Aiel cultivated composure as a shield. Generations of diminished prestige had instilled a brittle pride, a terror of exposure. He had learned to regulate every breath, every turn of phrase, until his very being became a meticulously maintained artifact, resistant to the crude currents of courtly life.
This outward calm often led others to dismiss him as overly fastidious, perhaps even weak. He was not without fire; every slight, every casual dismissal, had simply been compressed, forming an unyielding layer beneath his skin. Over time, few things could truly pierce that hardened surface.
Even Lord Roric Volkov, with his boundless, brutish energy, rarely provoked a visible tremor.
Aiel wanted to preserve his place within the court’s intricate, venomous hierarchy. He had painstakingly carved it out, a precarious niche near the center of power, where intellectual acumen was valued, however fleetingly. He guarded it fiercely.
“Aiel.”
Kaelen Valerius, ever insolent, leaned back in his chair. Aiel merely inclined his head. Kaelen had a way of flattening courtesy into an affront.
“Your penmanship, Aiel. It sickens me.”
Aiel’s fingers tightened around the quill. “It serves its purpose, Lord Kaelen. Unlike your wit.”
Kaelen laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Still too precious by half.”
Insults only truly stung if one believed them. Kaelen merely enjoyed the sport. He tossed a small, polished stone from hand to hand, his gaze sweeping over the Hall, restless.
“Tell me, Aiel, do you know of any suitable matches? For… a friend.” Kaelen’s lips curled, a faint smirk.
“Suitable by what metric, Lord Kaelen?”
“A House of good standing. Strong Essence. Not one of those… faded lineages.”
Aiel’s jaw clenched. The Valerius Essence, an innate affinity for stonework and architecture, was potent. His own House, once renowned for its vibrant pigments and illumination, now merely offered a pale echo of its former glory. He knew Kaelen’s words were meant to sting. Still, he kept his expression neutral. Kaelen didn’t press. His eyes, dark and predatory, settled on Lord Theron Vance, seated alone at the far end of the Great Hall.
Roric Volkov was a force of nature—impulsive, crude, and often cruel. Since his early adolescence, he had pursued any fleeting desire with relentless abandon. His contempt for restraint was legendary, and his casual harassment, lacking all subtlety, grew ever more blatant.
By this crisp autumn day, the end of the harvest festival, Lord Theron Vance had been thoroughly isolated. Yet, even that seemed insufficient for Roric.
Roric’s immediate circle, Lords and Ladies of Houses whose Essences were tied to martial prowess or swift trade, followed his every whim. They were like Ser Alaric, Lady Lena, or Lord Gareth, who lingered after the court’s morning sessions, awaiting Roric’s next command. Others, of lesser standing, fled the moment the midday meal was announced.
Last year, Aiel had been permitted within Roric’s closer orbit. His meticulous work on Roric’s personal archives, his ability to trace ancient lineages and treaties with flawless accuracy, had once been valued. But this year, something shifted. It began with a flippant remark from Ser Alaric: “Aiel dines with Kaelen, doesn’t he? Gods, your hand moves like a glacier, scholar.” Without a word from Aiel, his place was revoked.
Most humiliating, Roric hadn’t even seemed to notice. Aiel’s presence, or lack thereof, made no discernible difference to him. Fury, cold and sharp, flickered within Aiel. He glanced at Roric, then asked Kaelen, his voice barely audible,
“Am I truly so… deliberate?”
Kaelen snorted, leaning back. “Of course. You pick apart your roast pheasant as if it were a rare scroll. We’re always late to the afternoon hunt because of your… scholarly pace.”
“Indeed,” Alaric had added. “We have a wager with the Stonehaven lads today. Go and eat with Kaelen.”
“Ah.” The word felt dry on Aiel’s tongue.
His pride, that fragile, precious thing, prevented him from pleading. Besides, he had often suffered indigestion from rushing his midday meal to keep pace with Roric’s wolfish consumption. And honestly, the thought of clinging to Roric like a barnacle sickened him. So, he didn’t protest.
Just like that, he was out of the circle. His own will, his own dignity, had been irrelevant.
Trying to project an air of indifference, Aiel found his gaze meeting Kaelen’s. Kaelen, lounging on a nearby bench, still tossing his polished stone, looked at Aiel and spoke, his tone casual, yet subtly mocking.
“When do you intend to partake of sustenance?”
Aiel paused. “…”
“I usually go in about ten minutes, after the worst of the rabble clear out.”
“That… would suit me as well,” Aiel replied, a faint tremor in his voice.
In truth, Aiel had never waited that long. But instinct, that primal, undignified urge for survival, asserted itself. If he wished to remain associated with anyone, even Kaelen, he had to adapt. The first time they ate alone, Aiel left half his food untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Kaelen raised a skeptical brow.
“What are you, eighteen and still delicate about your supper?”
“Does it concern you, Lord Kaelen?”
“Honestly, you’re like a child.”
“Even adults should not debase a fine trout with such a vulgar, spiced sauce,” Aiel shot back, glaring. Kaelen’s constant jibes grated on him.
Last year, Roric and Aiel had been almost inseparable, bound by Roric’s passing interest in ancient lore. This year, those moments had dwindled. All because of Kaelen. Yet, Aiel had no right to complain. Kaelen, for all his boorishness, outranked him, his House’s Essence more vibrant, his status more secure.
Kaelen and Roric’s circles overlapped, drawing in many of the wilder, less studious scions of the lesser Houses. These were the sort who would forge dismissal scrolls or vanish from court duties, exploiting the lax oversight of less attentive tutors. Roric, ever mindful of his parents’ watchful eyes, usually remained until the end of all courtly instruction. As for Kaelen, whose reputation was almost as notorious, Aiel had once asked him why he bothered to stay.
“Do you presume me that pathetic, scholar?”
“No, but your… companions often absent themselves.”
“Companions? What rubbish is that? They are not my companions. They are dregs.”
“What?”
“A noble’s duty is to attend his lessons, to learn, is it not?”
“…That is true, Lord Kaelen.”
“Do not lump me with such dregs. It offends my sensibilities.”
“My apologies.”
“I did not ask for your contrition.”
Of course, Kaelen’s pronouncements often struck Aiel as utterly absurd. This was the same lord whose “friends” skipped court duties at least once a week. Regardless, Aiel found himself spending most of his year with Roric and Kaelen, a strange, precarious triangle. He considered it a sacred space, one that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Kaelen’s abrasive presence, but surprisingly, they got along better than Aiel expected. He still didn’t like Kaelen, but he wasn’t so intolerable that Aiel would storm off. He was just… an irritant.
But Lord Theron Vance’s ongoing humiliation turned even those days into a nightmare.
Today felt different.
“Damn it. Alaric and Gareth, those louts,” Roric cursed, running a hand through his dark hair as the fourth period of instruction neared its end. He gestured toward the Great Hall’s entrance.
Hearing his voice, Aiel immediately turned, his tone tinged with an unbidden anticipation. “They have… absented themselves again?”
“Fools.”
“That is unfortunate. With whom will you partake of the midday meal, then?” Aiel’s fingers trembled faintly, gripping the back of his chair.
Roric let out a heavy sigh, then looked at Kaelen, seated beside him. “I shall join you two today.”
“Do not. No one issued an invitation,” Kaelen replied, blunt as a blunted axe.
“Continue with that insolence, and I shall silence you.”
“Gods, today truly makes me desire to punch your esteemed face, Volkov.”
“Go ahead and attempt it, oaf.”
“Brave words for a lord who would otherwise eat alone.”
Aiel couldn’t hold back. He interjected, his voice surprisingly firm. “Come now. Let us all dine together. We cannot simply leave Lord Roric to eat alone.”
His desperation must have been evident. Roric smirked, a flash of triumph in his eyes, glancing at Kaelen with a sly grin. “See? I possess loyal friends.”
“…” Kaelen scowled, sweeping Roric’s silver inkwell off the desk with a casual flick of his wrist. It clattered to the floor. Whether Kaelen liked Aiel or not, it mattered only that Roric now joined them for the midday meal.
It had been so long since they had truly dined together. Aiel was so thrilled that he even forced himself to consume a portion of the candied turnips he usually disdained.
But Roric paid little mind to his plate. His eyes scanned the great hall, a predator searching for prey. Aiel, too focused on Roric, didn’t notice Kaelen pilfering spiced plums from his own tray. Then, without warning, Roric’s ornate eating dagger fell from his hand, and his free hand grabbed the arm of someone passing by.
Aiel looked up. It was Lord Theron Vance.
“Sit here,” Roric commanded, nodding toward the empty seat beside him. “You have no one else to dine with, in any case.”
Theron’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted around, briefly meeting Aiel’s before he bit his lip and slowly, hesitantly, sat in the seat Roric had indicated.
Aiel was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when did Roric care whether Theron had companions? And the reason Theron had no friends was entirely Roric’s doing. Roric detested anyone who showed even a sliver of kindness to Theron.
A bitter taste rose in Aiel’s throat.
Unconsciously, Aiel slammed his spoon onto his pewter tray. The sound, sharp and jarring, cut through the low hum of the dining hall. But the only one who reacted was Theron, who flinched, eyes wide and nervous. Roric, however, remained fixated on Theron.
Damn it. In that moment, the protective glaze Aiel had meticulously built over the years began to crack. He tried to halt the erosion, but he couldn’t. Perhaps he was nearing a precipice he hadn’t realized existed.
Desperately clinging to defiance, Aiel snapped at Theron. “Theron. You may leave.”
“H-huh?”
“Do not heed Lord Roric. Simply go. It is permissible.”
“Aiel.” Roric’s voice was dangerously low, a serpent’s hiss.
When Aiel told Theron he could leave, Roric, who had ignored Aiel’s earlier, jarring noise, finally ground his teeth and glared at him. That glare, far from intimidating, seemed to strengthen Aiel’s resolve. He fixed his eyes stubbornly on Theron.
“I shall intercede. You are free to depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.”
“And Roric, desist from this behavior.”
“Yes, I concur,” Kaelen chimed in, through a mouthful of spiced plums, his words barely intelligible. His sudden interjection felt misplaced, an irritating dissonance. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness before glancing between Aiel and Roric, continuing with an irritating smirk. “What are you staring at? You’re killing my appetite.”
As always, Kaelen’s unnecessary provocations grated on Aiel’s nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter how Aiel regarded him. Ignoring him, Aiel turned back to Roric.
“Leave Theron alone.”
“Who grants you the authority to issue commands to me?” Roric shot back, his voice rising.
“It is… tiresome for the rest of us to observe.”
Aiel didn’t blink as he stared Roric down. Roric slammed his fist on the table. The sudden impact made Theron, who sat awkwardly, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Kaelen, on the other hand, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Count me out of this particular skirmish.” He licked a drop of wine from his lips and added, “Let us decide by majority vote. I am neutral, Aiel wishes him gone, and Roric insists he stays.”
For the record, Kaelen was one of the few who called Aiel simply ‘Aiel,’ without title, and Aiel found it irritating every time. That irritation often slipped out in his tone, just as it did now. “Do not intercede. Your vote holds no weight.”
“Why not? There is another person right there.” Kaelen, unfazed, smirked and pointed at Theron, motioning toward him with a casual flick of his hand. “What? Is Theron not a person?”
“You are… mad.”
“Why is he silent? Let him voice his preference.”
As if Theron could possibly speak in this tense atmosphere. Aiel sighed at Kaelen’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred his lentil soup. That’s when Roric tapped his finger on the table, a slow, deliberate rhythm.
“If you depart, Theron, you are dead to this court, starting today.”
Tears began to well up in Theron’s large eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Aiel, as though pleading for salvation. Damn it. Aiel pressed his lips together.
“It is well. I shall prevent him,” Aiel said, attempting to reassure Theron, his voice trembling despite himself.
“Aiel.” Roric growled, his voice tight with anger, low and dangerous.
Aiel forced himself to meet Roric’s gaze, pretending to be calm, but he felt the overwhelming urge to shatter, to flee. To suppress it, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling for a moment, tracing the intricate carvings, before lowering his head and replying nonchalantly. “What is it, Lord Roric?”
“You…” Roric clenched his fist, glaring at Aiel with an intensity that felt like it could incinerate him. Still, Aiel had to endure it. His instincts screamed that he could not leave Theron to Roric’s tender mercies.
But Roric’s focus shifted back to Theron.
“I-I will go,” Theron stammered, his voice brittle.
“…”
“Th-thank you, Aiel.”
Theron hurriedly got up and left, his footsteps unsteady, almost a stumbling run. As soon as he was gone, Roric turned abruptly, his glare falling back upon Aiel, now utterly devoid of Theron’s presence.
"So, Aiel," Roric purred, his voice regaining its dangerous calm, "You find this... *tiresome*?"
It was not a question. It was a promise.
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