A chill had settled between Lysander and Lord Valerius, sharp and biting as the mountain winds, ever since the ignoble scene in the scholars' antechamber. Valerius, once a confident smile in Lysander's orbit, now openly scorned him. His polished facade, so diligently maintained for his own esteemed House, had cracked, revealing a raw contempt that stung Lysander’s every step.
Now, Lord Kaelen, with his quiet presence, occupied the favored seat beside Valerius in the Academy’s lecture halls, a constant, galling sight.
Lysander was not one to parade his wounded pride, nor could he feign indifference to such a public humiliation. He might burn with quiet shame, yet he refused to be reduced to a sniveling supplicant. Approaching Valerius with feigned camaraderie felt like a betrayal of his own, fragile dignity. The very thought made his throat tighten.
Melancholy became Lysander’s constant companion, a dull ache beneath his breastbone. Moments of petty vengeance would flare, brief, vivid sparks, only to be smothered by the crushing weight of his reality. He endured.
Valerius, that imperious fool, had descended into a childish spiral of envy and resentment, all directed at Lysander. The catalyst, brutally clear, was Kaelen. An inescapable truth.
Regardless of intent, Lysander’s animosity towards Kaelen deepened. Kaelen had never been his to claim, yet the man had not only usurped Valerius’s affections but had twisted Valerius’s regard for Lysander into something bitter and hateful. A viper, Lysander thought, though he knew it was unfair. Feelings, unburdened by logic, rarely cared for fairness. Blaming Kaelen offered a convenient target, a focal point for his own roiling misery.
Lysander, however, prided himself on his discipline. He understood the precariousness of Kaelen’s position, caught in Valerius’s possessive sway. He never allowed hostility to mar his outward demeanor towards Kaelen.
Partly, he was too ashamed to reveal the raw, gnawing jealousy. And partly, he knew that a public display of anger towards Kaelen would only brand him a fool. Valerius’s contempt would deepen, and whispers of Lysander’s “unnatural affections” or “degenerate obsessions” would ripple through the Obsidian Court, staining his House, ruining him utterly. The thought sent a cold shiver down his spine.
“This… this is a nightmare,” he muttered, the words catching in his throat.
It was a hatred that clawed at him, deeper even than Valerius’s disdain. And then, unbidden, the boisterous image of Lord Rhysand sprang to mind. Perhaps it was because Rhysand was the most persistent, irritating presence in his life these days. What would Rhysand say if he knew the truth of Lysander’s heart? Likely something cutting, like:
‘Turns out Lysander’s just a sniveling fool, pining for another man’s shadow, eh?’
The image of Rhysand’s disdainful gaze made Lysander’s fists clench. He nearly gagged at the visceral horror of it. Discovery, public shaming—it was his ultimate dread.
Court friendships could be as brittle as thin ice. With the rift between Lysander and Valerius growing, his connections to Valerius’s inner circle naturally frayed. Amusingly, Ser Elian, a more isolated squire often seen shadowing Rhysand’s group, had approached Lysander yesterday with an utterly pointless conversation.
“Lysander, Lord Rhysand sought you earlier.”
“Oh? For what purpose?”
“He did not say. Simply, he sought you.”
Empty words, without substance or clear meaning. It appeared, in the eyes of the Court, Lysander’s allegiances had shifted towards Rhysand’s raucous faction.
Yet, the ties to Valerius’s group were not entirely severed. Occasionally, during fencing practice or a chance encounter in the morning, polite greetings were exchanged. Primarily, this was limited to Ser Elian.
“Lysander! A good morning to you.”
“...And to you, Ser Elian.”
Lysander recalled one such awkward exchange, when Ser Elian had lowered his voice, speaking conspiratorially.
‘Valerius has been… peculiar, of late. The way he clings to Kaelen… unseemly, don’t you think?’
Lysander must have worn an expression of distaste, for Elian seemed to interpret it as agreement. He continued, describing Valerius’s possessive grip on Kaelen, forcing him to sit by his side, seizing his arm, refusing to release him.
Lysander’s fingers curled into tight knots. He ground his teeth. His response was clipped, venomous.
‘Those base affections hold no interest for me.’
Elian had fallen silent immediately. Ser Elian had, of late, been making overtures to Rhysand and his companions. He was clearly a man seeking a new patron, quietly charting a course away from Valerius’s eclipsing shadow. Perhaps his shared gossip was merely an attempt to draw closer to Lysander, another pawn in the intricate dance of court politics.
Today, as was becoming the norm, Lysander and Rhysand were the last to linger in the private study chamber. Rhysand, draped against a tapestry depicting ancient heroes, regarded Lysander with an inscrutable gaze. Was it dismissiveness? Or was he merely weighing Lysander’s worth? Annoyed, Lysander turned his head, choosing to ignore him.
“Lysander.”
“What now, Lord Rhysand?”
“A draught of spiced wine after our studies? The brew we sampled last week held a pleasant warmth.”
Rhysand blithely disregarded Lysander’s attempt at silence. As he spoke, he idly tossed a carved wooden sphere across the chamber. It bounced erratically, threatening the delicate inkwells, yet no one dared speak against him. His indifference was absolute, his selfishness a brazen shield. Lysander, watching the sphere carom off a gilded shelf, finally broke his silence. Irritation sharpened his tone.
“The one you consumed entire, without a thought for my palate? You procured it solely for yourself, if memory serves.”
“A trivial matter. I merely favored its green tint.”
“And my preference held no sway?”
“How was I to know your preference? You uttered no word.”
The wooden sphere had rolled to a stop by a junior scribe’s feet. Rhysand extended a hand, a silent command. The scribe, hesitating for a heartbeat, awkwardly retrieved it and placed it in Rhysand’s palm. Rhysand casually twirled the sphere, then addressed the retreating figure.
“My thanks, little scroll-runner.”
What an insufferable brute. ‘Lackey this, peasant that.’ Every utterance grated on Lysander’s nerves. It defied logic that Rhysand, so utterly boorish, would cling to Lysander rather than Valerius. He shared meals, occupied adjacent seats in lectures, and sought Lysander’s company. Valerius was absent, yes, but Rhysand could easily send a missive or arrange a rendezvous if he truly wished.
The thought sparked, unbidden. Lysander voiced it without consideration.
“Why do you not seek Valerius’s company these days?”
Rhysand, mid-toss of the carved sphere against the polished stone wall, froze. A puzzled frown creased his brow.
“You quarreled with him,” he stated.
“I did?”
“Aye. You and Lord Valerius.”
“I am well aware. It was I who quarreled with him. So, what concern is it of yours?”
“You utter the strangest things. Because you are my friend, naturally.”
Rhysand’s gaze, oddly blatant, swept over Lysander. Unease coiled in Lysander’s gut. He averted his eyes.
“You are also a friend to Valerius, though.”
“Ha. You jest. Are you suggesting you are not my friend?” Rhysand’s tone shifted, incredulous, as he pointed a finger at Lysander.
“No, I am your friend. Yet, you were also a companion to Valerius. Why do you then side with me?”
“Well, I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense is this? Our friendship blossomed through Valerius’s introductions, did it not?”
“Hear me now. You are truly a perplexing fellow. Unbelievable. We were close even in our first year at the Academy!”
“When?”
“Indeed, you are a cur! Unbelievable. In the great hall, our gazes met, often. A shared understanding!”
“Oh… those times.”
“So, was I alone in perceiving a bond? You, a deceiver. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same division, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unconscionable. I am deeply disappointed.”
“Ah.”
“Unfathomable. Truly… how could you do this?”
“Forgive me, then. My apologies, if that suffices.” Lysander mumbled hastily, a faint memory stirring of those awkward, yet curiously frequent, encounters from their first year. Was that truly within Rhysand’s definition of ‘friendship’? Lysander felt a strange sense of being defrauded. Those gazes had been filled with veiled hostility, not camaraderie. And the first to suggest shared meals, not Valerius, but… Rhysand?
The realization struck Lysander with the force of a physical blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve deeper into the confusing tangle, he merely nodded, feigning comprehension.
“Right, right. I understand. My apologies.”
“I was gravely offended just then.” Rhysand’s glare was brief, yet intense. Sometimes, Lysander truly could not fathom the workings of his mind.
“And in any case, Valerius behaves quite strangely.”
“...”
“The man is utterly deranged, truly. He has always been somewhat… singular, but this? This is beyond the pale.”
Rhysand gripped the wooden sphere with four fingers, idly spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The motion brought to mind Ser Elian and the other squires who had awkwardly attempted to relay their observations of Valerius. From this alone, Lysander discerned one stark truth: Lord Valerius’s reputation was plummeting.
“Unnatural inclinations.”
The whispered words, the most feared and damning stigma in the rarefied air of the Obsidian Court’s youth, sent a tremor through Lysander. His body quivered faintly at the thought. A wave of relief, cold and sharp, washed over him simultaneously—relief that his own secret remained hidden. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation above Valerius’s ruin?
Unease gnawed at him. He regarded Rhysand’s face, feeling like a blasphemous priest hiding an impious truth from the All-Seeing Eye.
“Indeed, me,” he muttered, a strange, choked laugh escaping him—a mixture of fear and derision. It was almost comical that, to others, he was Rhysand’s closest companion. In truth, he was no different—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only a few months prior, he had been Valerius’s closest confidant. Now, he merely hid in a filthy trap from which he had barely escaped. He had only avoided capture. That was all.
---
It was the darkest hour, just before dawn. A sealed missive, delivered by an unknown hand, arrived unexpectedly. A summons at such an hour. Half-asleep, Lysander almost believed it a dream. Though he had carefully avoided seeking Valerius, protecting himself from further hurt, his heart still leapt, a frantic bird, at the fleeting hope that the message might be from him.
He rubbed his eyes hurriedly, checking the wax seal, the unfamiliar script. His feelings were a tangled mess. Part of him hoped it was merely an administrative decree, a mundane demand from the Academy. But the moment he deciphered the urgent script, he knew it was not Valerius.
“Lysander, I beg your pardon for this ungodly hour. Could you present yourself outside your manor for a moment? I am truly sorry. Terribly sorry.”
“Just this once. Grant me this one request.”
Lord Valerius would never offer such an apology, not to Lysander. Among his peers, only two addressed him with such informality, and of those two, only one was so utterly wretched. How had Kaelen even discovered his precise manor in this vast city? The message twisted Lysander’s face into a scowl. He did not wish to see Kaelen—never wished to see him. Kaelen was always an unpleasant presence.
Yet, despite his visceral revulsion, Lysander swung his legs from the bed. He buttoned his dressing gown, the heavy fabric rustling, and stood. He walked to the main door of his private chambers, but paused, resting his forehead against the cool frame, a deep sigh escaping him.
“...Damnation.”
It was all so overwhelming, a knot of raw emotion tightening in his gut. No other phrase could capture the sensation. He clutched his chest. He had always prided himself on his vast vocabulary, cultivated from countless scrolls and tomes, yet no words he knew could adequately express this intricate, tangled mess. It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Kaelen, the phantom memory of Kaelen’s bruised face from that day, the desperate, calculated days Lysander had spent trying to sever the two of them—all swirled together into a bitter eddy. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the ornate doorknob, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist.
In the courtyard garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of autumn. To avoid the wet, manicured grass, Lysander stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones. The chill of the pre-dawn air made him pull his dressing gown tighter. His slipper-clad feet carried him to the manor’s imposing gate.
He paused, clicked his tongue in exasperation, and gripped the heavy iron handle. The hinge creaked, a mournful protest, making him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, peering through the narrow gap.
Beyond the wrought iron, illuminated by the faint glow of a street lantern on the cobbled lane, stood Lord Kaelen. He wore his formal Academy uniform, his head hung low, tracing invisible shapes on the ground with the tip of his polished shoe.
“...Lord Kaelen.”
At Lysander’s voice, Kaelen’s head snapped up like lightning.
“Lysander! Lysander, please!”
“What is it