Two days later, a small, folded parchment lay tucked into the spine of Elian’s most used lexicon within his private study alcove. Its elegant script, though unfamiliar, carried the unmistakable seal of the Valerius house. “Could you spare a moment in the lesser-used antechamber before the morning lecture?” The thought of a personal overture was dismissed as quickly as it arose; such blatant impropriety belonged to lesser, less rigid circles than the Obsidian Court. Elian merely noted the summons, his mind already returning to the complex lineage he was tracing. He forgot about the note, as one might forget a fleeting shadow, until just before the fourth bell, signaling the imminent start of the morning lecture. Still, a faint curiosity pricked him. It was likely a request for translation, or perhaps a minor academic query. Nothing significant. He made his way to the antechamber, a space usually reserved for forgotten scrolls and dusty tapestries. The sender, however, proved an unexpected sight: Seraph Valerius, his slender, pale face framed by dark hair meticulously smoothed down. He was chewing nervously on his lip, his gaze fixed on the polished floor. “Seraph Valerius?” Elian’s voice held a note of restrained surprise. The small head snapped up, and Seraph offered a timid, almost apologetic smile. “Lord Elian,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper. “What is it? Why summon me so suddenly?” Elian’s tone was clipped. He had no desire to be seen in such a secluded, informal setting with a Valerius, especially one so unaligned with the court’s higher echelons. Seraph nervously fiddled with the silver cuff of his tunic. “I… I have something I wish to say, Lord Elian…” “Then say it.” Elian wanted to leave. Urgently. A deep-seated unease churned within him. The precarious foothold he maintained within the court’s shifting sands demanded an impeccable reputation. He had always offered Seraph just enough guidance to appear morally upright, no more, no less. Any hint of entanglement would be ruinous. Oblivious to Elian’s rising discomfort, Seraph continued to bite his lip, glancing nervously around the silent antechamber. His face was a shifting canvas of indecision and desperate resolve. Each time he seemed ready to speak, his mouth clamped shut once more. His small, nervous gestures, meant to convey an earnestness, were utterly grating. Elian found his irritation mounting. He’d never held much regard for Seraph to begin with, viewing him as little more than a perpetual supplicant, and every stammer only deepened his existing disdain. Perhaps he was overly sensitive, his mind a tangled skein of Kael’s unsettling devotion, still raw from their last encounter. “Look, I apologize, but I must attend the lecture. State your purpose, Seraph.” His head throbbed, a dull ache that mirrored the frustration in his gut. Perhaps he wasn’t truly angry at Seraph. Perhaps he merely craved an outlet for the tumult within him, the lingering scent of incense and Kael’s disturbing pronouncements clinging to his senses like a shroud. While Elian wrestled with these thoughts, Seraph finally seemed to make up his mind. In a small, stammering voice, he began to speak. “Lord Elian… I… I, you see, I…” “Yes?” Elian responded, rubbing his temple. The bell for lecture would sound any moment. He wished he could force the words from the boy’s trembling lips himself. Then, abruptly, the antechamber door burst open. Both Seraph and Elian spun around. They locked eyes with Lord Cassian Thorne, who stood gasping for breath, his dark hair disheveled, the rich velvet of his doublet straining against his heaving chest. No, Cassian wasn’t looking at Elian. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, immediately fixed on Seraph. “Huff, huff…” His heavy breathing gave it away. Cassian had been running. Elian’s chest ached with a suffocating feeling as he imagined Cassian scouring the court, searching for Seraph. Cassian let out a long exhale, then strode confidently into the antechamber. Elian, without realizing it, dropped the hand he had been using to rub his neck. Cassian’s gaze flickered between Seraph and Elian, his expression fierce. “Why are you here with him?” The question hung heavy in the air, directed at neither, yet at both. Cassian’s clenched fists opened and closed, his knuckles white. Behind Elian’s outward calm, a cold dread seized his gut, twisting his insides. After a long, agonizing pause, Cassian finally looked at him. Elian could not stand the way those eyes raked over him – it was unbearable. “What in the Hells, Cassian.” Please, please. Don’t look at me like that. Blame Seraph for summoning me. Why are you staring at me, your reluctant ally, with such venom? I was dragged into this squalid drama because of *him*. Even as he thought this, Cassian’s burning eyes stayed locked onto Elian. He knew those weren’t the eyes of someone filled with passion or fervor. They were the eyes of someone consumed by a possessive fury, a madness that bordered on the grotesque. It was the face of a man deranged by obsession – a face Elian found both pitiful and utterly despicable. “Why are you here with him!” You look pathetic, Cassian. So pathetic. Elian glared back. Yet, somehow, the pitiful one wasn’t you – it was me. Before Elian could process it, Cassian’s long strides had brought him right in front of him. The moment Elian looked closely at his face, the world shook. “...!” A sharp crack echoed in the small space. Elian’s body toppled to the ground, and only then did his mind replay the events. No mere slap, but a calculated, brutal strike that sent Elian reeling. His world spun, a kaleidoscope of pain and disbelief. “No way…” He hit me. Cassian Thorne hit me. Lying on the ground, Elian touched his cheek with trembling hands. He couldn’t believe it. How could you… How could you do this to me? “L-Lord Cassian!” Seraph wailed. “You bastard! I told you to address me by my full title! No, don’t address me at all, you little cur!” Cassian screamed like a madman. Seeing Cassian’s furious face, Seraph’s expression grew increasingly pale. “I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” “You promised! You swore an oath! Damn it!” Seraph took a step back, his face on the verge of tears. But no, he wasn’t the one who should be crying – Elian was. He felt tears welling up inside him, threatening to spill over. Thankfully, before he could break down, Cassian cursed violently and stormed off, dragging Seraph by the arm. It all happened so quickly. Left sitting alone in the antechamber, Elian stared at the half-open door. A sliver of weak morning light sliced through the gloom, and something inside him finally gave way. The dam holding back his emotions shattered, and tears flowed freely down his face. He despised them both. Seraph, who had drawn him into this squalid drama. Cassian, who had dared to strike him. He wished they would both just vanish. He felt miserable for being reduced to a mere pawn in their sordid game, an unwitting participant in their ugly passions. Elian rose, skipped the morning lecture, and made his way to the Master of Scholars’ office to request an early dismissal. His swollen, rapidly bruising cheek spoke its own silent, unassailable truth, and the Master, a shrewd old courtier, seemed to understand without prying. He merely nodded, his eyes lingering on Elian’s face with a flicker of something akin to pity. --- Back in his chambers, Elian collapsed onto his bed and slept. When he woke, his face had turned puffy and an ugly bruise was beginning to bloom along his cheekbone. Out of habit, his fingers, usually steady, trembled as he retrieved his private scrying mirror. A message pulsed. It was from Lord Darian Kaelen. Seldom did their paths cross beyond the formal demands of court, but Elian knew Darian was a close associate of Cassian Thorne. Damn him. If it were anyone else, Elian would have ignored the message. But Darian Kaelen, with his quiet influence over the lesser noble houses, was not someone to be casually disregarded. “Elian. Heard you left the lecture early. Everything in order?” Elian clicked his tongue. He replied belatedly, to the three-hour-old query. “A sudden malaise, Lord Kaelen. Nothing grave.” He deliberately kept his reply vague. He could not bear the thought of others knowing the truth, knowing that Cassian Thorne had struck him. The humiliation was unbearable. And all because of Seraph Valerius, no less. “Are you quite well?” Darian Kaelen, showing concern? The question felt strangely unsettling, a veil for curiosity rather than genuine care. Elian shut off his mirror. Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over him. Even Darian’s message felt suffocating. Other scholars he studied with had also sent polite inquiries, but none of it was what he truly wanted. No communication from Cassian. An idiotic hope, he knew, a festering wound in his pride. He consoled himself, thinking this was the fate of someone consumed by maddening obsession. Even knowing the truth, Elian lay there like an idiot, doing what he was best at – closing his eyes and turning a blind eye to reality. “…I’m not the only one.” Perhaps Seraph and he were in the same situation. That strange, twisted, grotesque thought lingered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While lying on his bed, staring at the painted ceiling, his mirror pulsed again. An unknown sigil. “Elian, are you feeling very sick?” Elian frowned. Who among his peers would use such familiarity, especially from an unknown sigil? Darian Kaelen? But this was not his mark. Before he could think further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless and infuriating. “I am so sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.” “I’m sorry.” “Please forgive me.” Whether it was three words or four, the message made him want to scream. He threw his mirror onto the stone floor in frustration. How had the simpering fool obtained his private mirror’s sigil? And how could one so devoid of sense manage such persistence? Then it struck him. Oh. Kael. Lord Kael Valerius must have shared it. He had called Kael's private mirror when he tended to him in his ailing chambers. A mistake. A profound, compounding mistake. He cursed his idiotic brain and let out an angry sigh. To vent his frustration, he pounded his fists against the bed for a while until he was too tired to continue and eventually drifted into a fitful sleep. Just before his thoughts completely faded, one last message lingered in his mind. “Please, do not hate me, Elian.” A cruel jest. He had harboured a quiet disdain for the boy for months, a festering annoyance that had now blossomed into full-blown hatred. The next morning, when he woke, his face was swollen like a steamed bun, the bruise now a vibrant violet against his pallor. --- He skipped court duties again. No matter how diligently he pursued his studies, he was not passionate enough about his reputation to appear with a face like this. His retainer, old Master Theron, bustled in with a tray of soft broth and spiced bread. As Elian ate, the old man couldn’t resist scolding him, telling him to be more careful. The broth itself was nothing special – bland and thin, with limp, seasoned vegetables. He swallowed it all in one go, without much chewing. As he was setting his spoon down and reaching for a glass of water, Master Theron came to clear the dishes. With the tray in one hand, he said, “Master Elian, a visitor awaits.” “What?” “Shall I admit them?” A visitor. His heart, a treacherous thing, gave a sudden, lurching leap. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind had already begun imagining who might be standing at his door. Could it be… Cassian? The name, a forbidden whisper, formed in his mind. It seemed a wild fantasy, but it wasn’t entirely impossible. Few from court had ever visited his modest chambers. Among his acquaintances, only a handful even knew where he resided. If it was him, then he must have come to apologize, after finally feeling guilty about striking him. Cassian had never struck him before, not once. Yes, he must have been worried, perhaps even upset, by his own transgression. “Yes, please, admit them.” The fantasy solidified into a certainty. Even though he chastised himself for being so naive, he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction. Despite everything, he was still important to Cassian in some way. That thought filled him with an inexplicable, fleeting warmth. He quickly turned toward the front door, his pace quickening with a flicker of hopeful anticipation. But the person waiting there wasn’t who he had expected. “Yo, what’s amiss?” Lord Darian Kaelen’s sharp, handsome features greeted him with a playful smirk, a small, embroidered pouch of expensive confections held loosely in one hand. As soon as Darian saw Elian’s face, though, he stopped in his tracks, his smile fading, and asked in an unusually serious tone, “What in the Hells happened to your face?” Elian’s knees almost buckled from the sudden letdown, the phantom warmth dissolving into a chill of humiliation. How did Darian Kaelen even know where he lived? “A stumble, Lord Kaelen,” Elian replied flatly. Darian frowned, twisting his lips in that way he always did before saying something sarcastic. “You truly are a clumsy fool, then, aren’t you?” Elian didn’t bother to argue. He just rubbed his swollen face, feeling a dull ache near his cheek. Embarrassment surged as he thought about his earlier anticipation. He was such an idiot. Cassian Thorne didn’t think of him as someone important. And here Elian was, wagging his tail like a hopeful little dog – like a complete moron. “Here, take this.” Darian handed him a frosted amber-fruit confection. Elian accepted it, immediately examining the elaborate icing. “…This is spiced amber-fruit.” “Is it? Didn’t even notice.” “Figures. Why would you care?” “Damn, harsh words for a man offering solace.” “What brings you to my humble chambers?” “What do you think? Came to check on you. May I enter?” “Hey, wait!” Without hesitation, Darian’s long legs carried him into the house. “Where are your scrolls kept?” “Hey, where are you going?” “Where else? There’s nowhere else of note in these modest chambers.” Elian had no comeback for that. He was right. Houses were all the same, weren’t they? Feeling awkward, Elian followed Darian, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his home. The scrutiny of his personal space felt like another invasion, an unwelcome probe into his carefully constructed solitude.

A Secluded Scrutiny