Two days after the unsettling ritual in his chambers, a small, rolled parchment appeared tucked beneath the leg of Lysander’s reading desk, a place usually undisturbed save by the dust motes dancing in the morning sun. Its presence was a tiny violation of his carefully ordered world. Unfurling it, Lysander found words penned in a shaky, unfamiliar hand. *“Scholar Thorne, would you grace the disused Luminary’s Study with your presence before the afternoon’s archival session?”* He read it twice. A summons, not from a superior, but from someone beneath him in the rigid court hierarchy. Lysander’s mind, ever keen to decipher hidden meanings, first flickered to the possibility of a fervent admirer. Yet, such open displays were unheard of, especially from the junior acolytes who occasionally sought his guidance. This was the Archduchy of Vesper, after all, a realm where even the air seemed to hold its breath against scandal. The thought, fleeting and absurd, was swiftly dismissed. It was not a confession. No, it was more likely a plea for assistance, or perhaps an attempt to draw him into some petty academic squabble. Lysander almost forgot the note entirely until the chiming of the meridian bells announced the imminent start of the fourth period – the exhaustive archival mapping session. Donning his more practical tunic, suited for the cool, dusty depths of the Grand Library, Lysander made his way to the Luminary’s Study. A faint curiosity pricked him, but he held no great expectation. He assumed it would be trivial. Yet, the sender proved to be an unexpected figure: a timid young man, Seraphiel, his dark hair smoothed neatly against his brow, perpetually seeming to shrink within his robes. “Seraphiel?” Lysander’s voice held a note of bewildered inquiry. The acolyte’s small head, which had been bent over, nervously worrying a thread on his sleeve, snapped up. He offered a quick, uncertain wave, a pale imitation of the bright, guileless smile he had once worn when first assigned to the library annex. That smile, or rather its strained memory, grated upon Lysander’s frayed nerves. He tightened his lips. “What is this? Why the sudden summons?” At Lysander’s curt query, Seraphiel’s plump fingers twisted together, wringing invisible anxieties from their tips. “Ah, I… I have something I wish to impart…” “Then impart it.” Lysander had no desire to linger. He craved solitude. He did not wish to be observed alone with Seraphiel, risking the insidious whisper of rumors that could derail his precarious standing. His interactions with Seraphiel, like with many junior scholars, were always precisely measured: just enough guidance to appear commendable, never so much as to invite familiarity or entanglement. Seraphiel, seemingly oblivious to Lysander’s growing discomfort, continued to bite at his thumbnail, his gaze darting about the dusty corners of the study. His face was a shifting canvas of indecision and nascent resolution. Each time he seemed on the verge of speech, his mouth clamped shut again, a silent refusal to utter the words. Lysander’s irritation flared. He had never harbored any particular fondness for Seraphiel, finding his meekness more irksome than endearing. Now, this hesitant display only served to deepen his disquiet. The acolyte’s small mouth continued its maddening, tremulous movements – an affectation that might have appeared charming to a gentler soul, but to Lysander, it was an unbearable source of annoyance. He recognized, even in that moment, the unfairness of his own escalating sensitivity. “Forgive me,” Lysander said, his voice clipped, “but my archival duties await. Can you not simply speak your mind?” He was not himself today. His thoughts felt like a knotted cord, tangled with the lingering shame of Kaelin’s peculiar devotion. A sense of frustration and unease churned in his gut, a physical manifestation of his internal turmoil. Perhaps he was not truly angry at Seraphiel. Perhaps he merely sought an outlet for the vexation that gnawed at him from within. While Lysander was lost in this self-reproach, Seraphiel finally seemed to gather his courage. His voice, a small, stammering whisper, broke the silence. “Uh, Lysander… I… that is, you see, I…” “Yes?” Lysander responded distractedly, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck. The interval before his session was dwindling. He wished Seraphiel would just utter whatever triviality burdened him. A perverse impulse even urged him to pry open the acolyte’s hesitant mouth and extract the words himself. Just then, the study door groaned open. Both Lysander and Seraphiel turned in unison, their eyes locking with Lord Kaelin, who stood in the doorway, chest heaving. Kaelin’s gaze, however, did not meet Lysander’s. It was fixed, with an unsettling intensity, upon Seraphiel. “Huff, huff…” Kaelin’s heavy breathing confirmed his haste. A suffocating ache constricted Lysander’s chest as he imagined the young lord tearing through the palace in search of Seraphiel. Kaelin let out a low, guttural exhale, then strode purposefully into the study. Unconsciously, Lysander’s hand fell from his neck. Kaelin’s eyes flickered between Seraphiel and Lysander, his expression a feral snarl. “Why are you here with him?” The words were spat, their target unclear. Kaelin’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, knuckles white. Beneath Lysander’s outwardly composed facade, his insides felt as though they were being relentlessly pounded. After a long, agonizing pause, Kaelin finally turned his burning gaze upon Lysander. The look in those eyes was unbearable. Lysander recoiled internally. “What in the Outer Dark, Kaelin.” Please, *please*. Do not look at me like that. Blame Seraphiel for this clandestine meeting. Why gaze upon me, your… *confidant*, with such venomous resentment? Lysander felt himself dragged into a drama not his own. Yet, Kaelin’s fiery gaze remained fixed. Lysander knew these were not the eyes of passion. These were the eyes of a soul consumed by an ugly brew of rage, possessiveness, and madness. The face of a man twisted by love—a visage Lysander found both pitiable and despicable in equal measure. “Why are you here with him!” You look pathetic, Kaelin. So utterly pathetic. Lysander’s own gaze hardened in defiance. Yet, in that moment, he felt the pitiful one was not Kaelin, but himself. Before Lysander could even fully process the impending threat, Kaelin’s long strides carried him directly before the scholar. The moment Lysander met Kaelin’s furious eyes up close, the world tilted. “...!” He had no time to comprehend. His body toppled, sending him sprawling to the cold stone floor. Only then did his mind, in a horrifying replay, register the event. “No… impossible…” Kaelin had struck him. Lord Kaelin had struck Lysander Thorne. Lying on the ground, Lysander’s trembling fingers rose to touch his throbbing cheek. Disbelief warred with a searing humiliation. How could he… how could Kaelin do this? “L-Lysander!” Seraphiel, horrified, stumbled forward, but Kaelin shrieked like a man possessed. “You worm! I told you not to use his given name! No, do not speak his name at all, you mewling cur!” Seeing Kaelin’s deranged fury, Seraphiel’s face paled further. He took a frightened step back, his own eyes welling with unshed tears. But it was not Seraphiel who should weep. It was Lysander. Prickling tears threatened to breach Lysander’s composure. Thankfully, before he could fully break, Kaelin cursed violently, a string of harsh Vesperine expletives, then seized Seraphiel by the arm and dragged him from the study. It all happened with brutal swiftness. Left alone, slumped on the floor of the Luminary’s Study, Lysander stared at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight, usually so comforting, now seemed to mock him. Something inside him finally gave way. The dam holding back his carefully suppressed emotions burst, and tears flowed freely down his face, scalding his bruised cheek. He hated everything. Seraphiel, who had drawn him into this sordid mess with his foolish summons. Kaelin, who had raised a hand against him. He wished them both to vanish into the darkest corners of the Outer Dark. He felt wretched, reduced to a mere pawn in their twisted, volatile relationship. Lysander pushed himself to his feet, skipped his archival session entirely, and sought out the senior Archival Master to request an early dismissal. His swollen, reddened face made his excuse—a sudden, severe migraine—unquestionably believable. The Master, a gruff but discerning old scholar, seemed to understand, asking no further questions. --- Later, in his private chambers, Lysander collapsed onto his bed and surrendered to an exhausted, dreamless sleep. When he awoke, his face felt stiff and puffy, a vivid bruise blossoming beneath his left eye. Out of habit, he reached for the small, etched silver scrying mirror he used for communiques. A message from Lord Valerius, Kaelin’s most prominent confidant, awaited him. Valerius and Lysander rarely exchanged personal communiques, their interactions usually mediated through Kaelin. Damn him. If it had been any other acolyte, Lysander would have ignored the message entirely. But Valerius was not merely any acolyte. He held significant sway within the courtly cliques that orbited the Archduke’s family. Lysander could not afford to dismiss him. *“Scholar. Where did you vanish to?”* Lysander clicked his tongue, belatedly replying to the three-hour-old query. He deliberately kept his response light, carefully crafted to deflect. *“My apologies, Lord Valerius. A sudden indisposition.”* He did not want anyone to know the truth of his predicament. The thought of court whispers, of people discovering that Lord Kaelin, the Archduke’s second son, had struck him, was an unbearable humiliation. All because of that mewling Seraphiel. *“Are you well, Scholar Thorne?”* Valerius, showing concern? The unexpected empathy felt strange, almost unsettling. Lysander quickly deactivated the scrying mirror. Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Valerius’s message, though civil, felt suffocating. Other scholars he worked with had also sent brief messages inquiring about his absence, but none offered the solace he craved. No one searching for him was Lord Kaelin. Lysander must be losing his mind, indulging such a childish hope. Yet, he consoled himself with the perverse thought that this was the cruel fate of one consumed by maddening, unrequited devotion. Even knowing the bitter truth, Lysander lay there like an idiot, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, turning a blind eye to the painful reality. “…I am not the only one.” Perhaps Seraphiel and he were bound in the same, wretched predicament. The thought, strange and twisted, grotesque in its implications, lingered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While lying on his bed, staring up at the intricate patterns of the vaulted ceiling, another message arrived. It was from an unknown scrying frequency. *“Lysander, are you feeling very unwell?”* Lysander frowned. Who among his peers would address him so informally? Valerius? No, this was not his frequency. Before he could ponder further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless and infuriating. *“I am sorry. Truly sorry. It is all because of me.”* *“I am sorry.”* *“Please, forgive me.”* Whether three words or four, each one inflamed Lysander’s temper. He threw the scrying mirror onto the flagstone floor in frustration. How had this wretched acolyte acquired his private frequency? And how was someone who barely possessed a quill sending him communiques? Then it struck him. Oh. He had summoned Seraphiel himself, long ago, to assist with a particularly obscure text. Their frequencies would have connected then. Lysander cursed his own idiocy and let out an angry sigh. To vent his simmering frustration, he pounded his fists against the soft mattress for a long while until exhaustion claimed him once more, dragging him into oblivion. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last message, unread, whispered in his mind. *“Please, do not hate me.”* Funny. He had hated Seraphiel for months. The next morning, when Lysander awoke, his face was swollen like a poorly prepared sweet bun. --- Lysander sought an extended leave from his duties. No matter how diligent a scholar he was, he possessed too much pride to appear in the Grand Library or the Archduke’s private archives with such a disfigurement. His personal valet, a quiet man named Elgar, prepared a light meal for him. As Lysander ate the soothing, tasteless gruel and bland, seasoned herbs, Elgar, ever discreet, couldn’t resist a gentle chiding, urging Lysander to be more cautious in his movements. Lysander swallowed without much chewing, his throat tight. As he set his spoon down and reached for a goblet of chilled spring water, Elgar returned to clear the dishes. With a delicate porcelain plate in one hand, he said, “Scholar, you have a visitor.” “A visitor?” Lysander’s heart fluttered, a sudden, foolish bird trapped within his ribs. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind, against his better judgment, began to weave a hopeful fantasy of who might be standing at the door. Could it be… Lord Kaelin? It seemed a wild, improbable dream, yet it was not entirely impossible. Few from the court or the scholarly ranks ever sought him out in his private chambers. Among his acquaintances, only a handful even knew the location of his secluded quarters. If it was Kaelin, then surely, he must have come to offer some form of apology, having finally wrestled with guilt over his violent outburst. Kaelin had never struck Lysander before, not once. Yes, he must have been consumed by worry, by regret. The thought, however naive, filled Lysander with an inexplicable warmth. He rose quickly, his pace quickening with an illicit thrill, turning towards the outer door of his chambers. But the person waiting there was not who he had expected. “Thorne. A pleasant morning, if you can still claim it so.” Lord Valerius, his sharp features arranged in a playful smirk, stood framed in the doorway, holding a small, ornate coffer of candied hydrangeas. As soon as his eyes fell upon Lysander’s bruised face, however, the smirk vanished. His expression grew unusually serious. “What in the blazes happened to your countenance?” Lysander’s knees nearly buckled from the sudden, bitter sting of disappointment. How had Lord Valerius even discovered the location of his private chambers? “…I merely stumbled,” Lysander replied, his voice flat. Valerius’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that characteristic way he always adopted before delivering a caustic remark. “You are truly an utter imbecile, are you not?” Lysander did not bother to argue. He merely rubbed his throbbing cheek, a dull ache reverberating beneath his fingertips. A fresh wave of embarrassment surged, a hot flush spreading across his skin as he recalled his earlier, pathetic anticipation. He was indeed an imbecile. Kaelin did not consider him important. And here he was, wagging his tail like a hopeful, idiotic hound. “Here, take this.” Valerius extended the coffer of candied hydrangeas. Lysander accepted it, immediately lifting the lid to inspect its contents. “…These are of the Vesperine bloom.” “Are they? I scarcely noticed.” “Figures. Why would you?” “Damn, Thorne, that’s rather harsh.” “What, precisely, are you doing here?” “Why, what do you imagine? I came to check on you. Might I enter?” “Lord Valerius, wait!” Without hesitation, Valerius’s long legs carried him past the threshold and into Lysander’s private space. “Which way to your study?” “Lord Valerius, where do you intend to go?” “Where else? There is scarce anywhere else of interest in these quarters.” Lysander had no adequate retort. Valerius was right, in a way. Most scholarly chambers were uniform in their austere design. Feeling an acute awkwardness, Lysander followed Valerius, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his meticulously ordered, yet suddenly violated, sanctuary.

Of Scars and Summons