A chill, damp air clung to the stones of the ancestral library. Two days had passed since the whispers about young Lord Elian, and already, the evidence of his diminishing favor was stark. Not a textbook tossed into a brazier, but a more insidious erasure. Valerius Thorne’s influence moved like a serpent through the manor, silent and suffocating. A collection of Elian’s prized botanical sketches, rendered with a delicate hand and vibrant dyes, lay scattered amongst the refuse destined for the servants’ pyres. They were not burnt, merely dismissed, declared ‘unsuitable for the archives.’
Someone, a sycophantic junior scribe perhaps, was seen later that eve, wearing a smirk that bespoke a triumph not his own, but one borrowed from Valerius’s shadow. He’d made no secret of his task, bragging softly in the scullery about ‘cleansing the libraries of impropriety.’
*How courageous,* Cassian thought, a bitter taste on his tongue.
He watched from a shadowed alcove, a hand unconsciously smoothing the crisp linen of his simple tunic. The discarded sketches, their vibrant hues now muted by the dim light, spoke volumes of Elian’s quiet, artistic passion—a passion deemed ‘unnatural’ by the rigid standards of the Dominion. Elian had been vanquished without ever realizing the true nature of his foe. Not a direct blow, but a slow, public peeling away of his very essence.
The motive was as clear as the polished marble floors. At first, Cassian had dismissed the rumors as mere social posturing, but a cold, unplaceable certainty had settled in his bones. Even Elian’s few loyal retainers had begun to eye him with a cautious distance, their gazes laced with a nascent fear. It became sickeningly obvious that Elian’s quiet defiance of Valerius’s expectations wasn’t mere disagreement, and his subtle acts of rebellion weren’t just childish petulance. The moment Cassian had witnessed Valerius’s thinly veiled disdain, he’d known. Yet, as the tide of opinion turned, crushing Elian beneath its weight, Cassian felt no compulsion to intervene, no prick of guilt. His own life, painstakingly built on quiet diligence and strategic invisibility, was far too precious.
He was not foolish enough to shatter his carefully constructed existence for a lost cause. He knew precisely how such an act would be perceived. It might appear principled, even noble, to some. But in the suffocating labyrinth of the Valorian Dominion, where every action was scrutinized for ulterior motives, even one of them would begin to question.
*Why?*
That chilling thought alone was enough to make him recoil. Cassian pressed his forehead against the cool, ancient stone of the library wall, closing his eyes. He wished, for a fleeting moment, that when he opened them, the world would conform to his silent desires. He was on the cusp of drifting into a fragile calm.
Then, a sharp, insistent rap against the oaken door of his private chamber jolted him awake. Cassian started, rubbing the faint ache above his brow. Across the small, spartan room, Lord Kaelen Vance leaned against the doorframe, his dark gaze piercing the gloom. He tapped a long, slender cane against the threshold, a soft, rhythmic sound.
“Why the slumber, Cassian? The hour is not yet for dreams.” Kaelen’s voice, a low rumble, held an unsettling amusement.
“My apologies, my Lord. A long day,” Cassian managed, his voice a little hoarse. He straightened his tunic, trying to regain his composure. “You wished something?”
“Oh, this?” Kaelen Vance’s smile was a thin, predatory line. He lifted the ornately carved cane he held, its silver pommel catching the meager light. “A relic. Found it in the abandoned archives. Thought it might suit my present mood.”
Cassian’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. Kaelen Vance was always orchestrating some disquieting performance. He ran a hand through his perpetually neat dark hair, worried it might have become disheveled. Meanwhile, Kaelen pushed off the doorframe, then swept a small, three-legged stool with the tip of his cane, guiding it towards the lone, scarred table before gracefully settling onto it. He did not fall. He set his satchel of scrolls beside him, then propped his chin on it, observing Cassian with unnerving stillness.
“You rouse me from my contemplation only to settle into your own?” Cassian asked, a hint of his frustration slipping through.
“I merely ensure you do not miss a moment of this delightful evening. My own… contemplation… can wait.” Kaelen’s tone was light, yet his eyes held a depth that belied the casual words.
“Bullshit,” Cassian muttered under his breath, turning away. For some reason, everything Kaelen Vance uttered made him want to push back. He nudged Kaelen’s foot with his own, a small, defiant act. Kaelen only smirked.
“Is it customary to assault a guest in your chambers, cartographer? Such uncivilized behavior.” The playful mix of sarcasm and veiled threat made Cassian scoff. This time, he tapped his foot against Kaelen’s cane. It teetered, but without even lifting his head, Kaelen reached out and caught it with effortless grace. Even with Cassian’s interference, he did not bother lifting his face from his satchel. Instead, he chuckled, a soundless vibration in the quiet room, then suddenly spoke.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Cassian.”
“What, my Lord?”
“The slight discoloration near your jaw… that wasn’t merely a stumble in the market, was it?”
*Damn it all.* Was it that evident? The bruise had faded considerably, though.
Cassian hesitated only a fraction of a second before brushing a hand over his jawline, replying with forced nonchalance. “A misstep, my Lord. The library steps can be treacherous in the dim light.”
“Hah.” Still resting his chin on his satchel, Kaelen let out a soft, knowing sound. “Indeed.” His eyes flicked to Cassian, and he pointed the silver pommel of his cane at him, a precise gesture of accusation. Cassian did not understand his intent, so he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
“What is it, my Lord?”
“You are… audacious, Cassian.”
The moment Kaelen smiled, a slow, widening curve of his lips, the cane resting casually against his shoulder, Cassian’s thoughts seized. *What in the heavens is he implying?*
“Audacious?” Cassian echoed, his voice thin.
“I do not believe you merely… slipped.”
“……”
Kaelen Vance’s words were always enigmatic, but this time, they carried a quiet menace. His gaze was unnervingly still. His bright irises held a dark pupil that stared at Cassian intently. It felt like watching the tip of an arrow, trying to guess where it would strike. This time, it was aimed straight at him. Cassian’s mind went blank. Two words alternated over and over, ringing in his head. *No way. He couldn’t have. No way. He couldn’t have.*
Then, finally, Kaelen’s eyes narrowed.
“It looked more like you ran into a rather… solid wall.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Cassian’s throat dried up. His breath caught in his chest. A sharp gulp. While Kaelen parted his lips, Cassian couldn’t even blink.
“If the manor found out about such a clumsy incident, it would be quite… embarrassing for a man of your precision, wouldn’t it?”
“……”
“I shall keep it a secret, Cassian.” Then, raising the hand holding his cane to his lips, Kaelen whispered the words, and winked. The breath Cassian had been holding slammed against his ribs like a caged animal. Kaelen did not even wait for a reaction. This time, he casually ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair, then pointed the cane at Cassian once more.
“Though, I must say, your hair seems… longer. Are you perhaps attempting to mimic my disheveled charm? It quite suits me, but on you…” Kaelen crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval.
Cassian was speechless. Kaelen Vance stifled a yawn and buried his face into his satchel. Staring at the back of Kaelen’s head, Cassian finally muttered, “I am not copying you, my Lord, nor have I cut my hair recently.”
“Oh, indeed?” Kaelen’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his satchel.
---
Fourth period, as the sun dipped below the battlements, meant the quarterly review of the Thorne estate’s cadastral surveys. Lord Kaelen Vance, who had surprisingly lingered in Cassian’s chambers throughout the afternoon, now leaned back in his chair, holding a meticulously rendered map of the northern farmlands in one hand. Cassian, meanwhile, folded his own annotated survey, slipping it into the front pocket of his work satchel. When he looked back at Kaelen, the Lord was shaking his head dramatically.
“Ah, the harvest is abysmal. A complete disaster.”
Cassian, fixing his gaze on the prominent line of Kaelen’s throat, observed, “My Lord, the yield is merely adequate, not abysmal. It meets the projections.”
“Who cares for projections? A projection is merely a prayer to the Ancestors for a good crop, and this one has clearly gone unanswered.” Then, Kaelen suddenly asked, “Tell me, Cassian, does the Ancestor’s will truly sway the rains, or is it merely convenient to believe so?”
That was when Cassian realized something peculiar about Kaelen Vance—his ‘faith’ in the Valorian traditions was disturbingly pragmatic.
“Why ask me, my Lord? It is your house’s tradition.”
“Cassian, you are a scholar of the land, a chronicler of its truths. I thought you would know everything.”
“I do not. I am merely an observer, my Lord.”
Kaelen, who had been leaning back as far as he could, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and before Cassian knew it, he instinctively averted his gaze toward the dust motes dancing in the fading light, pretending not to have been caught. But for some reason, his chest pricked sharply, like he’d been found out.
He stared absently at the motes, then shifted his focus toward the stiff, embroidered collar of Kaelen’s tunic. The crisp, dark fabric rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the strong line of his collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Would you join me for a tour of the lesser estates this season? I hear their tribute ceremonies are… quaint.”
“My Lord, I have my duties here.”
“Ah, why not? Let us go. If you attend their ceremonies, they offer lavish banquets. Fine wines, roasted boar, spiced pastries…”
“Wait, my Lord, do you suggest you attend merely for the provisions?”
“Of course, Cassian. Is that not how all loyalty begins?”
Cassian finally got a good look at Kaelen’s face, and his eyes landed on the quill Kaelen had playfully balanced on his upper lip. At first, Cassian didn’t want to admit it out of sheer pride, but at that moment, he had to acknowledge something—Kaelen Vance possessed a striking, if unsettling, charisma. What a smug, dangerous man.
The quill, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted Kaelen’s voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But the way you’re saying it, it’s as if I’m stealing. If they’re offering it, what is wrong with accepting?”
“Can one even call it true fealty if one pledges for such selfish reasons?”
“That is how everyone begins, Cassian. People do not start with grand, selfless devotion. They think, ‘Oh, they offer tasty food. This house must be generous.’ And then, little by little, their belief in that ‘generous house with good feasts’ turns into absolute fealty to the Ancestors themselves. The start and the process do not matter. What matters is that now, I believe.”
Kaelen Vance spouted utter nonsense sometimes. Even Valerius Thorne himself got entangled in Kaelen’s web now and then.
Sometimes, it was just manipulative drivel. But sometimes, it was the kind of cynical truth that even Cassian found himself tempted by. Right now was the latter.
Cassian ran a hand through his bangs, brushing them back from his forehead. But they kept falling back into his eyes, so this time, he shook his head from side to side. His thin strands of hair swayed in front of him. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the tickling sensation lessened. He had been so distracted lately that he’d forgotten to trim them.
With Elian’s presence diminished, the private drawing room was always empty. There was no reason for Cassian to look in that direction anymore. Six days ago, the head steward had called Cassian to the archives and asked if he’d heard from Elian. Cassian had answered honestly, without hesitation.
“No, I have not, Master Theron.”
“You still have not reconciled with Lord Elian, then?”
Cassian offered a small, bitter smile. A perfectly calculated smile. In truth, he didn’t feel like smiling at all. “No. Lord Elian… grew quite vexed with me.”
“Lord Elian vexed with you?” Theron’s brows furrowed.
“Yes, Master Theron.”
There were already whispers throughout the manor, so it wasn’t as if the head steward was completely oblivious to the implications of Cassian’s words. “Alright, I understand,” he had said, letting Cassian go. Then, as he sat down, he muttered to himself under his breath. Judging by the snippets Cassian caught, it was mostly complaints about Elian’s stubbornness and frustration over the scolding Theron had received from Valerius.
Cassian pretended not to hear that pathetic monologue and turned away, but he still listened. That was how he grasped the atmosphere inside the steward’s office. Later, after his evening duties, while Cassian was reviewing old maps in his chambers, Lord Valerius Thorne’s own personal secretary had called upon him. He asked the same question as the head steward—if Cassian knew of Elian’s current disposition or whereabouts. Cassian had given him the same answer.
“No, Lord Elian has not sought my counsel recently.”
“—I see…”
“I am truly sorry I cannot be of any further assistance.”
“—No, Cassian, there is nothing for you to apologize for. It is quite alright.”
Lately, Valerius’s retinue had been inquiring more frequently than usual. And every time, the conversation unfolded in the same manner. There was something oddly deliberate about the way they kept trying to tie Elian and Cassian together, perhaps to gain a foothold in Valerius’s ever-shifting favor. Cassian had hurried to end the call.
Honestly, there was nothing for him to apologize for. But he said sorry anyway—to be liked. It was the same instinct that made courtiers call an ugly newborn ‘blessed’ during its presentation. A kind of social convention. A form of etiquette that functioned in a civilized Dominion. So Cassian didn’t think adults saw him as being played. If anything, his politeness was more akin to a crude pantomime performed by a lesser scribe. He always knew his place. And since he put in the effort to be liked, he was bound to become a well-loved chronicler, indispensable in his niche. Even if, one day, he made a mistake so blatant that it wrinkled the brows of the nobility, they would forgive him. That was the groundwork he was laying. Unlike some arrogant fool, Cassian was living his life wisely. Maybe, from an elder’s perspective, his way of thinking was nothing more than a narrow-minded, petty trick to wriggle his way out of trouble. But among his peers, it was undeniable—Cassian was someone who knew how to navigate unpredictable situations with shrewd foresight.
If proof were needed, one only had to look at Master Joric.
Master Joric, the assistant cartographer, was now the most desperate to get into Kaelen Vance’s good graces. Because of that, he also acted with exaggerated deference toward Cassian, since in the eyes of others, Cassian had already, subtly, aligned himself with Lord Kaelen early on.
Though Joric had once been one of Elian’s most vocal admirers, he was now making it very clear that the tide had turned.