Two days later, a folded missive, sealed with an unfamiliar crest, lay beside my morning tea. Its simple inscription requested my presence in the Scriptorium Annex before the afternoon’s Artistic Practical. My initial thought drifted to some forgotten archival task, a misplaced rubric, or a request for my assistance with a difficult passage. The notion of anything personal, especially one requiring such a furtive meeting, felt ludicrous within the Institute’s rigid decorum.
Yet, a sliver of curiosity, unwelcome and sharp, pricked at me. I dismissed it as quickly as it arose.
Just before the fourth bell, signaling the start of the Practical, I made my way to the Scriptorium Annex. The grand hall, usually bustling with junior scholars, was eerily quiet. Rows of ancient codices, their spines cracked and faded, offered no explanation. I felt a prickle of unease.
A figure emerged from behind a towering shelf, its silhouette slight against the gloom. Alaric Finch. His black hair, often disheveled, was pressed flat against his skull, and his gaze darted nervously around the vast, hushed space. My brow instinctively furrowed.
“Alaric?” My voice, usually a calm murmur, held an edge of impatience. “What is the meaning of this summons?”
Alaric's plump fingers twisted, a habit I found particularly grating. He bit at his thumb, his gaze skittering away from mine.
“Ah, Elias… I… I have something I must impart.” His voice was barely a whisper, swallowed by the cavernous room.
“Then speak it,” I urged, my internal clock already tallying the minutes until the Practical. I had no desire to be discovered with him. His recent outbursts, his public degradation, had cast a pall over anyone associated with him. My reputation, already fragile, could ill afford further scrutiny.
He remained silent, his mouth working, a hesitant fish gasping for words. The sight might have elicited sympathy from another, but I felt only a burgeoning frustration. My head throbbed, a dull ache behind my eyes. I suspected it was less about Alaric’s stammering and more about the knot of anxieties tightening within my own breast.
“Look, I apologize, but my time is not my own. If you have a petition, present it now.”
My patience, thin as parchment, frayed further. Perhaps I was merely seeking an outlet for my own vexations, a convenient target for the disquiet that had plagued me since my last encounter with Lady Sera. My stomach, always a barometer of my internal turmoil, churned with renewed vigor.
As my thoughts swirled, Alaric finally seemed to brace himself. His small voice, though still stammering, managed to string together a few broken phrases.
“Uh, Elias… I… you see, I… I wished to…”
“Yes?” I prompted, rubbing the back of my neck. The bell for the Practical would chime any moment. I imagined reaching forward, prying his lips apart, and extracting the words myself.
Just then, the heavy oaken door to the Scriptorium Annex creaked open. Both Alaric and I turned, our eyes meeting those of Lord Caspian Vane. His chest rose and fell with the effort of a hurried pace, an uncharacteristic display for one of his station. Yet, his gaze wasn't on me; it burned solely for Alaric.
A long exhale escaped Lord Caspian's lips. He strode into the room, his long cloak billowing with his momentum. My hand, which had been idly rubbing my neck, dropped to my side. Lord Caspian’s eyes flickered between Alaric and me, his expression a storm of fury.
“Why are you here with him?” His voice, low and dangerous, left no doubt as to the accusation. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
Beneath my outward composure, a frantic pulse hammered against my ribs. A suffocating silence stretched. Lord Caspian finally fixed his gaze upon me. The sheer intensity of it, the raw accusation, was unbearable.
“What is this, Lord Caspian?” I managed, my voice a strained whisper.
Please. Do not look at me so. Blame Alaric for this meeting. Why are your eyes, usually reserved for polite disdain, now blazing with such animosity, fixed upon me, a fellow scholar, caught unawares? I was dragged into this unfortunate entanglement by his summons.
Despite my silent protestations, Lord Caspian’s burning eyes remained locked on mine. I knew those were not the eyes of someone merely inconvenienced. They held the chilling glint of possessiveness, of jealous madness. It was the face of a man deranged by obsession, a sight I found both pitiful and deeply unsettling.
“Why are you here with him!” he repeated, his voice rising.
He looked pathetic, utterly devoid of aristocratic grace. Yet, a cold dread whispered that the truly pathetic one was I.
Before I could react, Lord Caspian’s long strides closed the distance between us. The moment his shadowed face loomed over mine, the world seemed to tilt.
“...!”
I couldn’t process the sensation. My body stumbled backward, colliding with a heavy oak lectern, and only then did my mind replay the swift, shocking movement. The heavy leather-bound volume, previously resting on the nearby shelf, became an extension of his fury. A sharp, stinging blow landed squarely against my left cheek. I gasped.
He struck me.
Lord Caspian struck me.
Sprawled on the polished stone floor, I touched my cheek with trembling fingers. The impossible had occurred. How could he? How could one of his standing commit such an act against a fellow scholar, against me?
“A-Alaric!”
“You fool! I warned you about him! No, do not even speak his name – do not speak at all, you imbecile!” Lord Caspian roared, his voice echoing through the Scriptorium. Alaric, horrified, had lurched toward me, but Lord Caspian’s furious face sent him recoiling, his own face paling.
“I-I am sorry, I am sorry.”
“You vowed! You damned well vowed you would stay away!”
Alaric took a hesitant step back, tears welling in his wide eyes. But no, he was not the one who should weep. It was I.
The stinging in my cheek intensified, matching the sudden prickle behind my own eyes. Mercifully, before I could break, Lord Caspian cursed violently and seized Alaric by the arm, dragging him from the Annex. The door slammed shut with a reverberating thud.
Alone in the Scriptorium, I stared at the half-open doorway. A shaft of weak afternoon light streamed through the crack, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Something within me finally fractured. The dam holding back my composure burst, and a silent, burning grief welled up. Not tears that fell, but a pressure behind my eyes that threatened to split my skull.
I hated everything. Alaric, who had dragged me into this ignominious encounter. Lord Caspian, who had shamed me with a physical blow. I wished they would both simply vanish. I felt wretched, reduced to a mere bystander in their twisted entanglement.
My face throbbed. The Artistic Practical was unthinkable. I rose, my limbs stiff, and sought out Master Thorne, feigning an indisposition. My swollen, reddened cheek made my excuse believable, and the Master, though scrutinizing, permitted my early leave without further inquiry.
---
At my family’s city residence, I collapsed onto my bed, the physical and emotional exhaustion overwhelming me. Sleep claimed me. When I woke, my face felt puffy and bruised. A notification chimed from my personal slate. Lord Valerius Thorne. We rarely exchanged personal communiques, but I knew him through the Institute's social circles, often encountering him in the company of Lord Caspian. A fresh wave of irritation washed over me.
Any other message, I might have ignored. But Lord Valerius was not 'anyone'. He was a prefect, a scion of considerable influence, and a close associate of Lord Caspian. To ignore him would be imprudent.
“Thorne, what became of you after the bells?”
I clicked my tongue, composing a reply to the missive, already several hours old.
“Haha, an unfortunate turn, I fear.”
I deliberately kept my response vague, light. The thought of anyone learning of Lord Caspian’s act, of my humiliation, was unbearable. And all because of Alaric Finch.
“Are you quite well?”
Lord Valerius, showing concern? The question felt unsettling, a subtle probing. I set the slate aside.
Hours later, a profound sadness settled over me. Even Lord Valerius’s message felt suffocating. Other acquaintances, fellow scholars, had also sent polite inquiries, but none offered the solace I craved.
No message among them was from Lord Caspian. I must be mad to even consider it. Still, I consoled myself, thinking this was the fate of one consumed by maddening obsession.
Even knowing the bitter truth, I lay there like an imbecile, doing what I did best – closing my eyes and turning a blind eye to reality.
“...I am not the only one.”
Perhaps Alaric and I were trapped in the same snare. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought intertwined with a selfish, wicked, childish hope. While lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, another message arrived. The sender was an unlisted number, an anomaly within the Institute’s regulated communications network.
“Elias, are you feeling unwell?”
I frowned. Who among my peers would address me so informally? Lord Valerius? But this was not his encrypted signature. Before I could ponder further, a follow-up missive arrived, relentless and infuriating.
“I am truly sorry. It is all my fault.”
“Forgive me.”
“Please, forgive me.”
Whether three words or four, each hammered at my composure, making me want to scream. I threw my slate onto the velvet rug. How did this wretched boy acquire my private number? And how could one who supposedly owned no personal device send such relentless messages?
Then it dawned on me. Oh. I had contacted him once before, had I not? Weeks ago, a moment of misguided pity. My idiotic brain. I let out an angry sigh, pounding my fists against the bed for a while until sheer exhaustion claimed me. Just before my thoughts completely faded, one last message resonated within my mind.
“Please, do not hate me.”
Funny. I had nurtured that sentiment for months.
The next morning, when I awoke, my left cheek was a swollen, tender mound, throbbing with an insistent ache.
---
I skipped the Institute’s morning lectures. No matter my academic zeal, I was not so enamored with my studies as to appear with a visage so conspicuously marred. The household aide prepared a light lunch for me. As I ate, she could not resist offering a mild rebuke, advising me to be more careful in my pursuits. The meal itself was simple — a soothing gruel and bland, seasoned vegetables. I swallowed it all without much interest.
As I set my spoon down, reaching for a glass of water, the aide returned to clear the dishes. Plate in one hand, she spoke.
“Master Elias, a guest awaits.”
“A guest?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A guest. My heart gave a tiny, disobedient flutter. Before I could even identify the emotion, my mind had already begun to conjure an image of who might be standing at the grand entrance.
Could it be... Lord Caspian?
The fantasy felt audacious, impossible, yet a sliver of hope, base and irrational, caught flame. Few from the Institute had ever graced our family residence. Among my acquaintances, only a handful knew its location. If it were he, then surely, he must have come to apologize, a pang of guilt finally piercing his aristocratic pride. Lord Caspian had never struck me before, not once. Yes, he must be burdened by worry, by regret.
“Yes, please, admit them at once.”
The fantasy solidified into an unshakeable certainty. Even as I chastised myself for such naivety, I could not help but feel a small, shameful surge of gratification. Despite everything, I was still important to him in some obscure way. That thought filled me with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. I turned toward the heavy oak door leading to the antechamber, my pace quickening with a flicker of anticipation.
But the person awaiting me was not who I had envisioned.
“Yo, Thorne. Heard you were indisposed.”
Lord Valerius Thorne’s sharp-featured face greeted me with his customary playful smirk, a small, embossed sachet in his hand. As soon as his eyes fell upon my face, however, his smirk vanished. His voice, usually laced with light mockery, adopted an uncharacteristically serious tone.
“By the Emperor’s beard, what happened to your face?”
My knees almost buckled from the sudden, profound letdown. How did Lord Valerius even know where I resided? The embarrassment, hot and stinging, flared as I thought of my foolish anticipation. I was indeed an idiot. Lord Caspian did not deem me important. And here I was, a hopeful, pathetic creature, wagging my tail like a loyal hound.
“...An unfortunate fall,” I replied flatly, the lie tasting like ash.
Lord Valerius frowned, twisting his lips in that familiar manner he adopted before delivering a biting witticism.
“You truly are a clumsy scholar, aren’t you?”
I did not bother to argue. I merely rubbed my swollen cheek, a dull ache throbbing near my temple. The fresh wave of humiliation was almost as painful as the bruise itself. Lord Valerius extended the sachet. “Here. A cooling poultice. My mother swears by it.”
I accepted the small, linen-wrapped bundle. “...It smells of mint and camphor.”
“Does it? Paid it no mind, myself.”
“Figures. Why would you care?”
“Damn, that’s harsh.” He shrugged. “What are you even doing here, Valerius?”
“What do you imagine? Came to check on a fellow scholar. Mind if I enter properly?”
“Hey, wait!”
Without hesitation, his long legs carried him past the aide, through the antechamber, and into the main hall. He moved with an easy confidence, as if he owned the very stones beneath his boots.
“Where is your study?”
“Hey, where are you going?” I called, following him.
“Where else? There is nowhere else of true interest in a scholar’s dwelling.”
“...”
I had no retort for that. He was right, in a way. The houses of the Institute’s scholars, regardless of their grandeur, served a singular purpose. Feeling awkward, I trailed after Lord Valerius, who seemed intent on inspecting the interior of my family home, his gaze lingering on the ancient tapestries and portraits as if evaluating their worth.