A summons from Matron Solara always carried a certain weight. Cassian found himself in her Crimson Study, a chamber of oppressive elegance. Velveteen draperies, the hue of ancient blood, absorbed the afternoon light, lending the room a perpetual twilight. The air, thick with the scent of aged parchment and sandalwood, pressed against him.
Matron Solara, her silver hair coiled into an impeccable braid, sat behind a desk of polished obsidian. Her gaze, sharp and assessing, met Cassian’s. He straightened his spine, a quiet dignity his only armor against the court’s subtle power plays.
“Cassian,” she began, her voice a silken murmur, “you witnessed the regrettable fracas between Lord Kaelan and Baron Rhys, did you not?”
He nodded, his hands clasped before him. “I did, Matron.”
“Your observations are always… particular,” she mused, a faint smile touching her lips. “Tell me, then. What precisely transpired?”
Cassian chose his words with the precision of a cartographer detailing a perilous route. “Lord Kaelan initiated the altercation. His accusations concerning the ancestral ledgers, though unfounded, escalated swiftly. He was, I believe, the first to strike Baron Rhys.”
Matron Solara's fingers toyed with a quill, its raven feather dark against her pale skin. “You are certain? Not merely favoring the Baron, with whom you’ve, on occasion, shared a repast?”
Unease prickled at Cassian, though his expression remained serene. His disquiet had been present long before he stepped into the study; it would not seem out of place. “Indeed. Lord Kaelan, in a fit of pique, threw a punch. Baron Rhys merely defended himself against the assault.”
“Hm. Is that so.” Her eyes, the color of winter ice, drifted to the polished window. “Lord Kaelan’s injuries were… extensive. More so than one might expect from a mere scuffle.”
Cassian feigned mild surprise. “Were they, Matron?”
“An emergency visit to the healers’ ward. A fractured nasal bone, torn facial tissue. Baron Rhys, conversely, merely sustained a few contusions, though he lost a tooth.” Her gaze returned to him, sharpened. “The disparity is considerable, would you not agree?”
“Nonetheless, Lord Kaelan struck first,” Cassian reiterated. “And Baron Rhys suffered a loss, however minor in comparison.” He omitted the second tooth, a detail he later learned, a detail that now haunted the periphery of his memory.
Matron Solara tapped the quill against the desk. “Still, even for self-defense… such a disfigurement. One wonders if Baron Rhys’s response was… disproportionate.”
“That is true,” Cassian conceded, a careful pause in his voice.
“And there was no… aiding of the Baron? No other hands involved?” Her tone lowered, becoming conspiratorial.
Cassian’s posture stiffened for a fleeting instant. “No. It was solely between the two of them. Others present attempted to de-escalate the situation, nothing more.”
“Hm.” She scratched lightly at her ear, her other hand rhythmically clicking the cap of an inkwell. A faint flush touched her cheekbones. After a moment, she fixed him with a direct stare. “Cassian.”
“Matron.”
“You possess a reputation for unwavering honesty. Your diligence in chronicle-keeping serves this household admirably. I have always trusted your word. I am, Cassian, on your side.”
“Yes, Matron,” he murmured, his voice even.
*That is what I observed.* The unspoken excuse hung in the air, a flimsy shield against potential scrutiny. *It was merely my interpretation.* It was a crude defense, yet often effective in the labyrinthine ways of court. Matron Solara, he mused, was playing her own game, subtly steering the narrative.
No disciplinary action followed for Baron Rhys. Cassian, despite his certainty, felt a flicker of surprise. He had anticipated the school’s reluctance to press charges, but the completeness of Rhys’s exoneration was striking. He had, after all, spent a year chronicling Lord Kaelan’s temperament, understanding the man’s profound, arrogant pride. Kaelan would never admit defeat, never confess to the ignominy of being so thoroughly bested, especially not to the loss of a tooth.
Lord Kaelan’s father, Cassian presumed, must be gnashing his teeth in private, yet he had remained silent.
*But this is strange.* Cassian’s expectations, honed by years of observing courtly rituals, diverged from the unfolding reality.
Days blurred into a seamless progression, yet Baron Rhys moved through the estate as if the confrontation had never occurred. There was no shadow of worry in his bold stride, no hint of concern on his bruised but otherwise unmarred face. He often bounced a small, carved wooden ball, acquired from some unknown merchant, his boisterous laughter echoing through the courtyards. The faint marks of battle were, to him, mere trophies.
*How can he be so unperturbed?*
Cassian had envisioned Rhys, perhaps accompanied by his own parents, offering a perfunctory apology to Lord Kaelan’s father. A formal gesture, devoid of true contrition, merely to placate the enraged noble. Such was the custom. He had even prepared himself for the Baron’s subsequent grumbling, ready to offer a sympathetic nod, fulfilling his quiet role. Yet, Rhys had performed no such pilgrimage. And Lord Kaelan’s father had not descended upon the estate, demanding satisfaction. This piqued Cassian’s innate curiosity.
He possessed a particular compulsion: any anomaly, any deviation from the predictable patterns, demanded investigation. He would unearth the hidden currents, then decide whether the knowledge was to be utilized or merely filed away. So he devised a simple scheme, a rather childish ploy given the gravity of their station.
“Baron Rhys—”
“Sir Kael!” Rhys’s booming voice, even as he tossed the wooden ball to a passing page and bit into a stolen tart, cut Cassian off. His brow furrowed in annoyance. Ill-timed.
“Did someone call my name?” Rhys turned, his gaze sweeping the courtyard. Could he have heard Cassian’s softer address amidst the bustle? Cassian raised a hand.
“I did, Baron.”
“Well, what in the Serpent’s coils do you want?”
Before answering, Cassian allowed a subtle narrowing of his eyes, a silent testament to his displeasure.
“If you’ve something to say, speak plainly, man.” Rhys crooked a finger, beckoning. The gesture, casual and dismissive, grated on Cassian’s nerves, prompting another subtle frown. He knew Rhys’s temperament; a certain bluntness was expected, even tolerated.
“You mentioned earlier this week you found the afternoons tedious, with no pressing engagements.”
“Aye, a veritable desert of boredom.”
“Are you free tomorrow? I intend to map the elder forest beyond the West Gate. A rare opportunity.” Cassian, ever calculating, attempted to craft an opening. A faint, satisfied smile touched his lips, thinking he had found an angle Rhys might appreciate. The Baron, however, merely pointed a finger at him, an outlandish notion forming on his lips.
“You’re not suggesting we venture forth… together, are you?”
“Yes, Baron. I am.”
“You and I? For what purpose?”
The unexpected coolness in Rhys’s tone stiffened Cassian’s composure. “Why, for… conversation, perhaps. Or merely to observe.”
“To what end?”
“To what end? As we often do.”
“Often? Have we ever, in the history of the Dominion, sought each other’s company outside these walls?”
Rhys’s mocking tone pricked at Cassian’s fragile pride. He frowned, recognizing his misstep. Indeed, they had never chosen to spend time one-on-one. The casual presumption was his alone. His face flushed with a sudden, mortifying heat. *Must he make me appear so utterly foolish?*
“Very well. If you have no desire, then forget I spoke.”
“I did not say I had no desire.” The sarcasm, though unvoiced, was palpable. Cassian clamped his mouth shut, restraining a sharp retort. He was about to speak again when a realization dawned.
*This is always how he is.*
He had known Rhys’s capricious nature, capable of sudden warmth and equally sudden indifference. Why had he anticipated an eager acceptance? Had some foolish sense of shared antagonism against Lord Kaelan led him to believe in a nascent camaraderie? Ashamed of his own naive thought, he feigned nonchalance, speaking with a forced brazenness.
“Never mind. Consider the suggestion unmade.”
Yet, the words tasted of ash, an obvious, childish bluff. A deep blush bloomed across his cheeks. *How utterly pathetic, Cassian.* He bit his lip, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. A nerve twitched beneath his right eye. Rhys, after a moment, offered his reply.
“Alright.”
Cassian spun on his heel, turning his back. *A truly infuriating man.*
---
The ‘day of rest’ for one of Cassian’s station was rarely truly restful. It was merely an extension of duties, of chronicling, of quiet study. Yet, with his parents traveling, the usual supervision was absent. One minor liberty granted by the constant, demanding movement of a noble household. He allowed himself the indulgence of a quiet, unburdened afternoon.
Then, the terse summons arrived, shattering his peace.
It was a page, breathless, bearing a sealed missive. *“The Baron Rhys requires your presence. At the Healing Ward. Immediately.”*
The abruptness, the sheer audacity of the man, particularly after dismissing Cassian’s own invitation, stirred a bitter resentment. His feelings for Rhys constantly shifted, like grains of sand in a storm. Yet, this was precisely the self-serving capriciousness he knew the Baron to possess.
“His reason?” Cassian asked the page, his voice tight.
“He simply stated… you had ‘popped into his head all of a sudden’… and he thought you might enjoy… ‘a bite to eat.’” The page’s eyes, wide and nervous, flickered.
*That insufferable brute.* Cassian clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his lip. “I shall consider it.” He licked the inside of his cheek, a nervous habit. He could not, he decided, simply acquiesce without a show of his own displeasure. He was not, after all, a mere errand boy.
But then the page’s initial words resonated in his mind. *“At the Healing Ward.”*
That detail, unexpected and alarming, was the true reason his ‘rest’ ended. If Rhys had been at some distant, obscure healer’s cottage, Cassian might have held his ground. But the primary Healing Ward, attached to the main estate, was a mere short walk from his own chambers. He accepted, albeit with a reluctance he hoped was palpable.
Rhys was already there, sprawled across a long, carved bench in the antechamber, one leg dangling. He merely flicked a hand in a dismissive gesture of greeting as Cassian approached. Cassian offered no return, instead, he stood, observing the Baron’s face with a critical squint.
“The bandage upon your nose, Baron,” Cassian noted. “Why has it not been removed?”
“My reasons are my own, Chronicler.”
“Are you still bleeding? Is the wound unhealed?”
“It’s closed. Do not fret.” He rose, approaching Cassian, and threw an arm around his shoulders with a familiar lack of decorum. “Come. My treat. We’ll find some sustenance.”
“In the staff dining hall, I presume?” Cassian’s tone was dry.
“What, you believe the staff dining hall offers meals freely?” Rhys sneered, pushing him toward a less formal corridor.
“Bragging over a few coppers?” Cassian glared. Rhys merely returned an arrogant smirk.
They descended to a lower level, the air growing faintly medicinal. They placed their orders, preparing to endure a mediocre midday meal. As they waited for their plates, Cassian pressed him. “Why, precisely, are you here, Baron? I presumed your injuries were minor.”
“Hm?” Rhys pointed a finger at his own face, tracing the line of his jaw. He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, no. This is where Lord Kaelan resides.”
Cassian’s fingers, which had been tapping a light, rhythmic pattern on the scarred table, froze. His body stiffened. *Lord Kaelan? Here?* The question, “How…?” formed in his mind, but no sound escaped his lips. Rhys, bouncing a pewter spoon in the air, continued, utterly nonchalant.
“I thought you might enjoy a spectacle.”
“A spectacle of what?” Cassian managed, his voice barely a whisper.
“Lord Kaelan’s father is in the room as we speak. Incredible, no? I summoned him.”
Cassian’s mouth opened, then closed again. The audacity. The sheer, calculated cruelty of it. *How?*
Rhys caught his unasked question. “You are aware, I am sure, of my family’s devotion to the Ancient Faith, yes? Forgiveness! Ah, what a beautiful, glorious decree. My creed demands seeking and offering forgiveness. How could I possibly neglect such a sacred duty?” He wrinkled his nose with a theatrical flourish.
“You expect me to believe your motivation is based on religious fervor? You, Baron Rhys, are truly seeking forgiveness?” Cassian’s voice was laced with disbelief.
“Indeed.”
---