True affinity, I once believed, blossomed only between kindred spirits. That doctrine, whispered among the Ashwood Dominion's ancient houses, felt like the bedrock of all courtly happiness. Observe the pairings: similar lineage, an echo of arcane talents, fortunes balanced, countenances acceptably symmetrical. Like drew to like, an alchemical principle of stability. A clever child, I understood this was the only viable path, a well-trod road to the serene contentment all sought.
Then, in my eighteenth year, a singular, startling devotion took root. Perhaps it had been an insidious seed from our first encounter, blossoming now, unbidden. My mind, a fortress of rational thought and alchemical logic, dismissed it as a fleeting distraction, a mere adolescent fever. I pushed it down, deep into the recesses where unwelcome truths withered.
Yet, the feelings, a volatile brew within my chest, would not be contained. They coiled, tightening, until they pressed against my throat, threatening to choke off my very breath.
“A carriage to the Crimson Veil Enclave, and quickly.”
Morning light, pale and indifferent, painted the city's spires as they passed. A message, abrupt as a spilled vial, had shattered the fragile peace of my pre-dawn meditations.
Seconds stretched into minutes on the edge of my bed. I sat, hands pressed to my temples, a faint tremor running through my frame. A muttered curse escaped my lips, barely audible in the quiet of my chambers. No one stirred within the Thorne estate; the household staff slept in their distant wing. My absence would go unnoticed, a ghost gliding through ancestral halls. So, I rose.
Out beyond the estate's formidable gate, waiting for the hired carriage, my gaze fell upon a lacquered conveyance parked across the narrow lane. Its crest, a stylized raven with wings half-furled, belonged to the Valerius household. A new family, having moved in a year prior when the previous lords departed under a pall of scandal. I had never encountered them, not truly. The high walls and carefully cultivated seclusion of our district fostered such anonymity. That carriage, grand yet bearing a fresh scrape along its gilded door, seemed either carelessly abandoned or deliberately restrained. A strange kinship settled over me. It mirrored the conflicted quiet of my own being. I turned away, stepping into the waiting carriage.
Throughout the journey, my eyes fixed on the blurring landscape. My stomach churned, a familiar discomfort that had clung to me for the better part of a year. The scent of aged leather and dust in the carriage only intensified it. Closing my eyes, I leaned back, attempting to still the rising nausea.
---
A strange, persistent tightness lodged itself beneath my ribs. Digestion, lately, proved a challenge, as if my body rebelled against nourishment. I sighed, the sound thin and reedy. Unsettling emotions were a noxious vapor I meticulously ignored. Years of practice had honed this skill, forging a composure as flawless as polished obsidian. Just as now, stepping from the carriage, I moved with an almost ethereal grace into the grand foyer of the House of Whispers, a notoriously discreet inn within the Enclave.
Inside, my lip caught between my teeth. A fist clenched at my side, then slowly relaxed, each finger uncurling with agonizing slowness. In my palm, a small, heavily scented parchment lay, its ink a vibrant crimson. The number etched upon it, '314', burned into my vision. I approached the door, its dark wood imposing, silent.
My knuckles, pale and fragile, rapped three times. A polite summons, barely audible.
Only silence answered from within. An irritable tremor ran through me. I stared at the featureless expanse of wood, imagining the void beyond. My breath hitched. Another knock, this time sharper, more insistent.
“Cassian. You summoned me. Open this door.”
Still, nothing. A cold sweat prickled my skin. My carefully constructed façade threatened to crack. This situation – it was repulsive. The very air felt thick with stale indulgence, a cloying sweetness that made my stomach revolt. Imagining the vulgarity that might have transpired within these walls overnight made bile rise in my throat. Yet, I could not, would not, turn away. Cassian had demanded my presence, and I endured this affront only because he was the one who had introduced this first, unwelcome 'illness' into my meticulously ordered life.
“Why, in the name of all the arcane arts, do you call for me when you’re busy staining yourself with some meaningless pleasure, you dissolute wretch?”
By the Lord of Ashwood, this is truly unbearable.
The burdens of eighteen years felt a crushing weight.