A dull throb pulsed behind Lysander’s eyes. He surfaced slowly from a heavy, dreamless slumber, his awareness seeping back like ink spreading through parchment. Even in his dazed state, a primal instinct had guided his hand. The heavy oak door to his spartan chamber in the Scholars’ Quarter stood barred from within.
“Remarkable, even in such a condition,” he muttered, the words raspy against his parched throat.
He lay perfectly still, blinking against the dim light filtering through the grime-streaked window. Every muscle in his face ached with a numb, bruised intensity. A hand, stiff and clumsy, rose to meet his cheek. His shoulder protested with a grating stiffness, a sharp agony blossoming between his bones.
“Ah…” The sound was a weak gasp.
His fingers brushed over tender spots, knotting beneath the skin, a testament to the night’s indignities. After a protracted moment, he pressed a trembling palm against the coarse wool of his bed, pushing himself upright with a groan that tore through him.
Seated on the edge of the bed, Lysander stared at the cracked plaster wall, his gaze vacant. The composure he so carefully cultivated shattered. A raw, choked sob clawed its way up from his chest, erupting from his lips in guttural, ragged cries. His voice felt scraped raw, as though his vocal cords had been rasped with rough-spun twine.
Fury, cold and absolute, seized him. He sprang up, scattering the few meager scrolls and quills from his small writing desk. A thick tome on ancient Vespertine law sailed across the room, striking the wall with a dull thud. He wept and raged, a tempest contained within the four walls of his room, until his legs buckled, and he collapsed back onto the dusty flagstones. Clamping his jaw shut, he squeezed his eyes, but tears still stubbornly welled, tracing hot paths down his cheeks as his sobs hitched, uncontrollable.
“Damn it all!”
He truly wished to cease existing. To simply fade into the forgotten lore he so passionately studied.
What truly made him yearn for oblivion was the searing memory of the previous night. The window, he recalled, had been firmly latched. Had anyone heard? Could the guards patrolling the Scholars’ Quarter have caught a whisper? The thought alone was a fresh spike of humiliation. Damned Arch-Duke Cassian. Damned Elara Vance. Why did they have to do this? Why did they have to ruin his carefully constructed life?
“…Damn it.”
What Cassian had trampled underfoot, aided by Elara, was not just Lysander. It was his pride, his hard-won scholarly identity. That public humiliation was far worse than any dismissive glance or cold word. It was a wound so devastating it drove him to this raw, animalistic anguish.
Yet, even amidst this wretched state, reduced to tearful despair, Lysander found himself worrying about how he appeared. His core insecurity, his fear of being seen as the low-born wretch he once was, clung to him like a second skin.
The sudden silence in the room registered. He stopped crying, his breath catching. His gaze flickered to the small hourglass, its sand almost spent. It was nearing dawn. A sharp thought pierced his muddled brain: if the chambermaid, Griselda, found him like this, it would be a disaster. A cold dread spread through him, instantly clearing his mind.
No one, absolutely no one, could see him in this pathetic, disgraced condition. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the overturned stool and hastily shoved the scattered scrolls and the heavy tome under his narrow cot. Then, he sat, stiff and tense, awaiting the inevitable tap on the door. It came minutes later, right on cue.
“Scholar Thorne? Are you stirring?” Griselda’s voice, though muffled, carried a knowing undertone.
Lysander cleared his throat, forcing a semblance of normalcy. “Do not enter, Griselda. I believe I have caught a chill. My head aches dreadfully. I shall be absent from the Archives today.”
“Oh, dear. A chill, you say? Perhaps the chirurgeon should be summoned?” Her tone held a hint of suspicion.
Lysander swallowed the bitter taste that rose in his throat. “I shall send for him later, if my condition worsens.”
“Very well. Might I bring you some broth? The kitchen has prepared a fine pheasant stock.”
“Simply leave it outside the door, if you please. My gratitude.”
“As you wish, Scholar. Rest well.”
Lysander decided he would skip his duties. He was in no fit state to face the hushed corridors of the Grand Archives, let alone the piercing gazes of his peers or the veiled amusement of the court. His parchment-thin façade would crumble under such scrutiny.
Thankfully, a small pot of healing salve, meant for minor cuts from quill pens, lay neglected on his shelf. He picked it up, its cool balm a welcome sensation against his aching skin, wishing desperately for the physical pain to diminish. Then he crawled back into bed, pulling the rough blankets high.
The small earthenware pot slipped from his numb fingers, clattering onto the floor. His entire body shivered uncontrollably, but the true agony was not the physical bruising. It was the humiliation, a constant, sharp pinch in his gut, like cruel, unseen fingers twisting. It was absurd. To hide his tear-streaked face, he blocked out the meager light from the window, burrowing deep beneath the blankets. The only thing that offered any semblance of shield from the crushing despair was the coarse fabric pressed against his skin.
*Sleep. I must sleep.* Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated the mantra. *It will be fine. Master Arion does not know the full extent. Arch-Duke Cassian would not brag of such a display. It will be fine.*
Thinking this, he buried himself deeper under the covers, clutching at the futile hope.
---
It was not fine at all.
Hidden beneath the oppressive wool, Lysander muttered words that clung bitterly to his tongue. To anyone—the Gods, his former patrons, anyone—he wanted to scream it aloud, like a waterfall crashing over a precipice.
*Please. It was Cassian. Arch-Duke Cassian. He trampled me. That arrogant, cruel bastard. He is insane. He’s out of his mind. All because of Elara Vance, he… After everything I gave, every moment of my mind, every shred of my loyalty… he crushed it. He crushed it right in front of the court. I am an idiot. I showed that pathetic side of myself to Kael, too. And the thought that someone might have witnessed it all…*
He abruptly halted his frantic train of thought. A wave of self-loathing, black and icy, surged within him. He wanted to die, to dissolve into nothingness, to escape the memory of his own weakness.
The most wretched part was what he did after crying himself hoarse under the blankets. The first thing he did was retrieve his private journal, filled with careful observations and scholarly notes, and painstakingly excise the pages detailing his personal interactions with Cassian, the hopes he had harbored for a place at the prince’s side. Then, in a desperate rush, he searched his room for any discarded drafts of correspondence to the prince, any evidence of his zealous ambition. That night had become an unspeakable shame, a secret he couldn’t bear for anyone to uncover.
---
He remained secluded in his chamber for three days. Despite his hideous appearance, his body healed with surprising speed. Perhaps he’d instinctively shielded the more vulnerable areas during the guards’ rough handling, or perhaps the meagre but regular meals provided by the Scholars’ Quarter had strengthened him more than he realized. The visible injuries were minimal—just a few dark bruises concealed beneath his tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself under the blankets, reliving the humiliation, weeping silently. He ignored every summons, every message slipped under his door.
He thought he could hold out until his internal wounds mended, but fate, as always, was unkind. Master Arion, the Arch-Librarian and Head Scholar, who had been away presiding over a delegation in the Imperial City, returned unexpectedly. Lysander had no choice but to panic.
“Scholar Thorne. Your face… what happened?” Master Arion’s voice, usually a dry rustle, held an uncharacteristic sharpness. They stood in the Arch-Librarian’s cluttered antechamber, the scent of aged parchment heavy in the air.
“Oh, well…” Lysander stammered, his mind racing.
“You claimed a chill. I received your notice from an acolyte. Yet, this is clearly no malady of the humours. Were you engaging in an altercation, Scholar?” Arion’s gaze, though weary, was piercing.
“No, Master, I… I did not feel well, so an acolyte fetched my notice, as you say…”
“And?” Arion prompted, a hint of impatience in his voice.
“And I… I suffered a fall on my way back to my chamber. A most clumsy mishap. I struck my face upon the flagstones.” Lysander’s voice was barely a whisper, the lie feeling heavy and clumsy on his tongue.
“A fall?” Arion’s eyebrow arched. “What kind of fall leaves a scholar’s face looking thus? Who was present?”
When Master Arion’s voice rose, Lysander frantically waved his hands, trying to calm the situation. “No, truly, Master. It was nothing serious. A mere stumble. I have recovered.”
“Come now, Lysander. You are a promising scholar. Why hide the truth? What caused this ‘stumble’?”
“…Well.” After a moment’s desperate thought, Lysander conjured a pathetic excuse, one that would hopefully be dismissed as foolish youth rather than scandalous court intrigue. “I… I was perhaps too eager to examine a rare astronomical chart that had just arrived. I may have tripped over my own feet in my haste to reach the Archives. A most unscholarly display.”
“What?” Surprisingly, his ridiculous answer seemed to diffuse the tension. Master Arion let out a sigh that was almost a chuckle of disbelief. “You scholars. Obsessed with your dusty tomes even to your own peril.” He shook his head. “Do not let such eagerness injure you again. Your mind is your greatest asset.”
“I understand, Master. It will not happen again.”
It also helped that his injuries, though painful, did not look quite as dire as they felt. Thankfully, the incident blew over, at least for the moment.
Something unsettling did occur later that evening. As he sat at supper in the communal hall, picking at a meager portion of stew, Master Arion suddenly addressed him across the long table.
“By the way, Lysander, are you still engaged in those… private studies with Arch-Duke Cassian these days?”
“What?” Lysander’s fork clattered against his bowl.
“I mean, you have not been seen in the Prince’s private chambers for some time. And your previous work seemed to be of great interest to him.”
For someone who spent most of his time buried in ancient scripts, Arion’s curiosity felt deeply intrusive. The mere mention of Cassian forced his image into Lysander’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back with an irritable tone. “Our working arrangement is as it always was, Master.”
*The same, my ass. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.* He felt so ashamed and humiliated he wanted to melt into the flagstones beneath him.
“Did another scholar perhaps assist the Prince recently? The steward mentioned a new face tending to some of Cassian’s more delicate texts.”
Lysander’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head towards the main entrance, where a junior acolyte was bustling about, clearing away platters. A cold chill ran through him. Did she hear it? Could she have heard anything that night, or merely observed his abrupt dismissal? Was it possible she was the one who had seen him being escorted from the Prince’s private chambers with more force than courtesy?
“Lysander? Is something amiss?” Master Arion’s sharp query jolted him.
He blurted out a response without thinking. “Yes. Elara Vance. She is assisting the Prince with his archival needs.”
What Master Arion said after that, Lysander couldn’t recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot wiped everything else from his mind. What he did remember was the way Arion had looked at him when he mentioned Cassian, a look usually reserved for when the Arch-Librarian conveyed dire prophecies or the collapse of ancient empires.
*Why?*
That thought pushed him further into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold, trembling beneath the table. *No. She couldn’t have heard. The acolytes are usually deafened by the din of the court, and my chamber is far removed. She couldn’t have heard anything.* But why? Why did it feel like something was terribly wrong? All he could do was offer a silent plea to a god he didn’t even believe in.
---
Three more days passed, and Master Arion started urging Lysander to resume his duties at the Archives. He absolutely didn’t want to. But if he kept skipping, the Arch-Librarian would surely suspect a deeper problem than a minor tumble. That was the last thing Lysander wanted. So, he forced himself to adopt a cheerful, scholarly demeanor. *There is nothing wrong with me.* He repeated the lie, hoping it would become truth.
He spent the days leading up to his return consumed with endless worry about encountering Cassian or Elara Vance. Would the Arch-Duke’s disdain be even more pronounced? Would Elara gloat in her newfound favor? Would he be further humiliated, cast aside like discarded parchment in front of his peers?
The thought alone made his stomach clench with nausea.
When he finally arrived at the Grand Archives, a heavy tome of forgotten Vespertine history clutched in his hands, he hung his satchel on the side of his designated desk in a shadowed alcove. He then tossed some haphazard notes on top of it, feigning deep study. He sat, staring blankly at the ancient wood while the hushed murmur of other scholars gradually grew louder around him. As soon as he heard footsteps approaching his alcove, he buried his head in his arms, pretending to be engrossed in a particularly dense manuscript.
If he feigned complete absorption, perhaps no one would notice the faint bruising around his eye, or the tremor in his hands. At least not for a while. But he hadn’t accounted for one thing: the desk adjacent to his belonged to Scholar Alaric, a junior but notoriously ambitious researcher known for his caustic wit.
As soon as Alaric arrived, he paused by Lysander’s desk. A cool, slender hand slipped between Lysander’s shoulder and neck, then abruptly tilted his face upwards by his chin. Lysander didn’t even have time to resist. He had no choice but to let Alaric’s discerning gaze fall upon his still-healing bruises. Alaric raised an elegant eyebrow as he examined Lysander, his lips curving into a cynical half-smile.
“What in the blazes happened to your face, Scholar Thorne?” Alaric asked, his voice a low, cutting whisper.
“…It’s nothing of import, Scholar Alaric.”
“Did you trip over another inconvenient truth, perhaps?” Alaric’s smile widened, lacking any genuine warmth.
“Yes. Something of that nature, I suppose.”
“Indeed?” He clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive sound, and shook his head before abruptly letting go of Lysander’s chin, causing his head to nearly strike the desk again.
“Damn you!” Lysander glared, startled by the unexpected roughness, but Alaric merely offered a crooked grin, his eyes distant, as if lost in some private, calculating thought. Whatever he was pondering, Lysander had no way of knowing.
Neither Arch-Duke Cassian nor Elara Vance appeared in the Grand Archives that day. They were likely occupied with court affairs, or perhaps a formal gathering. Kael was nowhere to be seen either.
But while Lysander had been absent, a low hum of whispers had begun to spread through the Scholars’ Quarter and, he suspected, the wider court.
“Have you heard? Scholar Thorne… he actually…”
No one directly questioned Lysander about his injuries, but it was clear from the curious, speculative glances he received that the rumors had already made their way through the hallowed halls. It seemed he was not as fortunate as he had desperately hoped.
---
The rumors centered around Lysander and the unexpected shift in Arch-Duke Cassian’s favor. Both Lysander and Elara Vance had been absent from their usual stations in the Archives on the day the whispers truly began to take root, and though Cassian and Elara were now publicly seen, their very presence, without Lysander, seemed to fuel the insidious speculation. With Lysander’s bruised face serving as silent, damning proof, the rumors spread even faster.
The story whispered through the court suggested that Scholar Thorne, in his relentless pursuit of knowledge and favor, had tragically overstepped his bounds. And, Lysander, it was implied, had harbored an ‘unnatural’ and ‘unfitting’ ambition towards the Raven Prince.
“That scholar, I’m telling you, he utterly lost himself in the Prince’s shadow.”
“What’s an unnatural ambition? Oh, wait. By the Valerius, you don’t mean…”
“Precisely. A low-born scholar, presuming to aspire to more than mere academic approval. It’s scandalous.”
The hushed conversations rippled through the communal spaces.
“All those who once saw Thorne as a promising talent have been utterly misled. He thought himself untouchable.”