Congruence, I had long mused, was the bedrock of true felicity. A delicate balance, achieved between spirits of similar ilk. Values aligned, lineage mirrored, scholarly pursuits matched, coffers equally deep, and even the curve of a jaw or the grace of a hand in perfect accord. Like called to like, a universal truth. I, a child of keen intellect, grasped this profound principle as the expressway to that elusive happiness everyone coveted. Then, in the year I marked my seventeenth spring, a realization, stark as the winter sky, settled upon me. I found myself ensnared in an affection utterly extraordinary. Perhaps it had been an immediate, piercing recognition, and only now did its tendrils truly tighten around my heart. Priding myself on rational thought, on unwavering logic, I dismissed it. A fleeting fascination, a youthful folly. Nothing more. Still, the burgeoning feelings, coiled ever so tightly within my chest, climbed higher. They constricted my throat, a phantom noose, and ultimately, threatened to choke the very breath from me. “To The Black Moth Inn, if you please.” Now, the city’s pre-dawn panorama unspooled beyond the carriage window. Vesper, a sleeping beast of shadowed spires and cobbled lanes, stirred slowly. A missive, terse and unwelcome as a sudden fever, had stolen my fleeting morning quiet. Receiving it, I had paused on the edge of my cot, the chill of the stone floor seeping through my thin nightshirt. A muttered curse escaped my lips before I rose. Within our modest, yet sturdy, townhouse, only the housekeeper slumbered, deep in the servants’ quarters below. No one would mark my absence. I decided I must go. Waiting by the gate for the hired conveyance, my gaze drifted across the narrow lane. Against the high wall of the neighboring manor, a dark-coated courser stood tethered. Its flanks, sleek and muscled, twitched with a nervous energy, its head held high despite its confinement. A year past, the previous family had vanished overnight, their dwelling quickly re-occupied. I had never encountered the new occupants. Considering Vesper’s high walls and cloistered estates, such anonymity was hardly surprising. Judging by the magnificent beast, obviously of noble breeding yet left unattended, a family of some means and perhaps less conventional habits now resided there. An older child, I mused, someone beyond my tender years, might claim such a spirited mount. That courser, splendid and restless, either carelessly left out front or hastily secured in the alley’s corner, struck a chord within me. Its constrained power, its untamed spirit, mirrored something I struggled to contain. I held its image for a brief moment, then looked away, stepping into the carriage. Throughout the jerky ride, my eyes fixed on the blurring cityscape. Vesper’s ancient buildings, their silhouettes ragged against the bruised horizon, offered no solace. Yet, a peculiar susceptibility to travel sickness always plagued me. Eventually, with a faint sigh, I conceded defeat, closing my eyes. --- A persistent tightness, lodged deep within my chest, had plagued me for near a year. A strange inability to properly digest meals often accompanied it. With another quiet exhalation, I sought to ease the cloying discomfort. Ignoring emotions that unsettled me had become second nature. With prodigious effort, I had maintained a perfectly composed façade through countless veiled exchanges and tense scholastic debates. Just as I did now, stepping from the carriage’s dim interior and into the chill morning air before The Black Moth Inn. Inside, the Inn’s stale air, heavy with the ghosts of forgotten revelries and the scent of cheap lamp oil, pressed in. I bit down hard on my lower lip, a sharp pain grounding me, then clenched my fist until my nails bit into my palm. A deep breath, and I released the tension, one slow finger at a time. My eyes traced the hastily scrawled number on the small, folded piece of vellum held captive in my hand. With a grim set to my jaw, I approached the corresponding door, its dark wood scarred and heavy. My knuckles, pale against the grain, rapped a precise three times. “Kaelen. Open the door already.” My voice, though low, held an edge of strained patience. Silence answered me from the other side, thick and infuriating. A void. Irritation flared, a sudden heat behind my eyes. I stared at the impassive wood for a long moment before exhaling sharply, a hiss of frustrated air. My fist connected with the door again, this time with a far less controlled impact. “I said, open the damn door!” This entire situation—it was a vile taste in my mouth. A bitter bile. Imagining what might have transpired within that room’s confines throughout the long night made my skin crawl, a reptilian shiver. Yet, I could not stop myself from pounding. Lord Kaelen, heir to House Vesper itself, had summoned me. I endured this repulsive scene, bore this crushing indignity, because *he* was the one who had infected me. He had sown the seeds of this first, profound 'illness' within my carefully constructed world. “Why, in the name of all the Ancestors, would you summon me when you’re indulging in some worthless dalliance? You spineless cur!” Gods, this was unbearable. Such was the torment of these tender, burgeoning years.

A Raven's Call at Dawn