A phantom ache pulsed in Elian’s ribs, a cruel reminder of Lord Cassian’s casual brutality. Yet, the sting of the physical injury paled next to the laceration upon his dignity. Cassian’s scorn had carved a deeper wound, leaving Elian adrift in a sea of indifferent faces. Seraph Valerius, pale and bandaged, now occupied the seat that had been Elian’s by long-standing custom. The usurpation felt absolute, a public declaration of Elian’s diminished standing.
Elian found no solace in the intricate patterns of the grand hall’s polished marble. Each reflection seemed to mock his stillness, his forced composure. He was a forgotten shadow in a sun-drenched chamber, enduring the slow erosion of his courtly existence. A dull melancholy settled, occasionally flaring into a petty longing for retribution, quickly extinguished by the cold logic of self-preservation.
Lord Cassian Thorne’s ire, Elian observed, had calcified into an open hatred. It was a childish spite, as raw and unrefined as a street brawl, yet potent in this polished world. Cassian, a scion of formidable lineage, acted like a thwarted boy, his resentment a crude weapon aimed squarely at Elian. The reason was clear, if irrational: Seraph Valerius.
Seraph, that bruised and broken cipher, had become the unwitting catalyst for Elian’s humiliation. A bitterness, sharp as unripe fruit, coiled in Elian’s gut. Seraph was not Elian’s to begin with, but his very presence had twisted Cassian’s affections, turning them into a venomous animosity towards Elian. An unsettling thought, a whisper of a viper: Seraph was a vicious serpent, however unintentional.
Logic warred with emotion. Elian knew Seraph was a mere puppet, swayed by Cassian’s moods. He was a victim, like Elian himself, caught in the intricate web of courtly power. Yet, blame sought a host, a tangible form for the formless misery. Seraph, in his quiet, suffering existence, became that host.
Still, Elian showed no overt hostility. To reveal his gnawing jealousy, his petty spite, would be to unravel. He would appear a fool, a weakling, and in this court, weakness was a death knell. Cassian would only despise him more, and the whispers would brand him as undignified, a common opportunist.
“...This is the nadir.”
He loathed it. Loathed it with a visceral intensity that threatened to choke him. He loathed this feeling more than Cassian’s open hatred. A thought, unbidden, surfaced: Lord Lyraen. The flippant, irreverent noble Elian had recently endured. What would Lyraen say, were he to divine Elian’s secret, petty resentments?
*Turns out Vane’s just a grasping, undignified whelp, isn’t he?*
The imagined sneer, Lyraen’s casual dismissal, sent a shiver through Elian. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. The image was horrifying, a desecration of his carefully constructed scholarly persona. No one, absolutely no one, must ever discover the true extent of his fear and indignity.
Friendships at court were fleeting, transactional alliances. As Cassian’s disdain for Elian became obvious, the minor courtiers and pages who once paid cautious respect to Elian began to keep their distance. Amusingly, Page Tavis, a quiet, almost invisible youth usually tethered to Lyraen’s retinue, approached Elian yesterday with a meaningless query.
“Master Vane, Lord Lyraen sought your presence earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“Uncertain, Master. He merely asked.”
His voice faded. It was always something trivial, a distraction without true substance. The shifting currents of courtly favor were clear: people now associated Elian more with Lyraen’s irreverent circle than with Cassian’s established house.
Of course, the old ties were not entirely severed. Occasionally, in the training grounds or during morning assemblies, a polite nod or a murmured greeting might pass. Usually from Attendant Lorien, a mild-mannered man who had served Cassian’s father.
“Master Vane, good morn.”
“...Lorien.”
Elian recalled one such awkward exchange. Lorien had leaned in, his voice a low murmur.
*“Lord Cassian has been...unsettled of late. His treatment of Seraph...it is quite peculiar, is it not?”*
Elian must have grimaced, for Lorien seemed to interpret it as agreement. He then elaborated on Cassian’s insistent demands for Seraph’s company, his possessive grip, his refusal to let the injured man out of his sight. Elian clenched his teeth, a bitter taste in his mouth, before replying.
“Lord Lorien, I find myself utterly disinclined to contemplate such unseemly matters.”
Lorien’s chatter ceased instantly. The attendant, Elian noted, had lately been cultivating connections with Lyraen’s younger retinue. Perhaps he sought an exit from Cassian’s increasingly erratic shadow. His shared observations were likely an attempt to gain favor, a cautious probing of Elian’s new alignment.
Today, as was becoming customary, Elian found himself alone with Lord Lyraen in a quiet alcove off the main library. Elian immersed himself in an ancient tome, feigning indifference to Lyraen’s presence. Lyraen, for his part, lounged against a pillar, idly juggling a polished obsidian sphere. He ignored Elian’s feigned aloofness.
“Elian.”
“My Lord?”
“Later, let us procure some of that spiced cider. The batch from the King’s cellars, it was quite exceptional last time.”
Lyraen’s voice, a careless murmur, rippled through the quiet chamber. The obsidian sphere spun effortlessly in his palm, a dark, gleaming orb threatening to drop at any moment. No one in the library dared to voice objection. Lyraen cared nothing for the atmosphere, indifferent to the hushed reverence of the scholars.
Elian watched the sphere, a frown etching itself between his brows. His irritation at Lyraen’s thoughtless ease sharpened his tone.
“The cider you consumed entirely yourself, My Lord? You acquired it for your sole pleasure, as I recall.”
“Not entirely. I merely favored the blend.”
“And my preferences did not enter your contemplation?”
“How was I to know your preference? You offered no pronouncement.”
By then, the obsidian sphere had rolled into a secluded corner. Lyraen extended a hand, gesturing for it. A young scribe, startled, hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere and placed it in Lyraen’s open palm. Lyraen casually spun the orb, then addressed the retreating scribe.
“My thanks, little scholar.”
Such an insufferable personality. *Little scholar this, dusty parchment that.* Every word from his lips grated on Elian’s sensibilities. It defied logic that Lyraen, with his privileged position and carefree arrogance, now sought Elian’s company instead of Cassian’s. He dined with Elian, studied near him, attended functions by his side. Cassian might be absent from their immediate vicinity, but Lyraen could easily dispatch a courier or arrange a clandestine meeting if he wished.
An unexpected question sprang to Elian’s lips, almost without conscious thought.
“Why do you not seek Lord Cassian’s company these days, My Lord?”
Lyraen, mid-toss of the obsidian sphere, froze. He turned, a bewildered expression on his face.
“You quarreled,” he stated.
“I did?”
“Indeed. You and Lord Cassian.”
“I am aware. I am the one who endured his wrath. How does that concern you?”
“Such strange questions. It concerns me because you are my companion.”
Lyraen surveyed Elian, a disconcertingly frank gaze sweeping over him. Elian averted his eyes, uneasy, and retorted.
“You were also companions with Lord Cassian, I believe.”
“By the Void. You are truly amusing. Are you suggesting you are not my companion?”
His tone was incredulous now, a finger pointing at Elian. “No, I am your companion. But you were also allied with Lord Cassian. Why do you align yourself with my side?”
“Because, my dear Elian, I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense do you utter? Our acquaintance, I recall, solidified through Lord Cassian’s introduction.”
“Hark! What fabrications are these? We were quite close during our first year at the Collegium!”
“When, precisely?”
“Truly, you are an infuriating wretch. By the gods. In the Collegium’s refectory, we exchanged glances often, did we not?”
“Ah... those instances.”
“So, I was the sole party who perceived a bond? You trickster. That is precisely why, upon finding ourselves in the same academic track, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge this? Unbelievable. My disappointment is profound.”
“Oh.”
“By the Void. Unbelievable. Just... by the stars. How could you inflict such an insult upon me?”
“Forgive me. I offer my apologies, My Lord.”
Elian mumbled his apology hastily, a vague memory stirring of those awkward, yet frequent, encounters from their first year. So, *that* constituted Lyraen’s definition of “friendship.” Elian felt cheated. Those stares had been, to his perception, laden with an almost hostile curiosity. Wait, did that mean the first to suggest shared meals was not Cassian, but... Lyraen?
The realization struck Elian like a physical blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was disquieting, even shocking. He merely nodded, feigning comprehension, unwilling to probe further.
“Very well, very well. I grasp the import. My apologies.”
“I was genuinely quite vexed just now.”
Lyraen glared briefly. Sometimes, Elian found Lord Lyraen’s thought processes utterly impenetrable.
“And besides, Lord Cassian behaves with singular strangeness.”
A silence.
“That scion is utterly unhinged at present. He has always been somewhat...unpredictable, but this? This is merely...yes.”
Lyraen clasped the obsidian sphere with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The motion reminded Elian of Attendant Lorien and the other courtiers who had nervously offered their observations about Cassian. From Lyraen’s candid assessment, one truth emerged: Lord Cassian’s reputation was in freefall.
“Unnatural.”
The word, the most feared and damning stigma in the intricate world of courtly ambition, sent a chill through Elian. His body trembled slightly at the thought. At the same time, he felt a wave of relief that his own hidden nature, his profound insecurities, remained concealed. Did that relief signify he valued his own peace above Cassian’s ruin?
Uneasy, Elian met Lyraen’s gaze, feeling like a blasphemous priest harboring a forbidden scripture before his deity.
“Indeed, My Lord,” he muttered.
Then he let out a laugh—a brittle sound, a strange blend of fear and derision. It was almost comedic that, to others, he was Lyraen’s closest confidante. In truth, Elian was no different—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma, a fragile intellect hiding a desperate heart. Just months ago, he had been Cassian’s most favored scholar. And yet, here he was, hiding in a perilous illusion he’d barely escaped. He had merely avoided being caught. That was all.
---
It was the deep, oppressive quiet of pre-dawn. A whispered message arrived, delivered by an unseen hand. A hushed summons at such an hour. Half-asleep, Elian considered for a moment that his waking torments were merely dreams. Even as he had assiduously avoided seeking Cassian to protect himself, his heart gave a frantic leap at the irrational thought that the message might be from the very noble who scorned him.
He rubbed his eyes, the chill of the chamber seeping into his bones, and checked the script again. His feelings were conflicted. Part of him hoped it was a mistake, a misdirected decree. But as soon as he deciphered the urgent words, he knew it was not from Lord Cassian.
*“Master Vane, I beg your forgiveness for intruding upon your rest. Might you grant me a moment outside your chambers? My deepest apologies. I am truly sorry.”*
*“Only this once. I beg you, only this one time.”*
Lord Cassian Thorne would never offer such abject apologies to Elian. Among the inner circle, only two ever addressed him so informally, and of those two, only one was so pitifully desperate. How had Seraph Valerius even learned the precise location of Elian’s private chambers? The moment he saw the plea, Elian’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see Seraph—never wished to see him. Seraph was a constant reminder of Elian’s own ignominy.
But despite his thoughts, Elian swung his legs from the silken covers, buttoned his tunic, and rose. He walked to his chamber door, but paused before opening it, resting his forehead against the cold, carved frame with a deep sigh.
“...Damn it.”
It was overwhelming, a tight knot in his stomach, a physical clench that stole his breath. That was the only description he could find. He clutched his chest, willing the turmoil to subside. He had always prided himself on his vast knowledge, his mastery of ancient tongues, his eloquent vocabulary, yet not a single word could articulate this intricate, tangled mess of emotions.
It was simply... complicated.
His lingering resentment for Seraph, the vivid memory of the bruised and swollen face from days prior, and the desperate efforts Elian had made to distance himself from Cassian’s destructive orbit, all swirled within him. Biting his lip, Elian’s fingers fiddled with the ornate doorknob. He closed his eyes, then turned it with a decisive, if reluctant, twist.
Beyond his chambers, the cold stone passage stretched in hushed expectation. A faint, crisp draft of morning air hinted at the dawn, redolent with the scent of distant gardens. Elian moved with careful steps, his soft slippers barely disturbing the stillness. The chill made him pull his tunic tighter around him, the thin fabric offering scant protection. His silent journey ended at a small, discreet service door that opened onto a rarely used outer courtyard.
He paused, a clicking sound from his tongue, and gripped the heavy iron handle. The hinge groaned, a sound too loud in the pre-dawn quiet, making Elian flinch. He opened the door even more slowly.
Beyond, illuminated by the distant glow of a courtyard lantern, stood Seraph Valerius. His dark uniform was rumpled, his head bowed low as he nervously traced unseen patterns on the damp flagstones with the toe of his boot.
“...Seraph Valerius.”
At Elian’s voice, Seraph’s head snapped up with a jolt.
“Master Vane! Master Vane!”