A vast expanse of polished obsidian and carved darkwood, this Grand Scriptorium felt less like a place of study and more like a hothouse, nurturing thirty exotic, predatory blooms. Each noble, each scribe, each hanger-on, was a beast in its own right. Here, every position was precarious. Hierarchies shifted daily, as delicate as the vellum Lysander worked upon. Survival was a practiced, desperate ballet. This constant tension had been Lysander’s reality since his apprenticeship began at twelve, a cruel initiation into the court’s intricate dance of alliances and betrayals. The balancing act had become instinct. This quiet chamber, where even the rustle of parchment sounded like a shout, concealed a subtle, brutal pyramid. Lysander imagined himself always at its base. “Ah…” A jolt went through Lysander’s arm. Pins and needles, a lingering numbness from poor circulation. He shook his hand, flexing his cramped fingers. His stomach, tightly wound, protested with a dull ache. He drew a shallow breath. Before him, backs were hunched, their forms indistinct in the muted light filtered through stained glass. Sage green vellum lay open on several lecterns. Master Elara, her silver hair pulled into a severe knot, sat at her elevated desk, ostensibly supervising. Her gaze, however, was fixed on a crumbling missive, a half-folded document that seemed to demand all her attention. Most courtiers and scribes were bent over their own tasks, or, having surrendered to the oppressive quiet, had simply slumped into exhausted stillness. “Maintain focus,” Elara’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a quill’s tip, as she turned a page of her worn document. “The day progresses.” Fifth bell had already chimed. Lysander had been meticulously outlining the fifteenth verse of a eulogy, his index finger tracing the ornate characters, before he paused. He set his finest silver stylus down. His eyes drifted to the empty spaces among the lecterns. Two in particular gaped like open wounds. Lord Valerius and Lord Kaelen, conspicuously absent. Days had passed since either had darkened these chambers. Unless Valerius had one of his infamous, unpredictable shifts in temperament, or some unknown new scandal had erupted between them, they likely wouldn’t return tomorrow either. Lysander’s gaze fell back to the intricate problems of his own work, the complex strokes of the Imperial script blurring before his eyes. Once, he had foolishly believed he understood Valerius better than anyone. He had nurtured a secret pride in that perceived insight, a quiet arrogance that allowed him to endure watching Rhysand and Valerius exchange their veiled jests. Deep down, he’d clung to the notion that he possessed a deeper, truer understanding of Valerius’s true nature. Now, the memory of that pride was a bitter taste. He propped his chin in his hand, the cool metal of his signet ring pressing against his jaw. The very thought sickened him. What would these people think if they knew such thoughts churned within him? The answer was chillingly clear. He would be cast down, pushed to the very bottom of the pyramid, relegated to its widest, most unremarkable base. The prospect was terrifying. This insidious yearning for a twisted form of recognition, this calculating self-preservation, had to remain buried. So deep, he sometimes wished even he could forget it existed. So deep, that not even the object of his desire could ever sense it. But Valerius hadn’t done that. Everyone at court knew of his unrestrained desires. Lysander shifted slightly, his gaze sweeping across the bowed heads. Still hunched, still anonymous. He pressed his lips together, focusing on the empty spaces again. A discarded sheet of vellum, smudged with boot-prints, lay forlornly between two rows of lecterns. A small, perfect illuminated initial had been trampled underfoot. Lysander felt a strange, cold dread. Suddenly, as if someone might have sensed his errant thoughts, he buried his head in his arms, feigning utter exhaustion, just like the others. Then, carefully, he turned his head to the side. His eyes fell upon a figure in the back row, a face partially obscured by an arm, as if its owner had simply collapsed into sleep. The face seemed carved from pale stone, delicate and sorrowful, almost deathly. “…” Lysander found himself staring at Lord Rhysand. His gaze drifted to Rhysand’s arm. Had Rhysand, already an imposing figure, grown even taller? The rich velvets of his doublet, once perfectly tailored, now left his wrists starkly exposed. Around one wrist, a heavy, obsidian signet ring gleamed—a relic of his ancient house, unmistakable, an integral part of Rhysand’s formidable identity. Before recent events, Lysander had assumed Rhysand hailed from the farthest reaches of the Northern Marches, as distant and desolate as Kaelen’s ancestral lands. Rhysand, for all his intimidating aura, did not exude the obvious sheen of inherited wealth. His eyes, often sunken, were always shadowed by heavy lids. His pale irises gave him a perpetually haunted, watchful look. The way the thin sclera showed beneath his pupils added to his sharp, almost gaunt appearance. Rhysand’s overall demeanor was one of grim, almost aristocratic intimidation, yet it lacked the casual refinement often seen among the Obsidian Court’s wealthiest. Instead, his face seemed etched with a profound sense of deprivation, exuding a melancholic heaviness. Combined with his immense height and broad shoulders—he was undoubtedly the tallest courtier—it made him doubly imposing. Fortunately, unlike Valerius’s volatile charm, Rhysand’s sharp features possessed a classically handsome symmetry. Without it, people might have actively fled his presence. Even so, Rhysand’s face was unsettling, intimidating, and crackled with nervous energy, held tightly in check. Yet, Rhysand’s true nature couldn’t have been more different from his forbidding exterior. It wasn’t just that he seemed indifferent to everything; it was as if he actively erased events from his memory, whether intentionally or not. He possessed an air of “detached ownership of nothing,” a trait that, ironically, only added to his mystique. Most notably, Rhysand cared little for coin. He never paid attention to how much others spent or how much they might owe. If the mood struck him, he’d casually toss a pouch of silver to a nearby supplicant without a second thought, as if the concept of currency held no meaning for him. Sometimes he lent large sums, only to forget about them entirely. There were even stories of people returning borrowed coin, only for Rhysand to ask, genuinely puzzled, why they were offering it to him. Still, he didn’t indulge just anyone. He’d grant random requests when in a rare good mood, but would coldly refuse those who were truly desperate. Even with his closest allies, Rhysand could be harsh. Lysander once overheard a story about how Lord Gareth, upon seeing Rhysand’s prized hunting falcon—a magnificent bird Rhysand rarely displayed—had excitedly tried to stroke its feathers without permission. Rhysand had struck Gareth’s hand, sending him sprawling across the polished marble like a startled toad. At the apex of the court’s hierarchy, individuals like Rhysand and Valerius shared one thing: a complete disregard for others’ opinions. This profound indifference, in its own way, was what allowed them to sit at the court’s perilous peak. Why do we, with our own hands, hand over the keys to our world to these uncontrollable predators? No matter how much Lysander pondered it, he still couldn’t understand. And yet, Rhysand claimed strict adherence to the ancient, ascetic doctrines of the Grey Order. He was the type of lord who slept with a holy relic under his pillow, but still claimed to follow its teachings. He consumed no intoxicants, entertained no dalliances, took no bribes, and never extorted coin from lesser nobles. Yet the doctrine he followed was often flawed—anyone could tell from the Grey Order’s strictures against any indulgence. Many believed their ancient texts permitted only water and bread. The Order, it was said, viewed such unbridled passion as a sin. Was that why Valerius’s recent conduct disgusted Rhysand so profoundly? Lysander licked his dry lips. He felt a strange, cold relief that he hadn’t been caught in a similar scandal. If he had, he would have ended up like that trampled vellum, discarded on the floor. And yet, even in that moment, a treacherous question surfaced—if Valerius and Lysander had remained close, as they were just a few months ago, would Valerius have protected him? The thought surfaced against his will, dragging with it memories Lysander desperately wanted to forget. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to suppress the wave of nausea that rose in his chest, as though the thin broth he’d consumed earlier were threatening to return. No, of course not. How laughable, that he had once been so arrogant as to think so. To Valerius, Lysander was nothing. Just a convenient, skilled hand to pass the time with, to illuminate a favored text. He knew this now, because of the cold amusement in Valerius’s eyes when Lysander had last tried to offer counsel. Those eyes said everything. Lysander hadn’t wanted to know the truth, but it had been staring him in the face. Valerius sinned openly. Lysander, too, was a sinner—but he hid it. And so, Valerius was punished by the court, while Lysander was, for now, spared. A faint, dry laugh escaped his lips, so soft it was only audible to himself. “...So, as long as I don’t get caught, that’s all that matters.” Perhaps the gods had a personality like Lord Rhysand’s. Lysander’s gaze shifted to the empty lectern near Master Elara’s podium. An unusual pang of pity struck him. Poor Kaelen, caught in the clutches of the devil, Valerius. You lacked the strength to resist that monstrous, seductive power. Fragile, helpless Kaelen, unlike his towering, martial older brother. You should have fled the moment Lysander hinted at the whispers, fool. Lysander knew he wasn’t a good person. He was selfish, self-serving, and perhaps that was his own punishment. Sometimes, a darker thought surfaced: If one were to succumb to such affections, why not pick someone sly and deceitful like Lysander? At least then, life would be simpler. Why fall for someone so innocent and earnest, only to end up suffering for it? These days, however, he thought differently. Yes. Of course, no one could ever truly love someone like him. He knew himself too well to believe otherwise. There was a time when he thought he could have it all. Arrogant, conceited Lysander. Lysander, who thought he understood the world at eighteen. Wicked, vile Lysander. Pitiful Lysander, who had no one to comfort him, so he endured everything alone. That day, Lysander couldn’t bring himself to finish the fifteenth verse. He used his supposed lingering illness as an excuse to lie slumped over his desk, thinking: Well, at least I’m not as ruined as Valerius or Kaelen. Whispers about Valerius and Kaelen spread like wildfire through the court. Whether they were exaggerated or grounded in truth, no one could say for certain. There was no way to find out either. Valerius’s small circle of intimates had vanished, as if ripped out by the roots. The few who remained were too preoccupied with forming new alliances to worry about anything else, inadvertently fueling the rumors even further. “Master, forgive my interruption, but who holds the most sway with Lord Valerius these days?” “Lord… No, Lord Rhysand.” Lysander overheard this exchange as he passed by the main hall on his way back to the scriptorium, just before final dismissal. Master Elara had inquired of a junior courtier, who had answered with nervous haste. Pretending he hadn’t heard, Lysander walked into the room. Elara glanced nervously between Lysander and the empty lecterns, drumming her fingers against her desk. Then, as if giving up on some unspoken thought, she announced: “The day’s tasks are concluded.” The moment dismissal ended, Lysander gathered his materials. As he slung his satchel over his shoulder, a hand tapped him lightly on the back. A cold shiver. “Lysander. A word, if you please.” Lysander turned. Lord Rhysand stood there, his gaze unsettlingly direct. He knew. Lysander had always watched Valerius and Rhysand’s every move, so he knew that the person Rhysand most frequently sought out was always Valerius. After a brief pause, Lysander managed a strained smile. “My Lord. I fear I have pressing studies. Much work awaits.” “Later, then. After your studies.” “My Lord, I truly must attend to my work. Perhaps another time. Are there not others, closer to your… particular interests?” “No.” Rhysand’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Why not, My Lord?” “Getting too close to a liability only drags one down.” “They are your allies, My Lord.” “Life is about maximizing one’s gain. Clinging to the unworthy only ruins one’s own standing.” “Ha.” Lysander let out a short, hollow laugh at the stark absurdity of it. Right. This was precisely why he had been able to endure Rhysand’s company better than expected. Their twisted values, in a strange, terrible way, seemed to align. “So, Lord Gareth, Lord Emrys—they are unworthy, My Lord? Even Lord Cassian?” “If you put it so plainly, then yes, largely. But you are different, Lysander.” The backhanded compliment left Lysander feeling oddly exposed. “What does that mean, My Lord? You are cruel.” “No, I am not.” “You are so cruel.” “Hmm. The Grey Order preaches honesty, Lysander. ‘Thou shalt not conceal the truth.’ I am merely being honest.” Honestly, Rhysand was worse than Lysander. At least Lysander didn’t blatantly dismiss his acquaintances as worthless. “That is why I believe myself a man of virtue, Lysander.” “…Indeed, My Lord.” “Since I am such a man of virtue, may I accompany you to your chambers?” Rhysand blinked twice, his expression unreadable. Lysander looked at his face for a moment, the silence stretching, before he slowly nodded. “Yes, My Lord. If you wish.” As long as Rhysand did not interfere with Lysander’s work, there was no reason to refuse. To secure one’s tenuous place in the court’s hierarchy, sometimes one had to embrace the very predators one feared. ---

The Loom of Whispers