A cool, dry breeze, smelling of aged parchment and distant stables, stirred the silken drapes beside Cassian's narrow cot. Sunlight, pale and hesitant, traced patterns across the polished floorboards. He rose, a stiffness lingering in his shoulders, and approached the polished silver mirror. The faint bloom of violet upon his cheekbone had receded, leaving only a bruised, greenish shadow. It was the kind of mark one might dismiss as a clumsy encounter with a doorframe. Manageable.
A fragile sense of lightness bloomed in his chest. Perhaps the humiliation of the previous night could be buried with the fading bruise. Lysander Thorne, with his volatile temper, often forgot his transgressions as swiftly as he enacted them. Cassian clung to that sliver of hope, a desperate tendril in the shifting sands of the Thorne household.
His duties called him to the morning assembly, held in the lesser hall where the scions of allied houses and the upper echelon of retainers gathered for instruction and reports. A heavy silence, thick as unrendered lard, clung to the air. The reason, an unspoken burden, was Lysander Thorne.
Instinctively, Cassian's gaze sought out Kaelus. The young retainer, usually so eager to please, slipped through the archway just as Lord Elias’s grizzled steward began the morning pronouncements. Kaelus’s gait was hesitant, his shoulders hunched. A gasp caught in Cassian’s throat. His breath seized.
Kaelus’s face, a landscape of fresh bruising, stole the air from Cassian's lungs. His lower lip was split, a dark scab already forming, and one eye, the left, was swollen almost as badly as Cassian’s own cheek had been yesterday. It pulsed with a sickening purplish-red. A suffocating sense of remorse weighed upon Cassian, pressing down until his ribs ached. He hated himself for entertaining childish thoughts of shared suffering, even for a moment.
“Gods above…” a whisper escaped Cassian, unheard in the hushed hall.
Kaelus, his eyes darting nervously across the faces, seemed to search for something, or someone. His gaze, as if drawn by an invisible thread, met Cassian's. For a long, agonizing moment, he stared. Then, his expression locked into a startled grimace, Kaelus jerked his head away, shuffling quickly to an unoccupied bench at the very edge of the assembly, avoiding Cassian entirely.
A strange, cold dread settled over Cassian. He glanced around, and the reason became immediately, brutally clear. Lysander Thorne, seated with the heir-apparents, fixed him with a stare sharp as winter shards. The intensity of it promised destruction. Lysander’s mouth, a thin, cruel line, seemed to whisper: *I want to unmake you*.
“Blast it all,” Cassian muttered, his lightened heart now a leaden weight. He should have feigned illness, stayed in his room. Regret, acrid and bitter, flooded his mouth.
After that grim morning, Kaelus, who had once sought Cassian's counsel on mapping minor land disputes, avoided him. During the brief mid-morning respite, Kaelus vanished, swallowed by the manor's labyrinthine passages alongside Lysander. Their disappearance left Cassian to his own devices.
He found himself at the servants' mess, picking at a meager midday meal with Faelan, a stablehand whose boisterous laughter usually grated on Cassian’s nerves. A restless itch stirred within Cassian, a desperate urge to seek out Lysander and Kaelus, to understand what had transpired. Yet, he knew he wouldn’t. He loathed to admit it, but he was too afraid of what he might see. Would Lysander strike Kaelus again? The thought alone made his stomach churn. It was not his concern, he told himself, but Kaelus’s battered face was burned into his memory.
Faelan, oblivious to the storm brewing behind Cassian's calm facade, kept up his usual cheerful banter.
“See? I told you the hall was tense as a bowstring. Almost choked on my own ale.” Faelan gestured wildly with a piece of bread.
“You seemed perfectly content stealing the last apple tart yesterday.” Cassian’s voice was even, betraying nothing.
“Give me some credit, Cassian. I ate it like a true nobleman.” Faelan winked, a wide, easy grin spreading across his face.
Cassian, annoyed, lightly nudged Faelan’s shin under the table. Faelan merely chuckled, rubbing his chin as if pondering some great mystery. Or perhaps he was just being deliberately obtuse. Cassian couldn’t tell.
***
Life possessed a cruel, unpredictable nature. From their very first encounter, Cassian had no intention of drawing close to Faelan. He found the stablehand’s bluntness and lack of proper deference jarring. Yet, here they were, Faelan now the closest person to Cassian in this vast, impersonal household.
Faelan’s lighthearted demeanor, his flippant remarks, possessed an uncanny ability to prevent Cassian from sinking too deeply into the crushing weight of his circumstances. Once, Cassian had detested those very qualities, dismissing Faelan as shallow, unserious. Now, he relied on that levity to keep himself anchored. If Lysander and Cassian had remained close, as they once were, Cassian would never have realized how much he needed Faelan’s grounding presence.
After that day, Lysander began to isolate himself from the wider circle of retainers and lesser nobles. Sometimes, he would vanish with Kaelus. Other times, he would gather a few eager acolytes. There were even moments when some of the others flat-out refused, shaking their heads with uneasy expressions, murmuring excuses about neglected duties.
One such instance involved Ser Alaric, a squire from a neighboring estate. Cassian encountered him scaling a garden wall, apparently avoiding a particularly stringent drill-master. Ser Alaric, with a mixture of amusement and genuine unease, confided that Lysander had been ordering the others to strike Kaelus, one measured blow at a time. Cassian’s face tightened in disbelief. Ser Alaric, sensing Cassian’s reaction, quickly added that he’d been avoiding Lysander’s gatherings lately because of it. He then mentioned he was on his way to the sparring grounds with young Ser Gareth and asked Cassian not to misunderstand. With a hurried nod, he disappeared over the wall.
Young Ser Gareth, whose family lands bordered the Thorne demesne, had once been Lysander’s shadow during their early days of training. But a reassignment to different mentors had seen their paths diverge.
At midday, Faelan and Cassian walked to the outer courtyard, where a vendor sold sweet iced drinks. The cold sweetness spread across Cassian’s tongue, offering a fleeting, desperate solace. Yet, beneath that temporary relief, a bitter knot of unease tightened in his chest. Still, he held his ground, determined not to let his inner turmoil show.
“Is that good?” Faelan, who was loudly slurping at his own brightly colored cordial, eyed Cassian’s with hunger.
“Care for a taste?” Half-teasing, Cassian brought his cup, sticky with his own saliva, close to Faelan’s mouth. Without hesitation, Faelan smirked, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a deep, loud draught.
“Hey! Did you truly drink from that?” Cassian stared, aghast.
“You offered.” Faelan shrugged, a glint in his eye.
“That’s… unsanitary. And why such a large swallow?”
“It was but one gulp.” Grinning, Faelan simply shrugged a shoulder. It was, in that moment, a peaceful exchange. In stark contrast to Cassian’s internal struggle, the crisp autumn air was clear, the sky an unblemished azure.
Where were Lysander and Kaelus now? A few places came to mind – the training fields, the ancient crypts beneath the manor, the forgotten hunting lodge. But Cassian did not go looking. Perhaps he feared what he might uncover.
He tried his utmost not to think of Lysander. Yet the harder he tried, the more profoundly he realized the vast space Lysander occupied within his mind. How long would it take to excise someone like him from his thoughts? How much effort would it demand? Cassian did not know. It felt like being lost in a vast, endless desert, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying, unbearable.
Sometimes, Cassian retreated within himself. Like a scholar poring over a faded map, struggling to decipher ancient markings, he found himself stepping back to make sense of it all. When the weight became too overwhelming, he would occasionally speak with Faelan. And, well, that was that.
Suddenly, he turned to Faelan.
“Faelan.”
“Hm?” Faelan stopped mid-chew on a piece of dried fruit.
“…Do you think flowers will ever bloom in a barren desert?” It was such an uncharacteristically emotional question that Cassian felt a blush creep up his neck the moment the words left his lips. He scratched his head awkwardly. Faelan, however, did not mock him.
“They will.” Faelan’s voice was surprisingly soft.
“…”
“They must. Life’s already a wretched enough thing as it is.” Hearing those simple words from Faelan – a person Cassian never thought capable of such profound sentiment – made him realize the utter futility of his own desperate hope. How much more time would it take for him to relinquish these meaningless feelings?
“…Indeed. Life’s wretched.” Cassian’s voice was barely a whisper.
Lysander Thorne. That useless, cruel noble. Why did he seem so intent on killing the loyal, tail-wagging dog Cassian became every time he saw him? Lysander, who now seemed to have abandoned all the basic decorum a young lord should uphold, came and went from the household duties as he pleased. And always, by his side, was Kaelus, a shadow clinging to his master’s wake.
As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the lesser hall buzzed with a mix of unease and hushed intrigue. It became clear Lysander’s violence was escalating. And so, too, was the fog of resentment toward him, slowly spreading throughout the younger noble ranks. None of it felt right.
So, when Cassian saw Lysander dragging Kaelus by the wrist down a deserted corridor, he stopped. His heart pounded against his ribs. Watching them, Cassian alternated his gaze between Lysander’s cold profile and Kaelus’s pleading eyes before finally speaking.
“Lord Elias is concerned for your wellbeing.” It was not an apology, nor flattery – it was a lie. Such was the extent of Cassian’s pride. Yet, since Lysander was never close to his stern father, he probably wouldn’t even recognize it as a fabrication. And even if he did, Cassian always left himself an escape route: at this rate, Lord Elias would eventually have ample cause for concern.
“If someone must bear a lesson, ensure it is only you. What has Kaelus ever done?” Cassian’s voice, though quiet, held an unexpected firmness.
“Move.” The moment Cassian mentioned Kaelus’s name, Lysander’s gaze locked onto him, sharp as poisoned daggers. Cassian’s chest felt like it would burst from the sheer weight of it. He hated Lysander. And yet, pitiful, pathetic Kaelus stood glued to Lysander’s side, his tear-filled eyes looking at Cassian as if he might crumble at any moment.
“Unless you wish to receive another taste of the cane, like last time, step aside.” Lysander’s voice was low, laced with venom.
“L-Lord Lysander, please,” Kaelus stammered, his voice trembling as he tugged lightly at Lysander's sleeve. Only then did Lysander stop speaking. His gaze, now narrowed, was fixed solely on Kaelus. All Cassian could see was the back of Lysander’s head as he turned away.
“A-as I said, your father is worried—” Cassian tried again, a desperate last attempt.
Kaelus, on the verge of tears, clung to Lysander, trying to physically deter him. Watching that pitiful scene unfold was unbearable. It was so excruciating that Cassian closed his eyes, pressing his lids shut against the sight.
After a long moment, Lysander looked at Kaelus, then turned. Without another word, he walked back into the assembly hall. For the remainder of the day, he stayed there – just as he had weeks ago, following their last confrontation.
***
The long-anticipated day of the annual Thorne procession to the Serene Market of Oakhaven had arrived. A line of gilded carriages and sturdy wagons, emblazoned with the Thorne crest, stood ready in the courtyard. While a few grumbled about dragging young nobles and retainers away from their studies, most were excited at the chance to escape the manor’s confines for even a single day.
There was no need to pack provisions; they would return shortly after the day’s observances. The household stewards gave only a few half-hearted warnings before allowing them to board. They were not children to be coddled. There was no giddy excitement keeping Cassian awake the night before. He thought of it as just another day – leave without a satchel, return without a satchel. But he had no idea that today would be the day his bottled-up frustration, his quiet yearning for recognition, would finally explode. He had expected it to come eventually, but not so suddenly, so cruelly.
As was customary, Cassian always rode in the same carriage as Lysander during such excursions, a subtle acknowledgment of his role as the manor’s cartographer and chronicler. After all, he was considered Lysander’s closest companion, despite their recent estrangement. He hadn’t even considered where Faelan would sit, as he’d never embarked on such a journey with him before.
At first, a familiar wariness pricked Cassian’s thoughts. He worried Faelan, in his cheerful disregard for propriety, might attempt to claim the seat closest to Lysander. Thinking back on it now, it seemed pathetic. Neither Cassian nor Faelan would end up in that spot.
He arrived in the courtyard to find their assigned carriage, its polished panels gleaming, and climbed aboard to locate their seats. The back five seats were already claimed by a group of noisy young squires, among them Ser Alaric, who waved at Cassian. Ser Alaric then hesitated, his hand hovering, before pointing subtly towards Lysander’s usual place.
“Cassian! There’s a space here!” Ser Alaric called, his voice carrying clearly over the chatter.
“…Oh, right.” Of course. Cassian had always been the one beside him. But today, he hesitated as he approached Lysander’s usual seat. He sighed, a tremor of relief running through him, when he saw that the cushion beside Lysander was still empty. Swallowing hard, Cassian felt a twinge of desperate determination.
It was his spot. His pride – the one thing he stubbornly clung to, a fragile shell protecting his inner world – compelled him to sit there, even after being struck by Lysander due to Kaelus. It was a silent assertion of his place, a quiet dignity he refused to surrender.
Cassian nervously touched the top of the carved seat for a moment, his fingers tracing the smooth wood, then glanced around the carriage. He quietly asked, his voice barely a murmur,
“Lord Lysander… This seat…”
“It is not yours. Go sit elsewhere.” Before Cassian could finish, Lysander cut him off, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on the carriage entrance. Following Lysander’s line of sight, Cassian saw Kaelus timidly making his way toward them. Cassian’s fists clenched, his words swallowed whole, choked by a bitter, metallic taste.
“…Fine. Whatever.” He tried to sound indifferent, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded into a thousand pieces.
Cassian quickly left the seat, his movements stiff, and scanned the crowded carriage. He found an empty spot near Faelan’s boisterous group of stablehands and junior guards, directly in front of where Faelan was already settled. Relieved, Cassian rushed over, practically collapsing into the seat, and spoke without waiting for a response.
“Faelan. Ride with me.”
There was no answer. When Cassian looked closer, he realized Faelan was already asleep. Faelan always seemed to doze off in the mornings, especially during rides, and today was no exception. His head rested against the glass of the window, bouncing gently with every bump in the road. Shaking his head at the ridiculous posture, Cassian shoved his small, leather-bound wallet between Faelan’s head and the window pane, offering a meager cushion. He then leaned back into the uncomfortable seat, a profound weariness settling over him.
Across the aisle, through the shifting heads of other passengers, Cassian caught a glimpse of dark brown hair. It was Lysander’s – he was taller than most of the younger nobles, making him easy to spot. Though he couldn’t see clearly, Cassian knew exactly who was there, and who was now sitting beside him. It was a wound that would fester, a humiliation etched deeply into his prodigious memory.