A metallic taste coated Kaelen’s tongue as he awoke, the taste of rust and old blood. His vision swam, a murky pond where memories struggled to surface. He lay sprawled across his cot, the worn straw mattress offering little comfort against the ache in his bones. Even in his dazed state, he must have found the strength to seal the chamber door, the heavy oak now a silent guardian.
“Impressive, even half-dead.” The thought was a whisper of self-congratulation, immediately swallowed by a wave of nausea.
Kaelen blinked, urging his awareness back. His face throbbed, a dull, pervasive pulse. He lifted a hand, stiff as ancient timber, and a jolt of pain shot through his shoulder. Each joint felt like it harbored shards of ice. He let out a low, guttural sound.
His fingers, clumsy and slow, brushed against tender, swollen skin. There were hardened knots beneath the surface, alien growths on his own flesh. For a long moment, he simply lay there, suspended between agony and stupor. Then, with a desperate push against the cot, he hauled himself upright.
He sat on the edge, head bowed, staring at the scarred planks of the floor. The silence of his chamber pressed in, a suffocating weight. Suddenly, a sound tore from him, a whimpering gasp that escalated into ragged, choked sobs. His voice felt raw, scraped, as if he’d swallowed gravel.
Fury, cold and bitter, surged through his veins. He lunged to his feet, sweeping an arm across his small writing desk. Runes-scribed parchments, a half-finished enchantment orb, and his obsidian-tipped quill scattered across the floor with a clatter. He screamed, a sound that ripped through his throat, and threw a heavy tome of ancient Eldorian lore against the wall. The impact echoed, a dull thud against the heavy stones.
He raged, a maelstrom of despair and humiliation. It felt like an eternity before his strength gave out. Kaelen sank to the floor, panting, clutching his trembling hands to his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut, but hot tears still broke free, tracing saline paths down his bruised cheeks. His sobs hitched, wracking his lean frame.
“Damn it!” The word was a broken vow.
He truly wished to cease existing. What he truly wished to erase was the memory of last night. The image of Lysander’s contempt, Valerius’s silent horror, and Kaelen’s own pathetic, desperate struggle burned in his mind.
The window had been shut, a thick pane of enchanted crystal. But had anyone heard? Could the sounds of his humiliation have pierced the warding? The thought curdled his stomach. Lysander, that arrogant, cruel heir. Valerius, who merely stood by, watching Kaelen be reduced to nothing. Why did they have to come to his chambers? Why did they have to shatter him like this?
“...Damn it.” Lysander had trampled more than Kaelen’s body. He’d crushed Kaelen’s pride, his carefully constructed composure. That public degradation, witnessed by Valerius, was a deeper wound than any of Lysander’s previous slights. It was a wound that clawed at him, demanding an outlet.
Even amidst this raw, unraveling grief, a cold, calculating part of Kaelen’s mind began to stir. He still worried about appearances. This was one of those moments.
The sudden stillness of his chambers registered. He glanced at the time-keeping crystal above his door. Just before the eighth bell chime. A sharp, terrifying thought pierced the haze of his agony: if he encountered the estate retainer in this state, it would be disastrous. A cold dread enveloped him, clearing his mind with brutal efficiency.
No one could see him like this. Not his parents, not his peers, certainly not the watchful eyes of the retainer. He scrambled to his feet. The scattered parchments, the broken quill, the dented tome — he swept them all under his cot. He righted his small table, smoothed the rumpled blanket. Then he sat, feigning a composure he did not possess, and waited.
A few moments later, a soft knock resonated through the oak. Right on cue. Kaelen forced his voice steady, a practiced indifference he barely managed.
“Do not enter. I believe I’ve caught a chill. My head aches. I will not attend the academy today.”
A rustle from the other side. “Oh, truly, Master Kaelen? Should you not see a healing adept?”
Kaelen swallowed a bitter tang in his throat. “I shall if the malaise persists.”
“Very well. Would you like some restorative broth?”
“Please leave it outside the door, good Elara. My thanks.”
“At once, Master Kaelen. Do try to rest.”
He had to skip the academy. He was in no fit state. The very thought of facing the scrutinizing gazes of Eldoria’s elite, of enduring the whispers, twisted his stomach.
Fortunately, a small pot of soothing balm, enchanted with minor healing runes, sat on his bedside table. He picked it up, the ceramic cool against his hot skin. With trembling fingers, he slathered the thick, mint-scented paste over his aching flesh, pressing it into the bruised areas, willing the pain to recede.
Balm tube slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. His entire body shivered, a tremor deep within his bones. Yet, the physical pain was a dull ache compared to the scorching humiliation. It felt as if tiny, venomous barbs were piercing his very spirit. He covered his face, blocking out the meager morning light filtering through the enchanted window. He burrowed deep under the furs of his cot, seeking refuge. The heavy pelts felt like the only thing capable of shielding him from the crushing despair.
He needed to sleep. He had to escape. Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated a silent mantra: It will be fine. His parents were away. Lysander would not speak of it. It would be fine.
With that desperate thought, Kaelen buried himself deeper beneath the covers.
—
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the animal furs, Kaelen muttered, the words like poison on his tongue. He wanted to scream them to the heavens, to the ancient deities of Eldoria, to anyone who would listen. Lysander. It was Lysander. He struck me. He defiled me. That bastard. Lysander is mad. He’s unhinged. Possessed. Because of Valerius, he… Everything from the past seasons, everything Kaelen had felt for him… Lysander crushed it. Crushed it, right before Valerius. Kaelen was an idiot. He’d shown that pathetic, desperate side of himself to Valerius, too. And the insidious thought that someone, anyone, might have seen it…
He choked off the frantic stream of thought. A wave of profound self-loathing washed over him. He wanted to die.
The saddest truth was what he did after hours of weeping under the furs. His first conscious act was to feverishly erase every message, every missed call from Valerius from his crystalline scrying-mirror. Then, in a frantic rush, he scoured the arcane wards at his chamber door, clearing all temporal recordings from the early morning. That night had become a shameful secret, one he could not bear for anyone to glimpse.
—
Kaelen feigned illness for three days, refusing to leave his chambers. Despite his hideous appearance, his physical body began a steady, if slow, mending. Perhaps he’d instinctively shielded the more visible areas during the beating, or perhaps the subtle resilience of his magical heritage provided an unexpected fortitude. The visible injuries were minimal—a few dark bruises, easily concealed beneath the high collars of his academy robes, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he remained entombed beneath the furs, weeping until his eyes burned, ignoring every scrying-mirror message and arcane summons.
He believed he could hold out until his recovery was complete. Fortune, however, was not on his side. His parents, long absent on an expedition to the Dragon’s Teeth mountains, unexpectedly returned. Kaelen’s meticulously constructed sanctuary crumbled into panic.
“...Son, what happened to your visage?” His father’s deep voice held a dangerous edge, amplified by the sudden chill of the grand foyer.
“Oh, well…” Kaelen stammered, his mind racing.
“You said you were suffering from a chill. A minor affliction. Yet you bear the marks of a skirmish.” His mother’s gaze, usually so soft, was sharp, analytical.
Kaelen’s thoughts tangled. “I… was not well, so a peer retrieved my lesson scrolls from the academy…”
“And?” His father’s voice tightened, a warning.
“And I… fell into a scuffle on my return.”
“What?”
“It was nothing serious. Truly. I merely… tripped and struck my face upon the cobbled path.” He forced a convincing wince, rubbing his cheek.
“What manner of ‘trip’ leaves a young master’s face looking thus? Who was it?” His father’s tone rose, echoing through the high-ceilinged hall. Kaelen frantically waved his hands, desperate to de-escalate.
“No, father, truly, I wish no trouble. It was a minor quarrel. We have already reconciled.”
“Explain yourself, Kaelen. Why did you fight?”
“...Well…” After a strained moment of frantic invention, Kaelen offered an entirely pathetic excuse, one designed to appear both trivial and slightly embarrassing.
“I… teased him about being spurned by his betrothed.”
“What?” Surprisingly, his ridiculous answer seemed to diffuse the tension. His father let out a sigh of disbelief, then a sudden, low chuckle.
“Are you young masters enacting some theatrical melodrama?”
“No…”
“Do not engage in such folly again.”
“...Understood.” It helped that his injuries, though painful, were not as disfiguring as they felt to him. Thankfully, the incident seemed to blow over.
Then, something unnerving transpired. During the evening meal, gathered in the main hall, his mother abruptly brought up Lysander.
“By the way, are you still in close acquaintance with Lysander these days?”
“What?” Kaelen’s hand froze midway to his mouth, a morsel of roasted quail suspended.
“He simply doesn’t seem to frequent the estate as he once did.” For someone who spent so little time at home, her observation felt impossibly keen. The mere mention of Lysander’s name conjured his sneering image, instantly souring Kaelen’s mood. He snapped back, an irritable edge to his voice.
“It remains as it ever was.” The same, his ass. Damn him. Damn him. Kaelen felt a scorching wave of shame and humiliation. He wanted to vanish.
“Did not another peer visit recently? Elara mentioned it. Are you close with this friend?”
Kaelen’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head toward the entrance to the scullery, where Elara, the estate retainer, was busily wiping down the polished dining table. A cold dread snaked down his spine. Had she heard? Could she have overheard anything that night? Was it possible she was the one who caught the faint sounds of his breakdown?
“Kaelen? Is something amiss?” His mother’s voice jolted him. He blurted out a response without thinking.
“Yes. We are close.”
What his mother said next, Kaelen couldn’t recall. The sheer terror of being discovered rooted him to the spot, wiping all other sensations from his mind. He remembered only the strange, knowing look his mother gave him when she mentioned Lysander. It was the sort of look she reserved for conveying unfortunate news. Why? That single question plunged him deeper into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold, trembling beneath the table.
No. Elara couldn’t have heard. The estate retainer was known for her diminished hearing and resided in a separate wing, far from his chambers. She couldn’t have heard a thing. But why? Why did it feel so wrong? All Kaelen could do was pray to the indifferent cosmic currents of Eldoria.
Three more days elapsed, his parents urging his return to the academy. Kaelen vehemently resisted. But continued absence would only raise further suspicion, suggesting a problem far greater than a minor scuffle. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced a cheerful façade. Nothing was amiss. Everything was fine.
The days leading up to his return were consumed by endless worry. What if he encountered Lysander? Or Valerius? Would Lysander resume his torment? Would he humiliate Kaelen before his peers, before Valerius again? Would he continue to trample Kaelen’s spirit as if it were dust? The thought alone made him nauseous.
Upon his return to the academy, Kaelen hung his satchel on the side of his runic desk. He scattered some spare parchments over it, obscuring it from view. Then he sank onto the bench, staring blankly at the desk’s enchanted surface as the hallway clamor grew louder. As soon as he heard footsteps approaching his quadrant, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to slumber, no one would notice his bruised face. Not immediately, at least. But he hadn’t accounted for one factor: the bench behind him belonged to Theron. Theron was the sort of student who possessed a keen awareness of social dynamics but chose to disregard them entirely.
Theron arrived, paused by Kaelen’s desk, and, without a word, slipped a hand between Kaelen’s shoulder and neck. He tilted Kaelen’s face upward with a single, firm finger. Kaelen had no time to resist. His battered visage was exposed. Theron’s eyebrow arched as he examined Kaelen, his voice blunt and devoid of malice.
“What in the Outer Blight happened to your face?”
“...Nothing.”
“Did you fall again?”
“Aye. Something like that.”
“Truly?” Theron clicked his tongue, shaking his head. He abruptly let go of Kaelen’s face, causing Kaelen’s head to nearly strike the desk.
“Damn you!” Kaelen glared at him, startled, but Theron merely offered a crooked grin, lost in some private musing. Whatever he was thinking, Kaelen had no way of knowing.
Neither Lysander nor Valerius attended the academy that day.
But during Kaelen’s absence, a whisper had started to spread through the academy halls.
“Have you heard? Lysander… that bastard actually…”
No one directly questioned Kaelen about his injuries, but the curious, sidelong glances he received left no doubt: the rumor had already permeated the arcane wards of the academy. It seemed Kaelen was luckier than he’d thought.
—
The rumors centered around Kaelen and Lysander. Neither had attended the academy since the whispers began, and even Valerius disappeared shortly after, leaving a void for speculation to fill. With Kaelen’s bruised face serving as visible, albeit unspoken, proof, the rumors spread like wildfire.
The story coalesced into this: Lysander, driven by an unstable, obsessive fascination with Valerius, had violently lashed out at Kaelen, believing Kaelen to be an obstacle, a rival for Valerius’s attention. Lysander’s much-whispered “fractured mana” was cited as proof of his growing derangement, his unpredictable magical outbursts a danger to all.
“That bastard, I swear, he was utterly fixated on Valerius.”
“What was Kaelen? Just a moth drawn to their flame? Gods, I can’t stop laughing.”
“He truly does resemble a fragile moth, fluttering aimlessly, doesn’t he?”
The refectory, the courtyards, the study halls—all buzzed with such conversations.
“All those who were close to Lysander are now wary. He’s unstable, they say, his magic frayed.” Lysander, the heir of House Seraphina, was now painted as a dangerous, volatile youth. Kaelen, the quiet, underestimated rune-weaver, was recast as a victim of another’s chaotic power. The narrative had shifted, a bizarre, dark solace in Kaelen’s ruined world.