but Quentin merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, lost in his own thoughts. Lysander had no way of knowing what observations Quentin had gleaned. Neither Cassian Beaumont nor Alaric Volkov attended the Conservatory that day. But during Lysander’s absence, a whisper had started to spread through the ancient halls. It coiled and slithered, amplified by the hushed echoes of stone and polished wood. “Did you hear about Cassian Beaumont? They say…” No one directly questioned Lysander about his injuries, but the quick, assessing glances, the sudden dips in conversation as he passed, confirmed it. The rumor was alive. It seemed, in a twisted sense, he was luckier than he’d thought. --- The whispers centered on Lysander and Cassian. Both had been absent, and Alaric Volkov had vanished shortly after, leaving a void for speculation to fill. Lysander’s bruised face, however subtle, served as irrefutable proof, and the rumors bloomed like dark, poisonous fungi. The story, whispered in hushed tones between practice rooms and lecture halls, was thus: Cassian Beaumont, heir to an influential line, harbored a scandalous, unspoken affection for Lysander Thorne. And the brutal altercation had been a violent rejection, a jilted suitor’s rage. “That Beaumont, I’m telling you, he’s always had an… *unnatural* predilection for the 'porcelain doll,'” one student muttered, barely concealing a snicker. “The Thorne boy? Really? I heard he was almost fragile enough to break,” another responded, a cruel amusement in their voice. “Like one of his own delicate cello strings, I suppose.” The Conservatory corridors buzzed with these cruel jests. Lysander's blood ran cold. The sheer audacity of the fabrication was staggering. Yet, a strange, dark relief unfurled within him. The truth, the truly devastating truth – that his fragile talent had been exposed as lacking, that he had been beaten not for affection, but for his perceived artistic inadequacy, his failure to meet the lofty standards of Eldoria – remained his private shame. This new narrative, humiliating as it was, deflected from the deeper, more profound fear: his utter mediocrity as a musician. He would rather be branded a reluctant object of illicit desire than a failed Maestro.

A Bruised Requiem