Two days hence, Cassian found a small, folded vellum note tucked into the spine of a weighty tome within the Scriptorium. Its presence, a stark anomaly amidst the precise order of his cartography tools, pricked a thread of unease.
“*Might you meet me in the lesser antechamber before morning muster today?*”
His brow furrowed. For a fleeting instant, a ludicrous thought, a whisper of a clandestine overture, brushed his mind. But the Valorian Dominion, with its ancient lineage and rigid stratification, bred no such foolishness between men. Cassian, though gifted, was merely a chronicler, a cartographer; such a notion was swiftly dismissed, the absurdity of it almost laughable.
He forgot the note entirely until the sun, slanting through the high arched windows, signaled the approach of the fourth bell, when the household prepared for morning muster in the courtyard.
Cassian, having exchanged his customary scholarly robes for simpler attire befitting the day’s duties, made his way toward the lesser antechamber. A muted curiosity stirred within him, a faint ripple in his otherwise composed demeanor. He assumed it nothing significant, perhaps a forgotten instruction or a misplaced scroll. How wrong he was.
Pausing at the threshold, Cassian found the sender to be an unexpected figure: Lord Elias Thorne, younger cousin to the heir, his slight frame hunched, dark hair pressed neatly against his pale skull.
“Lord Elias?” Cassian’s voice, though low, carried a note of undisguised puzzlement. Elias’s small head, previously bowed in contemplation of his bitten nails, snapped upward. He offered a quick, nervous wave, a fleeting, almost apologetic smile, a peculiar brightness that Cassian found vaguely irritating.
“What is it, my lord? Why this sudden summons?”
At Cassian’s question, Elias’s plump fingers twisted nervously, a habit Cassian had often observed. The air in the antechamber, cool and smelling faintly of aged parchment and long-stilled air, seemed to thicken around them.
Cassian wished to depart. Swiftly. No one must see him alone with Lord Elias. The whispers, the veiled glances—they were a constant threat to his precarious standing. He extended help to Elias only so much as to appear dutiful, no more, no less. His quiet dignity, his carefully cultivated comportment, demanded it.
Oblivious, or perhaps simply too consumed by his own anxiety, Elias continued to worry his thumb, his gaze darting about the dusty chamber. Indecision and a fragile determination warred across his face. Each time he seemed on the verge of speech, his mouth clamped shut.
A slow, simmering irritation began to coil within Cassian. He had never found Lord Elias particularly endearing. Whatever action the young lord took seemed only to amplify Cassian’s existing antipathy. That small, hesitant mouth, twitching with unspoken words—it might have seemed endearing to a more benevolent observer. To Cassian, it was unbearably vexing, a drain on his already strained composure.
He acknowledged, with a detached part of his mind, that his sensitivity might be heightened today. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, a phantom echo of the persistent unease that had settled in his gut these past weeks.
“Forgive my impatience, Lord Elias, but I must attend the muster. Could you please state your purpose?”
Perhaps his irritation was not truly aimed at Elias. Perhaps it was a nameless frustration, a desire to lash out at the suffocating expectations that pressed down upon him. The constant, gnawing stress of his position, the delicate dance of deference and utility, had frayed his nerves.
Lost in these bleak reflections, Cassian watched as Elias finally seemed to gather his resolve. In a small, stammering voice, he began.
“Uh, Cassian… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” Cassian responded, scratching idly at his neck. The muster bell would sound soon. He yearned for Elias to simply articulate his request, felt a sudden, fleeting urge to prise the words from the young lord’s lips himself.
At that precise, unfortunate moment, the antechamber door burst open. Both Cassian and Elias turned, their eyes locking with Lord Lysander Thorne, the heir, who stood panting heavily. No, not at Cassian. Lysander’s fierce gaze was fixed solely upon Lord Elias.
Lysander’s ragged breaths filled the silence, betraying the haste of his arrival. Cassian’s chest tightened, a suffocating premonition. He imagined the heir, a whirlwind of furious concern, scouring the manor’s labyrinthine corridors for Elias.
With a long, measured exhalation, Lysander strode confidently into the small chamber. Unconsciously, Cassian dropped his hand from his neck. Lysander’s gaze flickered between Elias and Cassian, his expression hardening into a predatory mask.
“What are you doing here with him?”
The question hung in the air, directed at neither, yet aimed at both. Lysander’s fists clenched, then slowly relaxed.
Beneath Cassian’s composed exterior, his insides felt like a churning tempest. After an agonizing pause, Lysander finally turned his gaze upon Cassian. It was a stare Cassian found utterly unbearable, a scorching accusation.
“What in the Ancestors’ names, Lysander?”
*Please, please, do not look at me like that.* Cassian silently pleaded. *Blame Elias for calling me here. Why do you stare at me, your long-acquainted chronicler, with such searing resentment? I was merely an unwilling bystander in this sordid affair.*
Yet, Lysander’s burning eyes remained locked on Cassian. Those were not eyes alight with passion. They were the eyes of a man consumed by fury, by a maddening jealousy that twisted his features into a grimace. It was the face of a man deranged by a love Cassian found both pitiful and utterly despicable.
“Why are you here with him!” Lysander’s voice rose, a sharp, dangerous edge to it.
*You look pathetic, Lysander.* Cassian thought, a bitter taste in his mouth. *So utterly pathetic.* He met Lysander’s gaze with a cold, defiant stare. Yet, an unwelcome truth settled over him: the truly pitiful one, he realized, was not Lysander. It was himself.
Before Cassian could react, Lysander’s long strides had brought him directly before Cassian. The moment Cassian looked into the heir’s furious eyes, the world tilted.
“—!”
He could not process it. His body toppled to the cold stone floor, and only then did his mind retrace the swift, brutal arc of Lysander’s hand.
“No… it cannot be.”
He had been struck. Lysander Thorne had struck him.
Lying there, Cassian brought trembling fingers to his cheek. Disbelief, cold and sharp, pierced him. *How could you… How could you do this to me?*
“C-Cassian!” Elias cried out, horrified, scrambling forward. But Lysander’s voice, a feral scream, cut him short.
“You worm! I told you to call me *my lord*! No, do not even speak my name, you insolent fool!”
Seeing Lysander’s furious face, Elias’s expression paled further, his small frame quivering.
“I-I am sorry, I am so sorry.”
“You promised! You swore an oath! Damn you!”
Elias recoiled, tears gathering in his eyes. But no, *he* was not the one who should weep. Cassian was.
Tears welled within Cassian, a suffocating pressure behind his eyes. Before they could spill, Lysander cursed violently, his voice raw with rage, and dragged Elias by the arm from the antechamber. It all happened with disorienting speed.
Left alone, slumped on the stone floor, Cassian stared at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom, and something within him finally broke. The dam holding back his carefully suppressed emotions fractured, and hot tears streamed down his face.
He hated everything. Lord Elias, who had drawn him into this wretched tableau. Lord Lysander, who had violated his person, his dignity. He wished them both banished from his sight, from his very thoughts. He felt miserable, reduced to a mere pawn in their twisted machinations, a silent witness to their grotesque drama.
Cassian rose, his cheek throbbing, and sought out the steward, requesting an early dismissal from his duties, citing a sudden, severe ailment. His swollen, crimson face made the excuse believable, and the steward, a practical man, nodded without prying.
---
Arriving at his modest chambers, Cassian collapsed onto his pallet and fell into a deep, troubled sleep. When he awoke, his face felt puffy and bruised, a dull ache throbbing where Lysander’s hand had connected. Out of habit, he reached for his personal message-charm. Lysander had gifted it to him years ago, for urgent communications regarding his cartographic work. It chimed faintly, indicating a new message from Ser Kaelan.
They rarely exchanged personal messages, but Kaelan, as Lysander’s right hand, often conveyed instructions. *Damn it all.*
Were it any other, Cassian would have ignored it. But Ser Kaelan was not just anyone. He held considerable sway within the Thorne household and its intricate social hierarchy. Cassian could not afford to slight him.
“*Cassian. Your sudden departure. Uncharacteristic.*”
Cassian clicked his tongue, a soft sound of annoyance, and replied to the three-hour-old query, choosing his words carefully.
“*A sudden indisposition, Ser Kaelan. Nothing of import.*”
He kept his tone deliberately light, detached. The thought of anyone learning of Lysander’s violent outburst, that he had been struck down by the heir, was unbearably humiliating. And all because of Lord Elias.
“*Are you quite well, then?*”
Ser Kaelan, showing concern? The strangeness of it caused Cassian to deactivate his charm, the light fading from its smooth surface.
Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over him. Even Ser Kaelan’s message, though ostensibly solicitous, felt suffocating. Other acquaintances, fellow chroniclers and scribes, had sent polite inquiries, but none offered the solace Cassian truly craved.
No message from Lysander Thorne. *I must be mad*, Cassian thought, chastising himself. Yet, he consoled himself, believing this was the inevitable fate of those caught in the maelstrom of another’s maddening, possessive love. Even knowing the painful truth, he lay there, a fool, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, turning a blind eye to the bitter reality.
“…I am not the only one.”
Perhaps Elias and he were caught in the same snare. A strange, twisted, grotesque thought lingered. A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with it. While staring at the intricately carved ceiling of his chamber, another message chimed. From an unknown number.
“*Cassian, are you feeling very unwell?*”
He frowned. Who among his peers, beyond Lysander, would address him so informally? Ser Kaelan? But this was not his charm’s sigil. Before he could ponder it further, a follow-up message arrived, relentless and infuriating.
“*I am sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.*”
“*I am so sorry.*”
“*Please forgive me.*”
Three words, four, a ceaseless deluge—each made him want to scream. He hurled his charm onto the floor, the delicate device clattering against the stone. *How did this imbecile acquire my number? And how does one who supposedly possesses no personal charm send me messages?*
Then, it struck him. *Oh.* He had called Elias’s borrowed charm once, months ago, regarding a forgotten folio.
Cassian cursed his own foolish memory and let out an angry sigh. To vent his frustration, he pounded his fists against the pallet for a while until exhaustion claimed him. Just before his thoughts completely dissolved into sleep, one last message lingered, unread, in his mind.
“*Please, do not hate me.*”
*Funny,* Cassian thought, a dry, bitter laugh catching in his throat. *I have hated you for months, Lord Elias. Long before this wretched morning.*
The next morning, when he awoke, his face was swollen, like a poorly baked pastry.
---
Cassian skipped his morning duties. No matter how much of a diligent chronicler he was, he possessed too much pride, too fragile a dignity, to present himself to the household with a face like this.
Maester Elara, the elderly house-mistress, brought a light luncheon to his chambers. As he ate, she could not resist a gentle scolding, urging him to be more careful. The meal itself was simple – soft porridge and bland, seasoned greens. He swallowed it all, barely tasting.
As he set down his spoon and reached for a goblet of water, Maester Elara returned to clear the dishes. Plate in hand, she paused.
“Cassian, you have a visitor.”
“A visitor?”
“Shall I admit them?”
A friend. The word sent a strange flutter through Cassian’s chest. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind had already begun to construct a fervent fantasy of who might be waiting at his door.
Could it be… Lord Lysander?
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the main household ever ventured to his secluded chambers. Fewer still knew the way. If it were Lysander, then he must have come to apologize, a wave of belated guilt finally washing over him. Lysander had never laid a hand on Cassian before, not once in all their years. Yes, he must be worried. He must be upset.
“Yes, please, admit them,” Cassian said, his voice a little breathless.
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as he chastised himself for such foolish hope, he could not help but feel a small, inexplicable warmth bloom within him. Despite everything, he was still of some import to Lysander. The thought was a dangerous comfort, a foolish warmth that spread through his veins. He quickly turned toward the chamber door, his pace quickening with an unfamiliar, almost childish excitement.
But the person who entered was not who he had expected.
“Yo, Cassian. What troubles you today?”
Ser Kaelan, his sharp features creased in a playful smirk, held aloft a small pouch of spiced nuts. The smirk vanished the moment his eyes fell upon Cassian’s swollen face. His voice, usually gruff, softened to an unusually serious tone.
“By the Serpent’s Scales, what in the blazes happened to your face?”
Cassian’s knees almost buckled, not from physical pain, but from the sudden, crushing weight of disappointment. *How did Ser Kaelan even know where my chambers are?*
“…I had a misstep,” Cassian replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Ser Kaelan frowned, twisting his lips in that characteristic way he did before delivering a sarcastic remark.
“You truly are an idiot, aren’t you, Cassian?”
Cassian did not bother to argue. He merely rubbed his throbbing cheek, a dull ache reverberating through him. Embarrassment surged, hot and bitter, as he recalled his earlier, foolish anticipation. *I am such an idiot.* Lord Lysander did not consider him important. And here he was, like a hopeful, foolish hound, wagging his tail in absurd expectation.
“Here, take this.”
Ser Kaelan handed him a small, chilled ceramic pot. Cassian accepted it, immediately prying open the lid to check its contents. A soothing balm, faintly scented with mint.
“…It’s wintergreen.”
“Is it? Did not even notice.”
“Figures. Why would you?”
“Damn, that’s harsh, even for you.”
“What are you even doing here, Ser Kaelan?”
“What do you think? Came to check on you. Mind if I enter further?”
“Hey, wait!”
Without hesitation, Kaelan’s long legs carried him into the chamber. His gaze swept over Cassian’s carefully organized scrolls and sparse furnishings.
“Where’s your study?”
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Where else? There’s nowhere else of interest in your quarters.”
Cassian had no retort. Kaelan was right. All chambers, particularly those for the non-noble, were much the same. Feeling awkward, a familiar discomfort settling over him, Cassian followed Ser Kaelan, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting the interior of his private space.