Lysander’s bruised knuckles throbbed less acutely. Master Elias’s potent herbal balm, a viscous green unguent smelling of crushed river mint and something metallic, had worked its quiet magic overnight. A faint discoloration, a mottled violet, still clung to his skin, but the swelling had receded. He could clench his fist without a wince, the sensation merely a dull protest. It was an injury easily hidden, easily dismissed. Heart lifting, Lysander made his way to the Scriptorium. A heavy quiet pressed upon the air there, though. Not the usual scholarly hum of quills on parchment, but a strained silence, thick with unspoken tension. Lysander’s gaze instinctively sought Thom. Thom entered just as Master Thorne prepared to call attendance, narrowly escaping a reprimand. A sharp gasp caught in Lysander’s throat. He froze, quill forgotten in hand. His earlier, fleeting thought—a callous hope that Valerius might have suffered some minor retaliation—dissolved into sickening guilt. Thom’s face was a ruin. A dark, ugly bruise bloomed beneath one eye, nearly sealing it shut, and his lower lip was split, a thin line of dried blood marring its center. Disgust curdled in Lysander’s stomach. He despised himself for such a base, childish wish. Thom’s eyes, already wary, swept across the room. They met Lysander’s, then widened in a flicker of raw terror. He flinched, turning sharply, shuffling to his usual bench at the back, his movements stiff, as if anticipating another blow. That panicked reaction left Lysander with a gnawing unease. He shifted, casting a glance around. Lord Valerius sat at his customary place, his chair pushed back slightly. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, were fixed on Lysander, a predatory glint within their depths. A cold dread seeped into Lysander’s bones. He should have feigned illness. Regret, sharp and bitter, tasted like ash on his tongue. --- Afterward, Thom, who had once sought Lysander’s counsel on the finer points of glyph formation, kept his distance. He avoided Lysander’s gaze during the brief respite between lessons. At the midday repast, Thom vanished, slipping away with Lord Valerius before Lysander could even glimpse him. Alone, Lysander found himself sharing a simple loaf and dried fruit with Kael. A frantic urge to seek them out, to discover Thom’s fate, clawed at him. But a deeper, colder fear held him fast. He was afraid of what he might witness. Valerius wouldn’t... not again, surely? Thom’s battered face haunted Lysander’s vision, a stark image of his own powerlessness. Kael, meanwhile, seemed utterly oblivious to the storm raging within Lysander’s mind. He munched on a tart apple, humming a tuneless air. "See? I told you Master Thorne’s lecture on ancient scripts was thick enough to curdle fresh milk. I almost choked on my own patience." Lysander only hummed in reply. "You seemed quite content sketching those decorative borders yesterday." "Give me credit. I absorbed the dry parchment like a master absorbent." Kael winked, a playful glint in his eye. "Though I’d rather be absorbing a flagon of mead, truth be told." Lysander nudged Kael’s shin with his foot, a soft reprimand for the coarse jest. Kael merely rubbed his chin, a sheepish, almost wounded look on his face. Or so it seemed. Lysander squinted. No, that couldn’t be right. Kael was never truly sheepish. --- Life held an unpredictable current. From their initial, awkward introductions, Lysander had never intended to forge any bond with Kael. Indeed, Kael’s boisterous nature often grated on Lysander’s nerves. Yet, here they were, Kael the closest confidant Lysander possessed. Kael’s lighthearted demeanor, his flippant remarks, possessed a strange power. They prevented Lysander from sinking too deeply into the suffocating weight of Court life. In the past, Lysander had disdained those very qualities, dismissing Kael as frivolous, unserious. But now, he clung to that levity, a necessary ballast for his own anxious soul. If Valerius and Lysander had remained companions, Lysander doubted he would have ever realized how profoundly he needed Kael’s steady, uncomplicated presence. After that day, Lord Valerius began to distance himself from the established coterie of young nobles. Sometimes, he’d vanish with Thom alone. Other times, he’d draw a few others into his wake. There were even instances when some of them flat-out refused, shaking their heads with tight-lipped unease. Sir Gareth was one such instance. Lysander encountered him scrambling over the low wall of the garden pavilion, clearly evading a watchful Master-at-Arms. Gareth confessed, with a nervous laugh, that Valerius had been instructing them to strike Thom, one blow each. Lysander’s face twisted in disbelief. Gareth, sensing Lysander’s reaction, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Valerius’s circle recently because of it. He then mentioned he was bound for the Grand Archives with young Master Edric and begged Lysander not to misinterpret his earlier association. With a hurried nod, he departed. Master Edric, Lysander recalled, had once been a close associate of Valerius in their first year of tutelage, but after being assigned to a different Scriptorium wing, their paths had diverged. At the midday repast, Kael and Lysander ventured to the Courtyard, purchasing frosted fruit confections from a vendor’s cart. The cold sweetness spread across Lysander’s tongue, a brief, tantalizing reprieve. Yet beneath that fleeting relief, a bitter knot of dread tightened in his chest. He held his expression carefully, determined to betray nothing. "Does that taste good?" Kael asked, his own brightly colored confection dripping down his fingers. He eyed Lysander’s treat with transparent longing. "Would you care to sample it?" Lysander offered, half-teasing, bringing his chilled plum confection—sticky with his own saliva—close to Kael’s mouth. Without a moment’s hesitation, Kael smirked. He lifted a corner of his lip, revealing a flash of white teeth, and took a large, deliberate bite. "By the Ancestors, Kael! Did you truly eat that?" "You bade me to." "That’s... unsanitary. And why such a prodigious bite?" "It was but a single sampling," Kael said, grinning, shrugging one shoulder. The moment was deceptively peaceful. In stark contrast to Lysander’s internal turmoil, the crisp autumn air stirred gently, carrying the scent of drying leaves and distant hearth smoke. Where were Lord Valerius and Thom now? Several secluded alcoves within the Court grounds sprang to mind, but Lysander did not go searching. Perhaps he truly feared what he might discover. He tried desperately not to think of Lord Valerius. But the harder he tried, the more acutely he realized how much space Valerius occupied in his mind, like an unsightly blot on a meticulously prepared page. How long would it take to excise such a figure? How much effort would it require to erase the lingering stain of their former bond? Lysander did not know. It felt like being lost in a vast, parched desert, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable. Sometimes, he retreated. Like an apprentice struggling to discern the faint impressions on a worn wax tablet, he found himself stepping back, attempting to comprehend the tangled emotions. When the confusion became too overwhelming, he would occasionally confide in Kael. And, well, that was that. Lysander suddenly asked, "Kael." "What is it?" "Do you think anything can bloom in a barren wasteland?" The question, so raw and emotional, embarrassed Lysander the moment the words left his lips. He scratched his head, feeling foolish. But Kael did not mock him. "They will," Kael said, his voice unusually soft. Lysander looked at him, surprised. "They must. Life’s brutal enough as it is." Hearing those words from Kael—a person Lysander had never thought capable of such gravity—made Lysander realize how futile his desperate hope was. How much time would it truly take to relinquish these meaningless feelings? "Aye. Life’s brutal." Lord Valerius. That arrogant, useless bastard. Why did he seem so intent on destroying the loyal, eager scribe Lysander had once been whenever Valerius drew near? Lord Valerius, who appeared to have abandoned all the basic decorum a young noble should uphold, now came and went from his duties as he pleased. And always, a shadowed figure, Thom by his side. As the unfolding events grew increasingly suspicious, the Scriptorium buzzed with a mix of unease and hushed intrigue. It became starkly clear: Valerius’s petty cruelties were escalating. And so was the fog of resentment toward him, slowly spreading throughout the class, like spilled ink staining fine parchment. None of it settled well with Lysander. --- So, when Lysander saw Lord Valerius dragging Thom by the wrist down the echoing corridor, he stopped in his tracks. His gaze flickered between their faces, then he spoke, his voice betraying a slight tremor. "Your lord father asked of your welfare." It was not an apology, nor flattery. It was a lie. Such was the extent of Lysander’s desperate pride. But since Valerius held no warmth for his estranged father, he likely wouldn’t discern the falsehood. And even if he did, Lysander could always argue that, at this rate, his father would indeed have ample cause for concern. He always ensured an escape route for himself. "If an atonement is needed, let it be yours alone. What crime has Thom committed?" "Move," Valerius snarled. The moment Lysander uttered Thom’s name, Valerius’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as a dagger. Lysander’s chest felt like it would burst from the crushing weight of that stare. He hated him. And yet, pathetic, tear-filled Thom stood glued to Valerius’s side, his eyes wide, on the verge of spilling over. "Unless you desire another lesson, like last time, step aside." "L-Lord Valerius, please," Thom stammered, his voice trembling, clinging to Valerius’s sleeve. Only then did Valerius cease speaking. His attention, cold and absolute, fixed solely on Thom. All Lysander could see was the rigid line of Valerius’s back as he turned away. "A-as I said, your lord father is concerned—" Thom, tears now freely tracking paths through the dust on his cheeks, clung more desperately to Valerius, trying to hold him back. Watching that pitiful scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that Lysander closed his eyes. After a long moment, Valerius looked down at Thom, then turned and walked back into the Scriptorium. For the rest of the day, he remained there—just like weeks ago, when the storm had first begun to gather. --- The long-anticipated day of the Royal Convoy to the Grand Archives had arrived. A large, enclosed cart, usually reserved for noble dignitaries, had been rented for the journey. While a few young lords grumbled about being drawn away from their scholarly pursuits, most were thrilled by the chance to escape the Scriptorium, even for a single day. There was no need to pack provisions; they would return shortly after the noon bell. Master Thorne gave only a few half-hearted warnings before ushering them towards the Courtyard. They were not young squires anymore. There was no giddy excitement keeping Lysander from his slumber the night before. He considered it just another day—depart without satchel, return without satchel. He had no premonition that today would be the day his carefully bottled frustrations would finally burst forth. He had expected the explosion, but not with such sudden, brutal force. As was customary, Lysander always took the bench beside Lord Valerius whenever they left the Scriptorium. After all, he had been Valerius’s most trusted companion. He hadn’t even considered where Kael might sit, as he had never traveled in such close quarters with him before. At first, a familiar anxiety pricked at Lysander. He was wary of Kael, afraid Kael might inadvertently take the bench closest to Valerius. Reflecting on it now, the thought felt pathetic. Neither Lysander nor Kael would occupy that particular spot. Arriving at the Courtyard, Lysander spotted their appointed cart, its dark wood gleaming under the pale sun. He climbed aboard, seeking their usual benches. The five rearmost benches were already claimed by a boisterous group of classmates, including Sir Gareth, who waved at Lysander, then hesitated, pointing towards Valerius’s bench. "Lysander! A bench here!" "Ah, yes." Of course. He had always been the one beside him. But today, Lysander hesitated as he approached Lord Valerius’s bench. A quiet sigh of relief escaped him when he saw the seat beside Valerius was still empty. He swallowed hard, a flicker of determined pride igniting within him. It was his place. His pride—the last fragile shard he stubbornly clung to—compelled him to sit there, even after the sting of Valerius’s rejection and the subsequent assault concerning Thom. Lysander’s fingers brushed the polished wood of the bench for a fleeting moment. He glanced around the cart, then quietly asked, "Lord Valerius... this bench..." "It is taken. Find another." Before Lysander could finish, Valerius cut him off, his gaze fixed intently on the cart’s entrance. Following Valerius’s line of sight, Lysander saw Thom timidly making his way up the steps. Lysander’s hands clenched into fists, and the words died in his throat. "Very well. As you wish." He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded into a thousand brittle pieces. He quickly retreated from the bench, scanning the crowded cart. He found an empty space near Kael’s group, directly in front of where Kael was seated. Relief, swift and dizzying, washed over him. He rushed over, collapsing onto the bench, and spoke without waiting for a response. "Kael. Share this bench with me." No answer came. Lysander looked closer. Kael was already deep in slumber, his head resting awkwardly against the pane, bouncing gently with every rumble of the cart. Kael always seemed to doze in the early hours; today was no exception. Lysander shook his head at Kael’s ridiculous posture. He shoved his leather pouch, heavy with a few coins and a small inkpot, between Kael’s head and the window, then settled himself into the uncomfortable seat beside him. Across the aisle, Lysander caught a glimpse of dark brown hair. It was Lord Valerius’s—he was taller than most of their cohort, making him easily identifiable. Though Lysander couldn’t discern their faces clearly, he knew Thom was now seated beside him. He did not need to see. The silence of the cart, broken only by the rumble of the wheels and Kael’s soft snores, pressed in on him, filled with the echo of a door closing.

The Illuminated Cage