The shift in Lord Lysander Thorne’s demeanor was not unexpected, yet it gnawed at Cassian with the persistent ache of a bruised bone. After the incident in the shadowed antechamber of the Thorne archives – a fleeting moment of shared vulnerability misconstrued as an act of defiance – Lysander’s disdain had become an open, festering wound in the very fabric of their acquaintance. The polished deference, the subtle nods of recognition Lysander once bestowed upon his cartographer, had evaporated, replaced by a glacial indifference that chilled Cassian to the marrow.
Now, the youthful Elias, a lesser noble recently elevated to Lysander’s favor, occupied the seat beside him at every formal assembly, every intimate supper. Elias, with his gentle eyes and unassuming grace, seemed to cling to Lysander like a vine to a sturdy oak, utterly oblivious to the silent currents of resentment that churned beneath the surface of the Thorne estate.
Cassian prided himself on his composure, his ability to observe and record with an artist’s detachment. Yet, beneath this quiet dignity, a fragile pride bristled. He was no pathetic weakling, he vowed, no cowering serf to be trampled underfoot. He would not feign unaffectedness while shame pricked at his skin. Yet, the courage to address Lysander, to seek explanation or absolution, eluded him. Such an act would only confirm the accusations in Lysander’s cold gaze.
A melancholic ennui settled over Cassian’s days. Sometimes, a petty spark of vengeful fire ignited in his breast – a quiet plotting of minor inconveniences, a mental map of Lysander’s eventual downfall – but the flame always sputtered, leaving only the enduring ash of resignation.
Lysander, that self-possessed heir, now eyed Cassian with a childish envy, a blatant resentment that defied his cultivated noble mask. The reason for this transformation was clear, a name whispered in the hallowed halls of Cassian’s internal chambers: Elias.
Cassian’s resentment for Elias was a bitter, illogical thing. Elias had never been his to possess, yet he felt a thief had plundered his rightful place. Not content with simply occupying Lysander’s attention, Elias had, in Cassian’s twisted logic, poisoned Lysander’s regard, turning it into active hatred. A vicious bastard, he thought, though the thought shamed him.
Such feelings defied all reason. Cassian knew, with the detached clarity of his analytical mind, that Elias was but a satellite, drawn into Lysander’s orbit by the heir’s capricious will. But logic held no sway over the visceral knot in his gut. Blaming Elias was a necessary fiction, a scapegoat he needed to endure the wretchedness of his situation.
He maintained a perfectly neutral countenance when Elias was near. To show open animosity, to betray the green-eyed monster clawing at his insides, would be to invite disaster. It would expose his raw jealousy, a weakness unforgivable in the rigid Valorian court. Worse, it would make him a fool in Lysander’s eyes, deepening the chasm between them. And the whispers… the whispers of “the Aberrant,” the “Unnatural” — those damnable labels would cling to him like grave-dust if he gave anyone cause.
“This… is insufferable,” he murmured, the words tight in his throat.
He hated it. More than Lysander’s contempt, he hated the suffocating weight of this new reality. Then, Lord Kaelen Varr, an irritation wrapped in silk, drifted into his thoughts. Kaelen, from a minor but ambitious house, had lately been a constant, if abrasive, presence. What cutting remark would Kaelen make if he divined Cassian’s inner turmoil? A sneer, perhaps: ‘So, the esteemed cartographer harbors the Unnatural, does he?’
The image of Kaelen’s disdainful gaze made Cassian’s stomach churn. His fingers clenched, knuckles white. The thought was nauseating. He would rather peel the skin from his own bones than have anyone discover the truth of his heart.
Friendships among the Valorian elite were ephemeral, delicate constructs of convenience. Once Lysander’s favor had visibly receded from Cassian, the lesser lights of his retinue had, naturally, dimmed their own interactions. Amusingly, Ser Gideon, captain of Lysander’s household guard, a man usually as taciturn as a stone gargoyle, had approached Cassian the previous day.
“Master Cassian, Lord Kaelen was asking for you.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“Did not say. Merely asked of your whereabouts.”
Cassian merely inclined his head. Useless exchanges, always. It was clear now: to the watchful eyes of the estate, Cassian was slowly being absorbed into Kaelen Varr’s orbit, far from the Thorne inner circle.
Not that the ties were entirely severed. Occasionally, in the training grounds or by chance in the dawn light, polite, clipped greetings were exchanged. Primarily, this was with Ser Gideon.
“Master Cassian. A fine morning.”
“Ser Gideon. And to you.”
Once, during such an awkward encounter, Ser Gideon had lowered his voice, a conspiratorial murmur lost in the rustle of leaves.
‘Lord Lysander has been… peculiar, of late. His treatment of Elias, Master Cassian… it verges on the unsettling, would you not agree?’
Cassian’s jaw tightened. He must have worn a look of distaste, for Ser Gideon seemed to take it as agreement, continuing to speak of Lysander’s insistent demands for Elias’s presence, the grip on Elias’s arm that lingered too long, the way he would not permit Elias to leave his side.
Cassian clenched his fists, the fine lawn of his tunic growing damp beneath his palms. His response was a low, brittle whisper.
“I care nothing for such… aberrant displays, Ser Gideon.”
The guard captain fell silent, his eyes wide. He cleared his throat and nodded, retreating quickly. Lately, Ser Gideon had been seen conversing with Kaelen Varr’s retainers, a man quietly seeking anchorage outside Lysander’s increasingly erratic shadow. Perhaps his shared observations had been an attempt to bridge a new, more stable alliance.
Today, as often now, only Kaelen Varr and Cassian remained in the cavernous Thorne library, the last echoes of the day’s scholars fading into the high, vaulted ceilings. Kaelen leaned against a towering bookshelf, a slender, polished obsidian scrying mirror spinning idly between his fingers, his gaze fixed on Cassian. Whether he merely observed or truly ignored, Cassian could not tell. Annoyed, Cassian turned his head, affecting disinterest.
“Cassian.”
“Lord Kaelen?”
“Let us seek out that Northern spiced cordial after the evening repast. The one we tasted last month, from the hidden merchant in the Low Quarter. It was rather… potent.”
Kaelen ignored Cassian’s efforts at indifference. As he spoke, he carelessly tossed the obsidian mirror, letting it arc high before plucking it from the air with practiced ease. The mirrored surface flashed, threatening to catch the attention of the few remaining scribes, but none dared voice a complaint.
Kaelen, truly, seemed utterly indifferent to the prevailing mood, selfish even in his bonhomie. Cassian watched the mirror gleam, a frown creasing his brow. His irritation over Kaelen’s casual insolence sharpened his voice.
“Potent, you say? You consumed the entire decanter yourself, if I recall. You acquired it solely for your own pleasure.”
“Hardly. I have a particular fondness for its cinnamon notes.”
“And my preferences were not considered in this acquisition?”
“How was I to know? You offered no opinion.”
The scrying mirror, having slipped from Kaelen’s grasp, now rolled silently across the polished flagstones. Kaelen extended a hand. One of the junior archivists, lingering near the mirror, hesitated. Then, with an awkward bow, he retrieved the object and placed it in Kaelen’s outstretched palm. Kaelen idly shook the mirror, catching the light, and addressed the retreating archivist.
“My thanks, little scribe.”
An insufferable personality. ‘Scribe this, lesser lord that.’ Every word dripped with condescension. It made no sense that such an obnoxious individual should be shadowing Cassian, rather than cultivating Lord Lysander’s favor. Kaelen broke bread with him, accompanied him to lectures, and engaged him in the mundane rituals of estate life. Lysander might not seek Cassian out, but Kaelen could easily send a familiar, or simply present himself before the heir if he wished.
The thought pricked Cassian, and he voiced it, the question escaping without conscious intent.
“Why do you not seek Lord Lysander’s company these days?”
Kaelen, mid-toss of the obsidian mirror, froze. He turned to Cassian, a puzzled frown on his elegant features.
“You quarreled with him,” he stated simply.
“I?”
“Indeed. You and Lord Lysander.”
“I am well aware of the nature of our estrangement. But why does it concern you so profoundly?”
“You utter the most peculiar things. It concerns me because you are my companion.”
Kaelen’s gaze, unnervingly blatant, swept over Cassian. Unease prickled Cassian’s skin, and he averted his eyes, posing a counter-question.
“You were also Lysander’s companion, were you not?”
“Remarkable. Are you suggesting you are not mine?” Kaelen’s tone was now incredulous, a finger pointing accusatorily at Cassian.
“No, I count you among my companions. But you were also Lysander’s. Why have you chosen my side in this?”
“Because I have known you longer.”
“What nonsense is this? Our acquaintance began through Lysander, did it not?”
“Preposterous. We shared clandestine glances in the Grand Archives in our younger years, even before Lysander deigned to notice you!”
“Ah… those moments.” Cassian remembered, with a faint blush, the unexpected, wordless acknowledgments they had shared in the hushed aisles, two quiet observers in a sea of bustling scholars.
“So, I was alone in my estimation of our bond? You are a deceiver. That is precisely why, when we were formally introduced by Lysander, I sought your presence first! And you would deny this history? Unfathomable. I am deeply disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Truly. Unfathomable. How could you be so… blind?”
“Very well. My apologies. I am sorry, Kaelen.”
Cassian mumbled the apology, a faint memory stirring of those awkward, yet strangely frequent, encounters from his early days at the estate. So, *that* had been within Kaelen’s definition of ‘companionship.’ Cassian felt strangely… robbed. He had interpreted those shared glances as mutual observation, a silent acknowledgment of shared solitude, not nascent friendship. Wait, had Kaelen truly been the first to seek his company, not Lysander?
The realization struck him with the force of a thunderclap, leaving him momentarily breathless. It was unsettling, even shocking. Still, he wished not to unravel the knot further, so he merely nodded, feigning comprehension.
“Alright, alright. I understand. My regrets.”
“I was profoundly vexed, just now.” Kaelen’s glare lingered for a moment. Cassian sometimes despaired of understanding the workings of Kaelen’s mind.
“And anyway, Lysander Thorne is behaving in a truly unsettling manner.”
Kaelen paused, tossing the obsidian mirror with four fingers, letting it spin lazily around his temple with his index finger. The sight conjured the memory of Ser Gideon, and the other lesser nobles who had awkwardly sought to speak of Lysander’s odd behavior. From this alone, one truth emerged: Lord Lysander Thorne’s reputation, once unassailable, was in freefall.
“Aberrant.”
The word, the most feared and damning stigma in the rigidly stratified Valorian Dominion, sent a cold shiver through Cassian. His body trembled imperceptibly. At the same time, a surge of relief washed over him – relief that no one suspected him. Did this relief signify that he valued his own security above Lysander’s plight? A blasphemous thought.
Unease gnawed at him as he met Kaelen’s perceptive gaze, feeling like a heretic priest concealing an unholy secret before a divine oracle.
“Truly, Kaelen,” he murmured, the word almost a gasp.
Then he let out a short, sharp laugh – a strange mixture of fear and derision. It was almost a cruel jest that, to others, he was now Kaelen Varr’s closest companion. In truth, he was no different from what they might whisper of Lysander: a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Only a few moons prior, he had been Lysander Thorne’s chosen confidant. And yet, here he was, hiding in a filthy trap from which he had barely escaped. He had merely avoided being caught. That was all.
---
It was the pre-dawn hour. A small, tightly rolled scroll, bound with a plain hemp string, lay at his chamber door. No sealing wax, no crest. An unexpected message from an unknown hand. A summons at the fourth bell of the morning. Half-awake, Cassian wondered if this new misery, this new entanglement, was merely a continuation of his unsettled dreams. Even though he had deliberately avoided seeking Lysander, his heart lurched, a desperate flutter, at the thought that the message might be from the Thorne heir. A flicker of hope, swiftly extinguished.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the parchment’s coarse texture unfamiliar against his fingertips. His feelings were conflicted; a part of him wished for it to be a harmless administrative notice, or perhaps a coded plea from an ally. But as soon as his eyes scanned the formal, yet hesitant script, he knew it was not from Lysander.
“Esteemed Cassian, my profound apologies for this untimely intrusion. Might I humbly request your presence outside your humble abode for a brief moment? Forgive me. I am truly regretful.”
“Only for this once. This solitary occasion.”
Lord Lysander Thorne would never proffer such abject apologies. Never. Among his peers, only two used the familiar address “Cassian” without a title, and of those two, only one could pen such a desperate, pitiful request. How had Elias even learned the precise location of his small, secluded cottage within the sprawling Thorne estate? The moment he deciphered the message, Cassian’s face twisted into a scowl. He did not wish to see Elias—never wished to see him. Elias was always… unpleasant, a reminder of what he had lost.
But despite the torrent of his thoughts, Cassian swung his legs from the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold stone. He buttoned his tunic, the linen rough against his skin, and rose. He walked to his chamber door, but stopped short of stepping through, resting his forehead against the cool, dark wood of the frame. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped him.
“Damn it all.”
It was an overwhelming burden, a heavy knot in his stomach, a physical manifestation of his inner turmoil. That was the only way to describe it. He clutched at his chest, where his heart hammered a frantic rhythm. He had always prided himself on his vast vocabulary, gleaned from countless scrolls and tomes, but none of the words he knew could fully express this intricate, tangled briar of emotions.
It was simply… complicated.
The hatred he felt for Elias, the indelible memory of the younger noble’s bruised, desperate face from that day in the antechamber, and the weary, desperate days he had spent trying to sever the fragile cord between Lysander and himself – all swirled into a sickening vortex. He bit his lip until he tasted copper, his fingers fiddling with the cold iron doorknob. Then, closing his eyes, he twisted it with a decisive turn.
In the ancestral gardens, the cold morning dew clung heavily to the air, a silent herald of the coming autumn. To avoid the chill dampness of the lawn, Cassian stepped carefully onto the cool, polished marble stones that formed a winding path. The dawn’s biting chill made him pull his jacket tighter around him, the rough wool little comfort. His toes, peeking from the front of his worn slippers, carried him through the intricate maze of topiary and statuary, all the way to the tall, wrought-iron gate that marked the edge of his cottage’s private grounds.
He paused there for a moment, clicking his tongue lightly against his teeth, then grasped the cold, unyielding handle. The creaking of the hinge, though faint, made him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, a theatrical delay he did not intend.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the guttering flame of a distant street lamp, stood Elias. He was still clad in the formal attire of a Thorne ward, his head hung low, idly tracing invisible patterns on the asphalt with the scuffed toe of his boot.
“...Elias.”
At Cassian’s voice, Elias’s head snapped up like a startled fawn.
“Cassian! Oh, Cassian!”
“What is it you—