A dull ache throbbed behind Cassian’s eyes as awareness slowly returned. He lay sprawled across his cot, the rough weave of the blanket chafing against his cheek. Even in the haze of pain, a primal instinct had guided his hand to latch the door of his cramped chambers within the Thorne manor. He had managed that, at least.
His shoulders felt stiff, as though the very air in the ancient stone room had solidified within his joints. A groan caught in his throat. He lifted a hand, each finger protesting the movement. Sharp pangs radiated from his bruised ribs as he tentatively pressed against his side.
Tender spots, swollen and unyielding beneath the thin fabric of his tunic, cried out in protest. He lay there, still and silent, for a long moment, the scent of dust and old parchment filling his nostrils. Pushing himself upright, a shudder ran through him, but he finally sat, the edge of the cot digging into his thighs.
His gaze fell upon the rough plaster of the opposite wall, unseeing. A sudden, raw sob tore from his chest, startling him with its ferocity. It was a guttural sound, scraped from the depths of his being, tasting of ash and defeat. Tears streamed, hot and unending, blurring the dull light filtering through the narrow window.
Rage, cold and sharp, ignited within him. With a choked cry, Cassian sprang up. He swept his arm across the small writing desk, sending quills, inkwells, and the half-finished cartographic sketch of the Western Marches clattering to the flagstone floor. The map, depicting the winding Serpent River, now lay crumpled, smeared with his own tears and spilled black ink.
He paced the small space, a caged animal, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Each broken item on the floor seemed to mock him, reflecting his own shattered pride. The raw, guttural cries continued, an endless, desperate howl of anguish. Eventually, his strength gave way. He sank to the floor amidst the scattered debris, pressing his hands over his mouth, trying to stifle the tremors that wracked his body. His eyes squeezed shut, but the tears kept coming, warm rivulets tracing paths down his temples, soaking into the stone beneath his cheek.
“Damn it!” he whispered, the sound hoarse and broken.
He wanted to die. The thought bloomed, dark and inviting, within the wreckage of his mind. But the true agony, the poison that seeped into his bones, was the memory of what had transpired last eve. The bolted door, he remembered, had been shut. Had anyone heard? Could the guards, patrolling the lower halls, or even Dame Elara, in her quarters across the courtyard, have heard the sounds of his degradation?
“Damn them,” he rasped. “Damn Lord Valerius Thorne. And damn Master Theron Vance.” Why had they come to his chambers? Why had they ruined everything? His carefully constructed world, his fragile sense of self-worth within the formidable Thorne household, had been irrevocably shattered.
Lord Valerius Thorne had not merely struck Cassian. Before the sneering eyes of Master Theron Vance, Valerius had trampled Cassian’s very soul. The humiliation was a deeper wound than any bruise or broken skin. It surpassed every casual slight, every dismissive glance Valerius had ever cast his way. It was a searing brand, etched into his spirit, provoking this desperate, primal rage.
Even in this moment of abject despair, reduced to a sniveling wreck on his cold floor, a familiar, unwelcome anxiety stirred. He worried about his appearance. This was one such moment.
The sudden quiet of his chambers registered. Cassian’s sobs hitched. His gaze fell upon the water clock on his shelf. Just before the eighth bell. A chilling thought pierced through his muddled anguish: encountering Dame Elara, the head housekeeper, in this state would be catastrophic. A cold dread seeped through his veins, clearing his mind with startling speed.
He could not allow anyone to witness his disgrace. No one must see this pathetic, broken shell. Scrambling to his feet, Cassian righted his overturned stool. He swept the scattered quills and ink-stained parchment beneath his cot, out of sight. Then he sat, feigning calm, awaiting the inevitable tap on his door.
It came a few moments later, precisely on schedule. Cassian’s voice, when he spoke, was surprisingly steady, though it felt like crushed glass in his throat.
“Do not enter, Dame Elara. I believe a fever has taken hold. I feel quite unwell. I shall miss my duties in the Scriptorium today.”
“Oh, indeed? Should a healer be summoned, young Cassian?” Dame Elara’s voice, though muffled through the thick oak, carried a note of concern.
A bitter taste rose to Cassian’s tongue. “I shall send for one later if my condition worsens.”
“Very well. Might I prepare you a restorative broth?”
“Please, if you would be so kind. Leave it outside the door. My thanks.”
“As you wish. Rest now, dear boy.”
Skipping his duties was a serious matter, but he was in no fit state to face the Grand Archives, let alone the sharp eyes of the other scribes. He had no desire to. On his small shelf, a pot of healing salve sat tucked away. Cassian retrieved it, its cool, herbal scent a stark contrast to the burning pain of his body. He smeared the thick ointment over his aching ribs, his temples, his jaw, wishing desperately for the pain to recede.
Then he crawled back onto his cot. The small earthen pot of salve slipped from his numb fingers, clattering softly to the floor.
His entire body trembled, an uncontrollable shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the room. The physical pain was a dull companion now; the humiliation gnawed at him like a pack of starving wolves. A knot of shame tightened in his gut, cruel and relentless. To hide his tear-streaked face, to blot out the encroaching daylight, Cassian burrowed deep beneath his rough blankets. Only the heavy wool felt like it could shield him from the crushing despair.
*Sleep*, he commanded himself. *I must sleep.* He forced his eyes shut, repeating silent assurances. Master and Mistress Errol, his guardians, were still away in the capital. Lord Valerius Thorne would not dare to boast of his brutish display. It would be fine. Everything would be fine.
With that desperate thought, Cassian buried himself deeper under the rough covers.
---
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the oppressive blanket, Cassian murmured words that felt like bile on his tongue. To any listening ear—the ancestors, the High Lords, any benevolent spirit—he wished to scream them, a torrent of raw, unvarnished truth.
*Please. It was Lord Valerius. Valerius Thorne struck me. He trampled my spirit. That vile wretch. Lord Valerius is a madman, insane. Because of Master Theron Vance… after all the years, all the loyalty, he crushed me. He crushed me before a stranger. I am an idiot. I showed that pathetic, broken self to Master Theron, too.* And the horrifying possibility that someone, anyone, might have seen it all…
His frantic thoughts halted. A wave of profound self-loathing surged, drowning out the anger. He wanted to die. The most wretched part was what he did after his tears had finally subsided beneath the blanket. First, he scrambled to erase every fleeting record of Master Theron Vance’s visit from his private ledgers – any casual note, any request. Then, in a rush of cold fear, he meticulously wiped the memory crystals from the manor’s exterior charms, clearing all recordings from the early morning hours.
That night had become a shameful secret, an unspeakable stain he could not bear for anyone to witness.
---
Cassian avoided his duties in the Scriptorium for three full days. Despite his ghastly appearance, his body, resilient from years of disciplined labor, healed with surprising speed. Perhaps the more vulnerable areas had been somewhat shielded during the assault, or his constitution was simply not as fragile as his spirit. Regardless, visible injuries were minimal – dark bruises hidden beneath his tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he remained in his chambers, a prisoner of his shame, crying until his eyes were raw. He ignored every summons, every polite inquiry from the estate staff.
He believed he could sustain this until his full recovery, but fate rarely favors the downtrodden. Master and Mistress Errol, his guardians, who had been absent for an extended period, unexpectedly returned to the manor. Panic seized Cassian.
“My boy, what has happened to your face?” Master Errol’s voice, usually firm, was laced with alarm.
“Oh, well…” Cassian stammered, his mind racing.
“A brawl? You sent word you were gripped by a fever, a chill.” Mistress Errol’s gaze was sharp, discerning. She knew him too well.
Master Errol’s questions came rapid-fire. Cassian scrambled for a plausible lie.
“Ahem, I was feeling unwell, so a fellow apprentice volunteered to fetch a rare pigment for me from the lower vaults…”
“And?”
“And I… I encountered a minor scuffle on my way to retrieve it.”
“A scuffle? What kind of scuffle leaves a young man’s face in such a state? Who was involved?” Master Errol’s voice rose, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. He was fiercely protective.
Cassian waved his hands frantically, attempting to mollify him. “No, truly, I wish to cause no trouble. It was nothing serious. We have already reconciled, I assure you.”
“Tell me, boy—what was the cause of this ‘scuffle’?”
“...Well,” Cassian paused, desperate for an excuse, any excuse, that would sound foolish enough to be dismissed. “I… I made light of his inability to correctly identify a minor tributary on a territorial map.”
Master Errol blinked. A sigh of utter disbelief escaped him before, to Cassian’s astonishment, a sudden, booming laugh erupted.
“Are you young scholars engaging in melodrama over cartography now?”
“No, Master Errol…”
“Do not allow such trivialities to incite fisticuffs again, Cassian.”
“...I shall endeavor not to.”
The mildness of his injuries, appearing less severe than they truly were, aided his cause. Thankfully, the incident seemed to blow over, dismissed as youthful folly.
Something unsettling, however, did occur. Later, as they dined together in the antechamber, Mistress Errol’s casual query shattered Cassian’s fragile peace. “By the way, are you still much in the company of Lord Valerius these days?”
“What?” The question caught him utterly unprepared.
“He does not seem to visit your chambers as frequently as he once did.” For someone so often absent, attending to the Thorne family’s affairs in the capital, her observation was unnervingly precise. The mere mention of Lord Valerius Thorne’s name soured Cassian’s mood instantly. He snapped back, his voice sharper than intended.
“It remains as it always has been.” *As it always has been, my ass.* Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. Shame and fresh humiliation threatened to choke him.
“And did not another young lord visit your chambers recently? Dame Elara mentioned it. Are you close with this other friend?”
Cassian’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head toward the entrance to the servants’ passage, where Dame Elara was diligently polishing a silver candelabrum. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Had she heard? Could she have overheard anything that night? Was it possible she was the one who had reported the sounds of his suffering?
“Cassian? Is something amiss?” Mistress Errol’s voice brought him back with a jolt.
He blurted out a response without thinking. “Yes. We are close.”
What Mistress Errol said next, Cassian could not recall. The sheer, paralyzing terror rooted him to the spot, wiping all other thoughts from his mind. He only remembered the peculiar look she had given him when she first mentioned Lord Valerius. It was the expression she wore when relaying an unfavorable decree or an ominous tidings.
*Why?* That single question propelled him deeper into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold. No. Dame Elara could not have heard. Her hearing was known to be poor, and her quarters were situated in a distant wing, far from his own. She could not have heard a thing. Yet, why did everything feel so terribly wrong? He could only offer silent, desperate prayers to ancestors he had ceased to believe in long ago.
Three more days elapsed, and Master and Mistress Errol began to press him to resume his duties. Cassian utterly dreaded it. But if he continued to absent himself, Mistress Errol would surely suspect a deeper malaise than a minor scuffle over a map. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced a cheerful veneer onto his face. Nothing was amiss. He was entirely well.
The days leading up to his return were consumed by an endless, gnawing worry: what if he encountered Lord Valerius Thorne or Master Theron Vance? Would Valerius beat him again? Would he humiliate him before the other scribes – or worse, before Theron Vance again? Would he continue to trample Cassian as if he were nothing more than refuse?
The very thought turned his stomach.
Upon his forced return to the Grand Archives and Scriptorium, Cassian hung his satchel on the side of his tall desk. He scattered a few blank sheets of parchment atop it, a pretense of work. Then he sat, staring blankly at the polished cedarwood, as the distant murmur of other scholars gradually grew louder. As soon as he detected approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be asleep, no one would immediately notice his bruised face. At least, not for a little while. But Cassian had overlooked one crucial detail: the desk behind his own belonged to Lord Kaelen Rhys. Kaelen was known for his keen intellect and an almost unsettling ability to perceive the nuances of a situation, yet he often chose to ignore social proprieties.
As Kaelen arrived, he paused beside Cassian’s desk. A cool, light touch on Cassian’s neck, then fingers beneath his chin, gently tilting his face upward. Cassian had no time to resist. He had no choice but to let Kaelen see. Kaelen’s dark brow arched as he examined Cassian’s marred features, then asked, bluntly: “What in the Hallowed Halls happened to your face, Cassian?”
“...It is nothing, my lord.”
“Did you stumble over your own feet again?”
“Yes. Something of the sort.”
“Truly?” Kaelen clicked his tongue, a soft, disapproving sound, then shook his head. He abruptly released Cassian’s face, causing his head to nearly strike the desk.
“Damn it!” Cassian exclaimed, startled, glaring at the young lord. Kaelen merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever thoughts churned behind those intelligent eyes, Cassian had no way of knowing.
Neither Lord Valerius Thorne nor Master Theron Vance appeared at the Grand Archives that day.
During Cassian’s absence, however, a whisper had begun to circulate through the manor’s higher echelons and among the more prominent retainers.
“Have you heard? Lord Valerius… that scoundrel, he actually…”
No one directly questioned Cassian about his injuries, but the quick, curious glances cast his way made it clear the rumor had already spread through the halls of the Thorne manor. Perhaps, Cassian mused with a bitter irony, he was luckier than he deserved.
---
The rumors centered around Cassian and Lord Valerius Thorne. Neither had attended their usual posts since the whispers began, and even Master Theron Vance had vanished shortly after, leaving no one to dispute the circulating tales. Cassian’s bruised face, visible proof to those observant enough, lent credence to the insidious whispers, ensuring they spread with alarming speed.
The story took shape: Cassian and Lord Valerius had a grave falling out. And, more salaciously, Lord Valerius Thorne was said to possess an unseemly obsession with the low-born scribe.
“That craven, I tell you, he harbored an unnatural fixation for the little parchment-rat.”
“A parchment-rat? Ah, by the Ancestors, yes. He does have that meek, scurrying way about him, doesn’t he? Like a small, startled mouse.”
“Indeed, a perfect, compact little thing, ready to be crushed.”
The archives buzzed with such hushed, cruel remarks, filtering to Cassian’s ears through the stone walls and open archways.
“All those who once gravitated to Lord Valerius have suddenly found themselves ostracized, you see.”