Lysander found himself in a smaller chamber adjoining Lord Rhysand's expansive study, a space intended for junior scribes or retainers. The air, though cleaner than the Scriptorium, still carried the faint scent of old parchment and lamp oil. He sat on a polished oaken stool, an unfinished cipher scroll resting before him. His thoughts, however, drifted to the two days past. A small tremor ran through him. He had observed it then, near the courtyard refuse bins. Not their cherished codices, for those would have been valuable, but simpler training scrolls, quills snapped in two, and a tarnished signet ring bearing the House Valerius crest. They lay scattered, already attracting the attention of scavengers, tangible remnants of a sudden, brutal purge. No grand decree had announced their fall. No formal disavowal. Just the swift, silent removal, leaving behind only these discarded fragments. The implication was clear. Lord Valerius and Lord Kaelen, once pillars of the Obsidian Court, were now less than dust. Their very existence had been erased from polite conversation, their past illusions shattered like fragile glass. A wave of relief, cold and unsettling, washed over Lysander. He felt no remorse. Valerius, Kaelen—they had once been kind, even admiring of his work. But court was a serpent’s nest, and he had learned, albeit painfully, to recognize true venom. His own past illusions had nearly poisoned him. There was no need to speak out, to ask questions. Such a gesture would be akin to a lamb offering its throat to the butcher. He rested his chin on a fist, closing his eyes against the faint afternoon light filtering through the high, narrow window. His head throbbed with a persistent ache. He wished he could simply sleep, forget the cloying dread that clung to him like a damp cloak. Perhaps, if he opened his eyes again, the world would be simpler, less demanding. He almost drifted, the hum of the city a distant lullaby. Then, a sharp *thwack* against his skull jolted him upright. A gasp caught in his throat. He clutched his head, his eyes flying open to meet the amused glint in Kaelan’s dark eyes. Kaelan, Lord Kaelen’s younger brother, who had somehow managed to remain within Rhysand’s orbit despite his family's disgrace. "What in the Blighted Hells was that?" Lysander demanded, rubbing the tender spot. Kaelan, leaning casually against the doorframe, still held the polished oak cane that had struck Lysander. He tapped its tip against the flagstone floor with a rhythmic click. "Too early for slumber, Scribe. Best save that for your deathbed." Lysander scowled. "Mind your own affairs. What is that thing?" Kaelan grinned, a flash of white teeth. He twirled the cane. "This? A lucky find. In the palace storerooms, no less. Figured it might prove useful." An exasperated sigh escaped Lysander. Kaelan was always discovering oddities. Lysander ran a hand through his slightly disheveled hair, smoothing it back, concerned about appearing untidy before Rhysand. Meanwhile, Kaelan nudged a stool with his foot, sending it scraping across the floor, then fluidly settled onto it, draping one leg over the other. His satchel, a worn leather affair, landed on the small table with a thud. He promptly used it as a pillow, resting his head forward. "You wake me only to sleep yourself?" Lysander retorted, irritation rising. Kaelan’s voice was muffled by the leather. "Merely checking your diligence, Lysander. Wouldn't want you failing your duties. My own, well, they are what they are." "Lies." Lysander twisted on his stool, a prickle of annoyance urging him to provoke Kaelan further. He nudged Kaelan's boot with his own. Kaelan lifted his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Striking an injured man, Scribe? You'll be cursed for such barbarity." Lysander scoffed, and this time, kicked the cane. It clattered against Kaelan’s arm, but without even lifting his head, Kaelan snaked a hand out, catching it before it could fall. His face remained buried in his satchel, yet a low, breathy laugh escaped him. Then, his voice, softer now, pierced the air. "There's something I’ve been meaning to ask." "What is it?" "That… didn't look like a simple tumble." Lysander's blood ran cold. Was it truly so obvious? He touched the faint bruise along his temple, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced a nonchalant shrug. "It was an accident. A misplaced step." Kaelan chuckled, a dry, knowing sound. His chin still rested on his satchel. "Indeed?" His eyes flicked up, bright and piercing. He pointed a finger at Lysander, a silent accusation. Lysander’s mind raced, struggling to decipher the intent. "What do you mean?" "You are shameless." The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Lysander felt his composure fraying. "Shameless? What are you talking about?" "A fall doesn't quite account for it..." Kaelan's voice trailed off, imbued with a quiet, unnerving certainty. Lysander swallowed hard. Kaelan’s gaze was unsettlingly steady, his dark irises fixed on him like a predator. It felt like watching an arrow notched, aimed straight at his chest. His mind went blank. *No, he couldn't know. It's impossible.* The frantic thoughts echoed in his skull. Kaelan's eyes narrowed, a slow, predatory curve. "It looked more like you ran *into* something. Or someone." Lysander's throat constricted, his breath catching. He watched Kaelan's lips part, unable to blink. "If others found out, it would be quite... inconvenient, wouldn't it?" Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. "I shall keep it quiet." Kaelan lifted the hand holding the cane to his lips, a conspiratorial wink. The breath Lysander had been holding slammed against his ribs. Without waiting for a response, Kaelan casually ran a hand through his own dark hair. "But did you copy my style? That's rather dull." Lysander was speechless. Kaelan wrinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I shall resume my important duties." He yawned, burying his face back into his satchel. Lysander stared at the back of Kaelan’s head, finally managing to stammer, "I didn't copy you. And I didn't cut my hair." "Oh?" Kaelan's muffled voice rumbled from the depths of the satchel. --- Days later, the results of the monthly Scriptorium Assessments were posted on the communal notice board, usually a cause for hushed conversations and nervous glances. Lysander, having navigated the corridors of Rhysand’s apartments, found Kaelan already there, clutching his own parchment. "By the Blessed Ancients, I am utterly ruined!" Kaelan wailed, throwing his head back dramatically, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He clutched his score sheet like a death warrant. Lysander glanced at his own report, a scroll folded precisely and tucked into the pocket of his tunic. His marks were, as always, impeccable. He looked back at Kaelan, whose Adam's apple bobbed heavily with each dramatic sigh. "The Ancients do not concern themselves with penmanship or memorized verses," Lysander stated, adjusting his collar. "Who cares? A prayer is a prayer." Kaelan lowered his head, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Say, you're the clever one. Do the Ancients prefer offerings of gold or blood?" Lysander blinked. Kaelan's understanding of reverence was always... peculiar. "Why ask me? They are *your* Ancients." "Oh, Lysander, don't be so stiff. You know everything, I thought." "I do not. And I don't subscribe to such practices." Kaelan, who had been leaning back precariously, shot forward. Their eyes met, and Lysander, caught off guard, instinctively averted his gaze towards a nearby window, pretending to be absorbed by the view of the courtyard. Yet, a sharp prickle of unease spread through his chest, as if he had been caught in a lie. He stared out at the bustling courtyard, then shifted his focus to the immaculate stitching on Kaelan’s tunic collar. The crisp fabric, a deep obsidian, contrasted sharply with Kaelan’s tanned skin. With every exaggerated movement, a sliver of Kaelan’s collarbone flashed into view. "So? Fancy joining me for a ritual offering this Moon-cycle?" Kaelan asked. "What? No." "Ah, why not? Come along. They distribute blessed bread and roasted fowl on the Solstice. Sometimes even spiced wine." "Wait, you only attend for the provisions?" Lysander asked, disbelief etched on his face. "Naturally." Lysander finally met Kaelan’s gaze, his eyes snagging on the quill Kaelan was now balancing on his upper lip. He hated to admit it, but Kaelan possessed a certain roguish charm, a handsomeness that was both irritating and undeniable. The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted Kaelan’s voice into a slurred mumble. "It sounds as if I'm stealing, Lysander. If they are offered freely, what harm in accepting?" "Can one truly call it faith if your beliefs are so self-serving?" "That is how all faith begins. None start with grand pronouncements. They think, 'Ah, the High Priest offers good ale. That priest must be kind.' And then, little by little, their belief in that 'kind priest with ale' turns into absolute devotion to the Old Gods. The start and the process hold no sway. What matters is that now, I believe." Kaelan often spouted such nonsense. Lysander had witnessed him rope others into these curious philosophical tangents before. Sometimes, it was pure absurdity. But sometimes, it was the kind of sharp, cynical wisdom that even Lysander found himself drawn to, a dark mirror to his own calculated pragmatism. This was one of those times. Lysander ran a hand through his perpetually unruly bangs, trying to sweep them away from his eyes. They stubbornly fell back, so he shook his head, his thin strands swaying before him. He gathered them near his temples, finally lessening the tickling distraction. He had been so consumed with courtly anxieties that he had neglected to visit the court barber. The absence of Valerius and Kaelen left a gaping hole in the usual hierarchy of the Scriptorium. Lysander no longer had reason to direct his gaze towards their once-prominent places. Just three days prior, the Master of Scribes summoned Lysander to his private study, inquiring if he had heard from Lord Valerius. Lysander answered honestly, his voice steady. "No, Master. Lord Valerius has not reached out to me." "You still haven't reconciled with him, have you, Lysander?" the Master pressed, his eyes shrewd. Lysander offered a small, carefully practiced smile. A bitter, empty gesture. "No, Master. Lord Valerius… he grew quite displeased with me." "Displeased with *you*?" "Indeed." Rumors had already begun to circulate throughout the court, so the Master was hardly oblivious to the implications of Lysander's words. "Alright, I understand," he sighed, dismissing Lysander with a weary wave. As Lysander turned to leave, he heard the Master mutter under his breath, a string of complaints about Lord Valerius's temperament and the scolding he had received from House Valerius's chief steward. Lysander pretended not to hear the pathetic monologue, yet he listened, subtly absorbing the atmosphere of exasperation. Later that eve, while Lysander diligently worked on an illumination in his assigned chamber, Lord Valerius's own chief steward had sent a missive, asking the same question as the Master of Scribes. Lysander penned his reply with exquisite precision. "No, the esteemed Lord Valerius has not sought contact with me." — *I see…* "I deeply regret my inability to assist." — *No, young Lysander, you have nothing to apologize for. It is quite alright.* Lately, the steward’s inquiries had become more frequent. Each interaction unfolded with the same, unsettling pattern. There was something oddly deliberate in their attempts to tie Lysander to the now-disgraced lord. Lysander ensured his replies were always concise, always deferential, always swift. In truth, there was nothing to apologize for. Yet, Lysander offered his regrets anyway—to cultivate favor. It was the same instinct that prompted courtiers to praise a noble's ugly child as "strikingly unique." A social convention. An unspoken etiquette that greased the wheels of the Obsidian Court. He did not believe for a moment that the adults saw through his carefully constructed politeness. If anything, his deference was a crude pantomime, enacted by a desperate, talented jester. He understood his place. And because he put forth the effort to be liked, he was bound to become a truly beloved jester. Even if, one day, he made an error so glaring it drew a collective frown from the assembled nobles, they would forgive him. This was the foundation he painstakingly laid. Unlike some shortsighted fool, Lysander was navigating his existence with clear-eyed cunning. Perhaps, from the perspective of the Elder Council, his thinking was but a narrow-minded, petty trick to evade difficulty. But among his peers, it was undeniable—he was someone who knew how to handle unpredictable tides with astute caution. Proof lay in the increasing solicitations of Joric, a junior scribe who, now desperate to win Kaelan’s approval, had begun to extend overtures of friendship to Lysander. Joric, once one of Valerius’s closest confidants, now made it painfully clear where his loyalties lay. His hand trembled as he began to lay down the gold leaf, a shimmer of perfection against the vellum.

The Unseen Mark