Aiel felt Theron’s disdain like a persistent chill. Every glance, every dismissive gesture from the Volkov heir since the incident in the lesser records annex, felt like a deliberate blow. Theron had abandoned any pretense of civility, his contempt now an open wound in the Grand Scriptorium. Lysander, frail and still too pale, occupied the carven oak seat beside Theron. It was the very chair Aiel had, for years, meticulously prepared, ensuring its cushions were fluffed just so, its surface free of dust, ready for the favored scribe.
Seeing Lysander there each morning, a fresh wave of humiliation washed over Aiel. He was no stranger to shame, to the biting sting of his family’s diminished standing. But to be so openly, so flagrantly cast aside, was a new kind of agony. Pride, fragile as an ancient scroll, demanded he rise above it, yet a profound melancholy settled deep within him. An undercurrent of bitterness often flared, a petty desire for retribution, only to be drowned by the weight of his own insignificance.
He could not pretend indifference. His carefully constructed mask of composure threatened to crack under the strain. There was no courage within him to address Theron, to act as though the world had not irrevocably shifted. Each day was a slow descent into a quiet despair.
And Lysander. Aiel felt a strange, simmering resentment towards the boy. It was irrational, he knew, a cruel twist of circumstance. Lysander had not asked for any of this. Yet, in Aiel’s shadowed thoughts, a monstrous injustice brewed. Not only had Lysander inadvertently drawn Theron’s wrath, becoming the focal point of his possessive attentions, he had also, it seemed, ‘stolen’ Theron’s former, more benign interest in Aiel himself. An ugly, unbidden thought branded Lysander a malicious, if unwitting, thief.
Reason, however, was a cold comfort. Aiel knew Lysander was merely a pawn in Theron’s escalating theatrics, a fragile vessel buffeted by the storm. He never allowed his secret, burgeoning resentment to show, keeping his expressions carefully neutral, his voice even when they spoke. To reveal such base jealousy would be to expose a weakness he could not afford, a vulnerable flank in a war he was already losing. It would only deepen Theron’s contempt, and paint Aiel as a contemptible wretch in the eyes of their peers.
“This… this is a monstrous farce,” Aiel muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the rustle of parchment. The bitterness was a physical ache in his chest. He hated it more than Theron’s open hostility, more than the isolation. He despised the churning turmoil within his own heart.
Valerius’s face flickered in his mind, unexpected and unwelcome. The thought brought a strange twist to Aiel’s lips. Valerius, with his careless air and blunt pronouncements, had been a perplexing constant in Aiel’s recent, isolated days. Aiel imagined Valerius’s derisive snort if he knew the depths of Aiel’s dark thoughts: ‘So, the meticulous Aiel, secretly a craven, resentful worm, eh?’
Image of Valerius’s gaze, laced with disdain, made Aiel’s hands clench into tight fists beneath the table. The very notion turned his stomach. He absolutely could not, would not, allow anyone to glimpse this ugly truth. Friendships, particularly among the noble houses, were brittle things, easily shattered. As Theron’s coldness became undeniable, the ties Aiel once shared with the Volkov coterie began to fray, then snap. Surprisingly, it was Renwick, often a silent fixture in Valerius’s orbit, who approached Aiel one morning with an awkward, almost apologetic air.
“Aiel,” Renwick murmured, hovering near Aiel’s desk. “Valerius was looking for you earlier.”
“Oh? Why?” Aiel asked, his quill still poised over a fresh sheet of vellum.
“I… he just was, I think.” Renwick shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting away.
His words, as always, were vague, a meaningless string of sounds. Yet, Renwick’s approach underscored a new reality: people now saw Aiel as having drifted into Valerius’s unconventional circle, far from the polished, powerful orbit of Theron. The complete severance of his old connections was not yet absolute. Occasionally, during the brief, mandated gatherings in the great hall, or by chance near the courtyard, polite nods might be exchanged, mostly from Kaelen.
“Aiel! A good morn to you!” Kaelen’s voice, a little too loud, carried across the murmuring hall.
“Good morn, Kaelen,” Aiel replied, his own voice a low, measured tone.
He remembered one such exchange, Kaelen’s voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Theron… he’s been acting rather peculiar, don’t you think? His way with Lysander, it’s… unsettling.’
Kaelen must have interpreted Aiel’s rigid posture and grim expression as agreement. He continued, describing Theron’s insistence on Lysander’s constant proximity, the way his hand lingered on Lysander’s arm, a possessive grip that left Lysander visibly uncomfortable.
Aiel’s fingers curled, digging into his palms. He ground his teeth, forcing a harsh, flat response. ‘I find no interest in Theron’s… peculiar affections. His affairs are his own.’
Kaelen fell silent immediately, his face flushing. Kaelen, Aiel noted, had recently been seen gravitating towards Valerius’s more independent set, perhaps seeking an escape from Theron’s increasingly erratic shadow. His confidences to Aiel were likely a clumsy attempt to secure a new alliance.
Today, as was becoming customary, it was only Aiel and Valerius remaining in the grand study chamber, the last of the day’s scribal duties complete. Valerius leaned against a towering bookshelf, a small, polished river stone idly turning in his fingers. He watched Aiel, his gaze unreadable, a peculiar blend of appraisal and disinterest. Aiel, annoyed by the scrutiny, turned his head, feigning focus on a stray inkblot.
“Aiel.” Valerius’s voice cut through the quiet.
“What is it?” Aiel asked, his tone sharper than intended.
“Let’s get some candied violets after the evening meal. The last batch was surprisingly palatable.” Valerius ignored Aiel’s terse reply, his fingers deftly flicking the river stone. It spun across the polished floor, bouncing erratically, threatening to strike an abandoned inkpot. No one, however, dared to chide him.
His indifference to social convention was almost admirable, his selfishness absolute. Aiel watched the stone bounce, a frown creasing his brow. The sheer audacity of Valerius’s behavior made Aiel’s irritation boil over. “You mean the ones you devoured entirely yourself? You bought them for your own indulgence, did you not?”
“Not entirely. I just prefer the violet ones.” Valerius caught the stone as it rebounded from a chair leg.
“So, my preference held no sway?” Aiel asked, a vein throbbing faintly at his temple.
“How was I to know what you desired? You offered no opinion.” Valerius shrugged, the river stone now resting in his palm. A junior acolyte, sweeping near where the stone had come to rest, hesitated, then stooped to retrieve it. He placed it carefully into Valerius’s outstretched hand.
Valerius gave the acolyte a casual nod. “My thanks, dullard.”
What an infuriating character. Every casual word, every blunt dismissal, grated on Aiel’s nerves. It truly baffled him why Valerius, with his open disregard for propriety, chose to linger with Aiel instead of the charismatic, powerful Theron. Valerius ate with him, sat with him during lectures, walked with him through the estate’s grounds. Theron was often engaged, but Valerius could easily seek him out, send a private missive, arrange a meeting.
A thought, unbidden, sprang to Aiel’s lips. “Why do you not seek Theron’s company these days?”
Valerius, mid-toss of the river stone against the ancient stone wall, froze. He turned, a genuinely puzzled expression on his face. “You had a quarrel with him,” he stated, as if it were obvious.
“I?” Aiel blinked.
“Yes. You and Theron.” Valerius continued, his eyes narrow.
“I am well aware. I was the one involved in the… disagreement. How does that pertain to you?”
“Your questions are truly baffling. It pertains to me because you are my companion.” Valerius scanned Aiel from head to foot, his gaze unnervingly direct. Aiel, discomfited, avoided his eyes.
“You are Theron’s companion also, are you not?” Aiel countered, a tremor in his voice.
“Remarkable. Are you suggesting you are not my companion?” Valerius’s tone was incredulous, a pointed finger aimed at Aiel’s chest.
“No, I am your companion. But you were also Theron’s. Why then do you… align yourself with me?”
“Because I have known you longer.” Valerius stated, as if it were the simplest truth.
“What nonsense do you speak? We were introduced through Theron. Our acquaintance began because of him!” Aiel protested, genuinely confused.
“Absurd. We were in close proximity during our first year! In the library, our gazes often met!”
“Oh… those times.” Aiel’s mind drifted back to the awkward, almost hostile stares they sometimes exchanged across the reading tables. He’d interpreted them as thinly veiled rivalry.
“Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Unbelievable. From the moment we were assigned to the same scribal cohort, I approached you directly! And you fail to acknowledge that? A profound disappointment.” Valerius shook his head, a theatrical sigh escaping him.
“Oh.” Aiel felt a wave of strange confusion. What he perceived as silent challenges, Valerius remembered as burgeoning camaraderie.
“Unfathomable. Truly, how could you betray me thus?”
“Forgive me, then. My apologies, truly.” Aiel mumbled, a half-formed recollection of those oddly frequent, silent encounters. Was it possible Valerius saw those intense gazes as friendship? His memory of them was laced with a sense of impending confrontation. And the initial suggestion to share a meal, had it not been Theron’s idea at all, but Valerius’s?
Aiel was stunned by the implication. It was disquieting, even shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve further into this unsettling revision of his personal history, he nodded, feigning comprehension. “Very well. I understand. My sincere apologies.”
“I was deeply aggrieved just now,” Valerius grumbled, still glowering slightly. Aiel sometimes found Valerius’s inner workings utterly inscrutable.
“And besides,” Valerius continued, his tone shifting, “Theron is acting with alarming peculiarity.”
Aiel remained silent, his gaze fixed on a distant point.
“The man has lost his mind, I think. He has always been somewhat… singular, but this… this is beyond the pale.” Valerius gripped the river stone with four fingers, idly spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The image of Kaelen, awkwardly trying to confide in Aiel, flickered through his mind, and with it, the quiet murmurs of other junior scribes.
It was undeniable: Theron’s reputation was in a precipitous decline.
“Blood-tainted.” The word, a whispered curse among the noble houses, the most feared and damning stigma in their rigid society, sent a shiver through Aiel. His body trembled, a cold dread seeping into his bones. At the same instant, a perverse surge of relief washed over him. No one, absolutely no one, knew of his own peculiar inclination. Did that relief mean he valued his own hidden nature more than Theron’s public ruin?
Unease prickled his skin. Aiel gazed at Valerius’s profile, feeling like a heretical scholar clutching a forbidden text before the Grand Elder. “Truly, my plight…” he muttered, a strange, choked laugh escaping him – a mix of terror and bitter irony.
It was almost laughable. To the world, Aiel was now firmly entrenched as Valerius’s closest companion. Yet, in truth, Aiel was no different from Theron in his essence—a soul marked by an unseen, unholy stigma. Only a few short months ago, he had been Theron’s most trusted scribe, his closest confidant. Now, he merely hid, a survivor of a filthy trap he had barely escaped. He had only avoided being caught. That was all.
---
It was the pre-dawn hour. A message, etched onto a slender strip of parchment and sealed with a stranger’s wax, arrived unexpectedly at Aiel’s private chambers. A quiet tap at his door at four bells. Half-asleep, Aiel wondered if the recent turmoil was merely a fevered dream. Despite his conscious efforts to distance himself from Theron, to protect his own bruised spirit, his heart gave an involuntary lurch at the thought that the missive might, impossibly, be from Theron.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes, his gaze darting to the name penned in a surprisingly delicate script. Conflicting emotions warred within him. Part of him hoped for a trivial summons from the Grand Scriptor, a bureaucratic demand for some forgotten ledger. But as soon as he deciphered the message’s content, he knew it was not from Theron.
“Aielan, forgive my intrusion at this ungodly hour. Could you grace your garden gate for a moment? My apologies. Truly, I am deeply sorry.”
“Just this once. Only this single time.”
Theron Volkov would never apologize to Aiel. Never. Among Aiel’s peers, only two individuals used the familiar ‘Aielan,’ and of those two, only one could pen such a desperate plea. How had Lysander even discovered his family’s modest residence? Aiel’s face twisted into a scowl the moment he saw the name. He did not wish to see him – he never wished to see him. Lysander’s presence was always fraught, always unpleasant.
Despite his revulsion, Aiel swung his legs from the bed, buttoned his tunic, and stood. He walked to the chamber door, his hand hovering over the cold iron latch. He rested his forehead against the heavy wood, letting out a deep, ragged sigh.
“Damn this predicament,” he breathed.
An overwhelming knot tightened in his stomach. It was a sensation he could not name. He clutched at his chest, seeking to quell the turmoil. He had always prided himself on his vast vocabulary, gleaned from countless ancient texts, yet no words he knew could fully articulate this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated.
His simmering resentment for Lysander, the indelible image of the boy’s bruised face from that day, and the desperate, futile days Aiel had spent trying to sever their connection – all swirled into a nauseating vortex. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the doorknob. Then, with a decisive twist, he closed his eyes and turned it.
In the small, neglected garden, the cold morning dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of autumn. Aiel carefully placed his slippers on the cool marble stepping stones, avoiding the damp grass. The chilly dawn made him pull his simple wool jacket tighter around him. His toes, peeking from the front of his slippers, carried him to the heavy, wrought-iron gate.
He paused there, clicked his tongue in exasperation, and gripped the cold handle. The creaking of the hinges made him flinch. He opened the gate even more slowly, bracing himself.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the single flickering street lamp on the cobbled lane, stood Lysander. He was still in his hastily donned scribal uniform, his head hung low, idly scrawling invisible shapes on the dirt with the tip of his worn boot.
“Lysander,” Aiel said, his voice quiet, almost a curse.
At the sound, Lysander’s head snapped up like a startled bird. “Aiel! Aielan!”
His voice was raw with desperation.