A junior scion, Lord Jorgen of House Torvin, raised a hand, as if to interject with a challenge, but before he could voice a syllable, Lord Kaelen Vance’s hand, resting lightly on the hilt of his dress rapier, shifted with a barely perceptible movement. A small, dismissive gesture. Jorgen’s weak attempt at asserting his presence ended in a silent, immediate retreat. His face, usually flushed with youthful arrogance, tightened. A strange, strangled sound, like a bird caught in a snare, almost escaped him. Lysander and Thorne, Kaelen’s shadows, exchanged a knowing glance, their lips curving in a faint, shared amusement. Jorgen, his pride bruised, swung a glance at them, a silent, venomous query in his eyes. “Oh, you find this amusing? You laugh?” He didn't strike, but his posture was a coiled threat. The brief, tense tableau dissolved as the three, their camaraderie forged in their shared power dynamic, exited the antechamber. Thorne, ever the more amiable of Kaelen’s retinue, paused at the threshold, offering a casual nod in Cassian’s direction. Cassian, with no reason to refuse, inclined his head in return. Then, he settled back onto the low stool at his cartographer’s desk, drawing a fresh sheet of vellum closer. His fingers curled around a fine silver stylus, the tip poised over the unblemished surface. Before marking the first line, he lifted his gaze, letting it drift over the soaring, vaulted ceiling of the Vance archives. The ancient stone, carved with the forgotten lineages of lesser houses, felt less like a protective dome and more like a heavy, suffocating lid. His head lowered to the desk. He was charting the third tributary of the Whisperwind River, the stylus tapping a restless rhythm against the parchment, when he suddenly looked up. Through the tall, arched window, the distant stands of alders lining the Vance estate were beginning to show the first blush of russet and gold. A faint, earthy scent, promising autumn, drifted in on the languid air. In stark contrast, the sky above was a vast, crystalline blue, so clear it almost ached. “This Dominion is a godsdamned jungle. A wilderness.” The old Arch-Chronicler, Master Elara, who had overseen the archives for five decades, used to say that. Her voice, raspy from years of whispering secrets into parchment, still echoed in Cassian’s memory. “Its noble houses always seek to establish their pecking order first. By the midsummer festivities, things settle into a kind of brutal dance. But until then? It’s only veiled insults, whispered slanders, testing boundaries, trying to crawl above one another. Gods, my head would ache. And I knew I’d have to see it all again when the next generation ascended. Let’s see… what year were they born under again?” Then, she would spread her gnarled palm, counting the knuckles one by one, muttering under her breath. “Serpent, Gryphon, Dragon, Lion, Eagle, Bear, Stag, Wolf… Let’s see, that would mean—” Cassian mimicked the motion, stretching out his hand, counting the joints on his own slender fingers. But he couldn’t recall the complex Valorian system, so he gave up, flipping his hand over, counting the raised bones on the back instead. Seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, seven, eight, nine, nine, nine. He never would have guessed, back in the languid days of early summer, that late September would feel like the tense, burgeoning spring all over again. The subtle shifts in courtly favor, the sudden collapses of reputation – it mirrored the unpredictability of the seasons. “Nobles are nothing but proud, illogical, impulsive creatures.” Cassian stared at the faint scar on his middle finger, absently tapping the desk like a harpsichord key. The Arch-Chronicler’s voice, though long gone, still droned on in his mind, accompanied by the imaginary scratching of her quill against a roll of brittle parchment. He glanced at the empty, ornate chair near the front of the chamber, reserved for visiting dignitaries. For a moment, he thought he saw the phantom impression of a head on the velvet cushion – one side pressed down, the other floating. His fingers stopped tapping. He turned his head. Lord Kaelen Vance sat at a nearby reading lectern, hunched over a tome of ancient treaties, his face half-buried in the brittle pages. His eyes were half-closed. He would fix his gaze on a particular passage, as if about to commit it to memory, only to suddenly slump forward again, pressing his forehead against the leather-bound cover. Cassian watched as Kaelen’s prominent nose got squished between the pages and his brow. Then, he turned away, a faint sense of disquiet stirring within him. “Did I lose focus for a moment?” He didn’t feel entirely tethered to the present. He inscribed a small, almost invisible star next to his third river-marker and moved on to the fourth. --- Midday repast was a delicate broth and spiced bread. Lord Kaelen, having finished his own, looked up from his empty bowl, his gaze settling on Cassian with an unnerving directness. “You are, if my memory serves, second in rank among the Imperial chroniclers, are you not?” “Yes, my Lord,” Cassian replied, his voice carefully neutral. “And among the Collegium of Valoria?” “Also second, my Lord.” Lord Kaelen gave a low whistle, a sound that seemed out of place in the grand hall. “By the gods.” “My Lord?” “So that means the top chronicler of your esteemed order also holds the highest rank across the entire Dominion?” “You were unaware, my Lord? I have never surpassed Lady Isolde, of House Veridian. Her memory is without peer.” “Ah, Lady Isolde. She is even more driven than you, I hear?” “Indeed. Her studies at the Scriptorium often extend until the first bell of morning.” “Damnation. That is dedication.” “She is diligent in her pursuits.” Cassian had no intention of continuing that line of conversation, so he scooped a piece of spiced bread into his mouth. Fortunately, Kaelen didn’t press further. He merely nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Hmph.” The timing felt off. The conversation had cut off too abruptly. Cassian debated whether to offer another observation. He detested awkward silences, so, without thinking, he blurted out, “And yourself, my Lord? What are your pursuits?” Kaelen’s jeweled spoon, halfway to his lips, froze. Cassian found himself staring at the intricate filigree of the handle. Kaelen’s table manners, at least, were impeccable. If there was one thing Lord Kaelen Vance did without fault, it was hold his eating utensils with elegant precision. “In the Courtly Arts…” “Yes, my Lord?” “Ninth.” “…Ninth?” Cassian echoed, caught off guard. “Why do you look at me so, chronicler?” Kaelen’s tone was sharp. Cassian quickly looked away from the spoon. Ninth? Was he serious? Not merely feigning humility? Cassian was so unprepared that he almost voiced his disbelief aloud, but thankfully, he managed to clamp his lips shut. A near misstep. If he slipped up and offended Kaelen, he would face the full, chilling brunt of the noble’s displeasure. He hesitated. Would Kaelen prefer praise? Or would he rather Cassian act indifferent, as if such a ranking were expected? Cassian’s mind, wired for survival, was already weighing the optimal social response. Kaelen never seemed to treat his retainers with much genuine affection. The latter option, then, seemed safer. “Hmph. You perform better than I might have anticipated, my Lord.” “What? Anticipated? How dull did you deem me, chronicler?” “I did not deem you dull, my Lord, it is merely… I had thought your interest lay more in governance?” “Governance is the only art I find tedious. Only governance.” “Yet you attend no academies for Courtly Arts.” “To forgo an academy does not preclude self-study, chronicler. By the gods, did you truly think me an uncultured brute?” “No, no, not at all, my Lord,” Cassian quickly waved a hand in a small, placating gesture. “It is impressive, however, to achieve such a standing without formal instruction.” “…Truly?” Kaelen’s gaze softened almost imperceptibly. “Indeed, my Lord. It is impressive.” For some inexplicable reason, Kaelen suddenly began to mash his spoon into the remaining broth at the bottom of his bowl. And—was he blushing? Cassian caught a glimpse of the tips of Kaelen’s ears, faintly reddening. Now that he considered it, Lord Elian, when last he was spoken of in such terms, had been ranked thirty-second among the lesser nobles. And that was only because there were thirty-six aspirants. Thinking back, Cassian realized he had never truly paid attention to anything about Lord Elian beyond the aspects directly related to his downfall. And with that realization, it hit him. He had been drowning in exactly the kind of pathetic, obsessive self-preservation he used to despise. Meanwhile, Lord Kaelen Vance, completely oblivious to Cassian’s internal crisis, had clearly received a confidence boost. His tone was entirely different now – brimming with a quiet self-satisfaction. “Oh, you likely would not know – but I am rather adept at ancient Valorian verse.” “Indeed, my Lord? How adept?” “Perfect recitation. I have never misspoken a single line of an ancient canticle.” “Khhkk!” Cassian choked. The second Kaelen said that, Cassian spat out a mouthful of broth. Kaelen scowled and yanked his tray away, a look of disgust on his face. “What the hell, chronicler? What kind of reaction is that?” “I merely… was not expecting such mastery, my Lord.” “Is it truly that astonishing?” Kaelen frowned, a slight pout on his lips. “Yes, my knowledge of governance is rather dismal, but that is inconsequential.” There was an odd hint of self-deprecation in his voice. So Cassian, emboldened by the moment, joked back. “Perhaps a perusal of the Archival Charters might improve it, my Lord.” “What nonsense are you speaking? I am entirely a scholar of ancient tales!” “A scholar? I have never witnessed your Lordship with such a tome.” “That is because I read in secret, at my private villa.” “Why on earth would you need to conceal such a pursuit, my Lord?” Lord Kaelen’s eyes, which had been curved in amusement, drooped slightly as he scooped a spoonful of spiced bread into his mouth. Then, he casually pressed his lips over the spoon’s edge. Something about that image unsettled Cassian. He bit the inside of his cheek. Kaelen met Cassian’s eyes as he pulled the spoon away, then lowered his gaze and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the tip of it. “Forbidden lore is still literature, chronicler.” That was undeniably a jest. A crude, shocking jest, unfit for a noble. Cassian’s face burned. To hide it, he grabbed a crumpled piece of parchment next to his tray and tossed it at Kaelen’s face. It struck just below his long, narrow eyes and dropped harmlessly onto the table. One of Kaelen’s eyes twitched slightly. Not that Cassian cared, but just in case Kaelen was actually angered, he feigned contrition. “Do not utter such indecencies, my Lord. Especially in this hallowed hall. It is most… unbecoming.” “Oh? You mean this? You mean Elian’s old affectation?” “I care not whose affectation it is, my Lord. Merely cease.” “Is this not, pray tell, becoming quite fashionable among certain circles now?” Cassian stared at him, trying to discern if Kaelen was jesting or entirely serious. He found no easy answer. He was sleeping less, these days. That was a sure sign that his mind, if not his body, was comfortable. Mornings, which had once felt dry and sluggish, now held a strange crispness. It was a welcome change – after all, in his mind, the gravest sins at his age were complacency and oversleeping. “Ah, gods damn it—” Cassian’s jaw clicked painfully as he cleansed his teeth. Ever since the minor altercation with one of Elian’s disgruntled associates months ago, his jaw made an odd grinding noise whenever he opened his mouth too wide. Other than that, today felt… acceptable. But even in his newfound peace, there were sudden, sharp moments of irritation. The cause was always, somehow, Lord Elian. Or rather, the incidents that stemmed from him. Most of those happened within the rigid confines of the court. --- “Oh, that reminds me. I encountered Lord Elian last night.” Lysander spoke, biting into a spiced meat pie – the kind sold by street vendors, rumored to contain unmentionable parts. Thorne, who had been idly tapping Lysander’s ankle and making mock dagger thrusts, suddenly perked up. “By the Mother! That is right! You just reminded me! I was entirely about to bring this up. I heard something through the whispers – you all know Master Alaric, yes? That… wandering purveyor of secrets? I heard Elian is crashing at his establishment.” “Master Alaric? That blustering Alaric?” Lord Kaelen, rummaging through a small velvet pouch, asked casually. When he pulled his hand out, he was holding two small, candied Valor Berries. And for some reason, he offered one to Cassian. “—” Cassian stared at it, confused. “—What is this, my Lord?” He looked at Kaelen questioningly, but Kaelen merely gave a slight nod, as if that were explanation enough. The one who reacted most was Thorne, whose own pouch of sweets had been raided. “By the Seven Hells! I bought those! Why the damnation are you all pilfering my stores, you gluttons?” “Oh, as if you’ve never stolen mine, pig.” Lysander made another mock dagger thrust at Thorne’s throat. Thorne instantly spun around, grabbed Lysander’s embroidered collar, and swung a mock punch at his face. Of course, he wasn’t actually going to strike him. That was simply their manner. Cassian ignored their petty squabble and looked down at the candied berry in his hand. The wrapper had a small, crimson Valor Berry split in half printed on it. He peeled the wrapper, popped the candy into his mouth, and lifted his head. “What do you think, chronicler? The taste of first love?” Lord Kaelen grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye. “I do not favor the Valor Berry, my Lord.” Cassian’s answer wasn’t just about the candy – it was his evaluation of Kaelen’s insinuation, too. And more than anything, he did not find ‘first love’ amusing. That sticky, cloying sweetness, laced with a bitter aftertaste, clung to the back of his throat. It killed his appetite. In the end, he couldn’t even finish the candy. He tossed it into a nearby refuse bin. “Oh, such a waste,” Kaelen mocked, cupping his cheeks with both hands. Ignoring him, Cassian reached into Thorne’s pouch to find a different candied fruit. It was all Valor Berry or Bitterbloom. Bitterbloom was the lesser evil. He unwrapped one and put it in his mouth. “Anyway, Master Alaric, then? Sounds just like Elian.” “What, because they are both dissolute and without honor?” Kaelen’s words were sharp. Uncomfortable, Cassian turned to look at him. Kaelen was sucking on his candied berry expressionlessly, twirling the white stick between his lips. Cassian pulled his own from his mouth. Something about this felt profoundly wrong. Kaelen didn’t seem to care. He tilted his candied berry in the air like a tiny sword and started making random jabbing motions. “He traffics in reputations – doesn’t matter if they are men or women. And when he finds someone decent, he sends them straight to Elian. It’s a whole rotation. Debauching each other, passing each other around.” “So Master Alaric is without honor, too?” Thorne suddenly cut in. Whether he had finished his playful scuffle with Lysander or had simply halted mid-fight to eavesdrop, Cassian wasn’t sure. Thorne rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as if actually processing what he’d just heard.

The Weight of a Whispered Truth