A leaden weight pressed Elian into his silken mattress. Awareness returned in fragments, each piece a shard of discomfort. His face throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that permeated bone and nerve. He must have somehow locked the chamber door before his collapse. An impressive feat, perhaps, even in his dazed state.
He lay still, eyes closed, tracing the labyrinthine patterns of pain. His shoulder felt as if ancient moss had grown into its joints, resisting movement. A sharp, stinging thrum pulsed beneath his skin, radiating from a network of tender points that had hardened unnaturally. Each breath was a shallow prayer against deeper agony.
"Gods above…" A whispered complaint, dry as parchment.
He pushed against the bed, breath catching. His muscles protested, taut and unforgiving. He forced himself upright, a slow, agonizing ascent from the depths of his humiliation. Perched on the edge of the bed, he stared blankly at the ornate, gilded wall.
Then, a tremor. It began in his chest, a shuddering release. A raw, choked sound clawed its way from his throat, emerging as a rasping sob. His voice, usually so precise, felt torn, scraped raw like a failed alchemical filter. Tears welled, hot and stinging, blurring the gilded patterns into a shimmering, accusing blur.
An incandescent fury flared within him, stark and uncharacteristic. He surged to his feet, a wild, desperate energy coursing through his battered frame. A delicate porcelain incense burner, usually kept meticulously polished, flew across the room, shattering against the hearth. Vials of tinctures, awaiting their final distillation, tumbled from his desk, their contents staining the polished ashwood floor in vibrant, viscous patterns—a chaotic bloom of greens and purples, mirroring the disarray in his soul.
He cried. He raged. He tore at the carefully arranged hangings, pulling them from their hooks in a silent scream. An eternity passed in this destructive dance before the energy drained, leaving him hollow. He sank to the floor amidst the ruin, breath hitched. He clamped his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes tight, but the tears defied his will, tracing hot paths down his cheeks, a relentless flow.
"Damn it all!"
To die. He truly wanted it. Not merely to cease, but to erase the excruciating memory of last night. The chamber windows, he remembered, had been tightly sealed. But had any sound escaped? Could anyone have heard? Rhys Marrow, standing there, witness to his utter degradation.
Damn Lysander Vane. Damn his cruel amusement, his casual brutality. He hadn't just bruised Elian's flesh; he had trampled his spirit, crushed it beneath a boot heel in front of Rhys Marrow. That humiliation, sharp and bitter, eclipsed every slight, every icy glance Lysander had ever thrown his way.
Even in this storm of self-loathing, a tiny, insidious thought surfaced: *How do I appear now? What if someone sees this?*
The sudden silence was a cold shock. The scattered light from the high window, though veiled, pierced the gloom. He glanced at the delicate horologium on his mantel. Just before the eighth bell of the morning. A chilling thought solidified his panic: if Elder Lyra, the old retainer, found him like this, it would be a disaster. A cold, dread clarity washed over him.
No. He could not, *would not*, be seen in this pathetic, disgraced state. Scrambling to his feet, wincing with every movement, he righted the upturned chair. He swept the scattered tinctures, the broken porcelain, the fallen hangings, hiding them beneath his grand bed, pushing them into the shadowed corners of the room. The evidence of his breakdown vanished beneath a cloak of frantic effort.
He settled on his bed, feigning an air of languor. Minutes later, a soft, tentative knock sounded at the door, right on cue. He swallowed a bitter taste that rose in his throat. His voice, when it came, was surprisingly steady, if a touch hoarse.
"Elder Lyra, do not enter. I believe I've caught a chill. My head aches. I shall be indisposed from my morning studies today."
"Oh, my young lord, truly? Should I summon the House physician?"
"No need. I shall… rest. If I feel no improvement later, I will send word."
"As you wish. Shall I bring a restorative broth? Perhaps some ginger tea?"
"Just leave it outside the door, please. Thank you for your consideration."
"Of course, Young Lord. Rest well."
He would skip his lessons. He was in no condition to face the world, nor did he possess the desire. An herbal balm, one of his own lesser creations for simple aches, lay on his bedside table. He retrieved it, uncorking the dark phial. Its cool, viscous contents soothed his throbbing temples, the sharp scent of menthol and camphor a small mercy. He applied it liberally to his bruised jaw, his aching shoulder, the tender spots beneath his sleeves, willing the pain to recede.
His body shivered, an uncontrollable tremor that had nothing to do with the chill. The humiliation, far more potent than any physical ache, pinched at his stomach with tiny, cruel fingers. He corked the balm, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. To escape his tear-streaked face, to block out the intrusive light, he burrowed deep under the silken covers, the heavy fabric a desperate shield against the crushing despair.
*Sleep. I must sleep.* He forced his eyes shut, a mantra repeating in his mind. *It will be fine. Mother and Father know nothing. Lysander is not the type to boast of such… conquests. It will be fine.*
He buried himself deeper, the words a thin comfort against a terrifying certainty.
---
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the covers, he muttered words that clung to the tip of his tongue like a venomous residue. To any god, to his parents, to the silent, watching portraits on the walls, he wanted to scream: *It was Lysander. Lysander struck me. He defiled me. That brute. Lysander is mad. Unhinged. He has lost his senses. After all these years, after the unspoken… he crushed it. He crushed it before Rhys Marrow.*
*I am an idiot.* He had shown that pathetic, broken self to Rhys. And the insidious thought that someone might have heard, might have *seen*… He clamped down on the frantic train of thought. A wave of self-loathing, cold and suffocating, surged through him. He wanted to die.
The saddest truth was what he did after the first storm of tears. His first conscious act, once the initial panic subsided, was to meticulously, desperately, destroy every scrap of communication from Rhys Marrow. He imagined arcane methods of scrubbing away any residual magical trace, any lingering whisper that might tie Rhys to that night. He focused his will, a nascent alchemical compulsion, on erasing the very memory of Rhys's summons, of the *cause* of the night's disaster.
That night had become a shame, a secret he couldn't bear to let anyone glimpse. A stain on his meticulously crafted veneer.
---
He retreated from courtly life for three days. Despite his hideous appearance, his body, nourished by generations of arcane vitality, healed steadily. Perhaps it was his innate talent for warding, a subconscious shielding during the assault, or merely the resilience of his bloodline. The visible injuries were minimal—a few dark bruises beneath his fine robes, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself beneath his covers, a bruised bloom wilting in darkness. He ignored every summons, every gentle inquiry from Elder Lyra.
He thought he could hold out longer, until the last trace of the physical ordeal faded. But fate, as always, was unkind. His parents, Lord and Lady Thorne, returned unexpectedly from their extended sojourn to the capital. He had no choice but to panic.
"…Elian, son, what has happened to your face?"
His father’s voice, sharp with concern, cut through the fabricated calm. Elian’s hand flew to his jaw, a reflexive gesture.
"Oh, well…"
"Were you brawling? You sent word you had caught a chill."
Lord Thorne’s gaze was piercing. Elian scrambled for a plausible explanation. "Oh, um, I wasn't feeling well, so a… an acquaintance offered to fetch some rare herbs for me from the market…"
"And?"
"And I… I stumbled on my way to retrieve them. Tripped, you see. Hit my face on the paving stones outside the north gate."
"Tripped? What kind of stumble leaves a young lord's face looking thus? Who was this 'acquaintance'?"
Lord Thorne’s voice rose, a dangerous edge creeping in. Elian frantically waved his hands, a performance of desperate innocence. "No, truly, Father, I wouldn't wish to cause any trouble. It was a mere accident. A momentary lapse of grace."
"Come, tell me—what truly happened?"
"…Well…"
After a moment of theatrical thought, Elian offered a truly pathetic, utterly unbelievable excuse. "I… I confessed to him that I had accidentally spoiled his favorite alchemical draught. He was… quite put out."
"What?"
Surprisingly, his ridiculous tale seemed to diffuse the tension. Lord Thorne let out a disbelieving sigh before a sudden, low chuckle escaped him. "Alchemy squabbles, now? Is this what the heirs of the Ashwood Dominion have come to? Melodrama over reagents?"
"No, Father, it wasn't…"
"Don't make such a spectacle again, Elian. Maintain your composure. Your house demands it."
"…Yes, Father."
The minor nature of his visible injuries also helped. The incident, to his relief, blew over. Almost.
Something strange did happen. While they were taking their evening meal in the family solarium, his mother, Lady Thorne, suddenly brought up Lysander Vane.
"By the by, Elian, are you still keeping close company with Lysander these days?"
"What?"
"He doesn't seem to have called at the estate much lately. Not like he used to."
For someone who spent half the year away in the capital, her curiosity felt unnatural. The mere mention of Lysander Vane forced his image into Elian's mind, curdling his composure instantly. He snapped back, an irritable edge in his voice.
"Our… acquaintance remains unchanged."
*Unchanged, my ass.* Damn him. Damn him for existing. He felt so ashamed, so utterly humiliated, he wanted to vanish, to dissolve into dust. Lady Thorne's gaze, however, shifted to the elderly retainer, Elder Lyra, who was silently clearing the dessert plates.
"Didn't another young lord call upon Elian recently? Elder Lyra mentioned it. Someone… rather fervent in his address, I recall her saying. Are you close with this new acquaintance, dear?"
Elian's body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head toward the kitchen archway, where Elder Lyra continued her quiet work. A cold chill ran through him, colder than any winter wind. *Did she hear it? Could she have heard anything that night? Was it possible she was the one who'd heard the sounds of…* his breakdown?
"Elian? What is wrong? You look as though you've seen a specter."
Startled by his mother’s question, Elian blurted out a response without thinking. "Yes, Mother. We are… indeed close."
What Lady Thorne said after that, Elian could not recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped everything else from his mind. What he *did* remember was the strange, assessing look his mother gave him when she mentioned Lysander Vane. It was the same look she reserved for news of a failing crop or a minor breach of etiquette. A look of veiled concern.
Why? That single question pushed him further into a spiraling abyss of fear. His fingers grew cold, icy to the touch. No. She couldn't have heard. Elder Lyra had poor hearing and resided in a separate wing of the servants' quarters, far from his private chambers. She couldn't have heard anything. But why? Why did it feel so terribly wrong? All he could do was pray to the indifferent gods of the Ashwood Dominion.
---
Three more days passed. His parents began to urge his return to courtly duties and arcane studies. He absolutely did not want to. But if he continued to absent himself, his mother would surely suspect a deeper problem than a mere stumble or a childish spat. That was the last thing he wanted. So, he forced himself to adopt a cheerful, if subdued, countenance. There was nothing amiss.
The days leading up to his return were filled with endless dread. What if he ran into Lysander Vane or Rhys Marrow? Would Lysander resume his torment? Would he humiliate Elian again, perhaps before the other students in the alchemical lecture halls—or worse, in front of Rhys Marrow again? Would he continue to trample Elian as if he were nothing more than dust?
The mere thought made his stomach clench, a knot of nausea twisting within him.
When he finally arrived at the great hall, he hung his satchel on the side of his designated bench, carefully arranging a stack of ancient texts atop it. Then he sat, staring blankly at the polished stone, while the murmur of arriving students gradually grew louder. As soon as he heard familiar footsteps approaching, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be asleep, no one would immediately notice the subtle disfigurement of his face. At least, not for a while. But he hadn't accounted for one crucial detail: the bench directly behind his belonged to Cassian Blackwood. Cassian was the kind of noble who possessed a keen awareness of social nuances but chose, with deliberate insolence, to ignore them.
As soon as Cassian arrived, he paused by Elian's bench. A gloved hand slipped between Elian's shoulder and neck, then a finger, surprisingly strong, tilted Elian’s chin upwards. Elian didn't even have time to resist. He had no choice but to let Cassian examine his face. Cassian's eyebrow arched, a sardonic curve, as he studied the faint bruising.
"Well, Thorne. It appears you've had a particularly spirited encounter with a mortar and pestle. Or perhaps a very aggressive bloom?"
"…It's nothing, Blackwood."
"Did you 'trip' again?"
"Something of the sort."
"Truly?"
Cassian clicked his tongue, a sound of mild disdain, and shook his head before abruptly letting go of Elian's face. Elian nearly slammed his head back onto the cold stone.
"Damn it, Cassian!"
Elian glared, startled by the sudden release, but Cassian merely offered a crooked grin, his eyes distant, as if lost in some cynical calculation. Whatever thoughts churned behind that detached gaze, Elian had no way of knowing.
Neither Lysander Vane nor Rhys Marrow attended the day's lectures or courtly gatherings.
But during his absence, a rumor had begun to spread through the Ashwood halls.
"Heard the whispers? Lysander Vane… that arrogant brute…"
No one directly questioned Elian about his injuries, but the quick, curious glances, the hushed conversations that ceased abruptly when he passed, confirmed it. The rumor had already made its circuit.
It seemed he was luckier than he'd thought.
---
The rumors centered around Elian and Lysander Vane. Neither had attended the communal gatherings since the day the whispers began. Rhys Marrow, too, had been conspicuously absent shortly after, leaving no one to contradict the burgeoning tales. With Elian's subtly bruised face as visible, if understated, proof, the rumors spread like wildfire through the court.
The story went thus: Elian Thorne and Lysander Vane had a bitter falling out. And, more damningly, Lysander Vane harbored an… *unnatural attachment* to Elian.
"That brute, I tell you, he had a fascination with that fragile flower, Thorne."
"A fragile flower? Ha! More like a wilting vine, easily trampled. Gods, I can't stop laughing."
"He truly looks like a fragile phial, doesn't he? So easily shattered."
Such conversations filled the common rooms, laced with feigned sympathy and thinly veiled malice.
"All those who were close to Lysander Vane… they were merely instruments to get to Thorne, weren't they?"
Elian, overhearing fragments, felt a strange, cold relief bloom within him. The humiliation remained, a persistent ache, but the narrative had shifted. It was Lysander, not he, who was now being subtly, irrevocably, tainted.