A week slithered past, each day a careful dance of avoidance. Aiel drifted through the gilded halls, a scholar’s shadow, his gaze meticulous in its refusal to linger on Lord Roric Volkov. When Roric’s laughter echoed from the Volkov Wing, Aiel would steer his course towards the archives, losing himself amidst the scent of aged parchment and forgotten histories. He feigned indifference, a mask meticulously crafted, as if the Volkov heir held no sway over his thoughts, no weight in the delicate balance of his world.
Yet, his carefully constructed detachment was a fragile thing. Roric’s circle was a whirlpool of power, and Aiel, deliberately excluded, found himself starved of direct observation. The hunger for knowledge, even about the man he wished to forget, gnawed. Lord Kaelen, ever present in the periphery, became his reluctant fount of information. Aiel would seek him out, casually, amidst the clatter of the midday meal in the lower dining halls, or observing the intricate chessboards in the common room.
Kaelen, a silvered hawk perched on a velvet chair, would absentmindedly flick a carved ivory knight across the board, his attention split between the game and Aiel’s presence. “Volkov?” A sigh. “He’s gone again. Some provincial lordling’s daughter, I hear.”
Aiel’s hand, resting on the back of a nearby chair, tightened imperceptibly. “Indeed?” The word felt dry, brittle.
Kaelen finally met his gaze, a glint of sardonic amusement in his eyes. “Aye. Jinara arranged it. The girl, Lady Lysandra, has been quite vocal in her admiration for Volkov’s… vigour. Apparently, they departed the moment introductions were complete. Like two hounds spotting the same hare. No fuss, no polite posturing. Just… away.”
“How exceedingly swift,” Aiel murmured, a bitter taste blooming on his tongue. He recalled the source chapter's 'disgustingly cool' line, and Kaelen's tone mirrored that sentiment perfectly. A small, shameful lightness stirred within him. Kaelen, for all his own bluntness, was the only one who dared voice disdain for Volkov’s casual appetites, and for that, Aiel found a sliver of common ground.
Kaelen shrugged, reaching for a goblet of spiced wine. “Too swift for proper decorum, I’d say. A man of Volkov’s standing, abandoning his duties for a dalliance. It speaks poorly.”
“Does it not?” Aiel found himself echoing, a genuine, if fleeting, smile touching his lips. He pushed a footstool closer to Kaelen’s chair and settled onto it, a rare informal gesture. Kaelen merely shifted to make room.
“My own affairs are never so… efficient,” Kaelen continued, a self-deprecating smirk playing on his lips. “I remain hopelessly entangled in the affairs of the court, leaving little time for the pursuit of ‘vigour,’ as Lysandra so eloquently put it.”
Aiel chuckled, a soft, reedy sound. “Perhaps that is why you are still unwed, my lord.”
Kaelen set down his goblet, his mirth fading into a mild exasperation. “Is this not a form of harassment, Aiel? My marital status is hardly an appropriate topic for scholarly dissection.” He tapped Aiel’s arm, a gesture both familiar and mildly annoyed.
“If the recipient feels discomfort, is it not?” Aiel teased, recalling Kaelen’s earlier words about Volkov’s lack of propriety. Kaelen’s eyes narrowed. “You are becoming insufferable.”
“A scholar of your repute should be above such petty insults.” Aiel idly swung a foot, his slipper nearly dislodging. He nudged Kaelen’s shin with his sock-clad foot. Kaelen leaned back dramatically, then casually lifted a hand, showing the intricate silver signet ring he always wore—the stylized serpent of the Volkov house, ironically. Aiel gave him another light kick. “That ring hardly suits you, Kaelen.”
Kaelen frowned, suddenly serious. “Why ever not?”
“It just… doesn’t match your temperament. Your cynicism.”
“Odd. Do I not seem like a loyal servant of the Dominion, proudly bearing the Volkov sigil?”
“You seem like a man wearing a very expensive ornament, rather than a symbol of fealty.”
Kaelen regarded his ring. “It is… inherited, Aiel. My lineage serves the Volkovs.” It was a rare glimpse into the deeper currents of Kaelen’s house, which, like Aiel’s, had once held more prominence before being eclipsed by the Volkovs. Aiel, too, carried a lesser, faded sigil of his own family, one he rarely displayed.
---
The days continued, a blur of scrolls and hushed corridors. Aiel assiduously avoided Roric, though their paths sometimes crossed in the archives or a less frequented courtyard. He would offer a swift, formal bow and disappear before Roric could acknowledge him. The thought of ‘losing’ the silent contest between them, of being the first to break the delicate stalemate, felt intolerable. Such a pathetic vanity, yet it held him captive.
Lord Theron Vance, on the other hand, often sought Aiel out. Perhaps Aiel was the only one who responded to Theron’s nervous attempts at conversation, the only one who did not overtly shy away. But each day, Aiel noticed new shadows beneath Theron’s eyes, a fresh tremor in his hands, a more pronounced flinch at sudden sounds. Roric was a beast, marking his territory, and Theron bore the silent scars. Aiel’s stomach churned at the sight.
When Aiel’s gaze lingered on the tell-tale pallor of Theron’s face, Theron would quickly turn away, his already slumped shoulders hunching further, as if trying to shrink from existence.
Then, four days later, Theron simply stopped appearing. His family sent word that he was ‘indisposed,’ confined to his chambers due to a sudden malaise. The thinly veiled excuse hung in the air, a silent accusation. Aiel, alone in the records chamber, pressing the cool vellum against his cheek, felt a twisted surge of relief. Almost, he cheered. Perhaps now, with Theron removed from the immediate orbit, Roric’s dangerous attentions would wane. Perhaps the powerful Volkov Essence, so overwhelming in its focus, would turn back towards… Aiel. A preposterous thought, yet it took root, a small, fragile seedling of hope.
Meanwhile, Roric in the communal lessons, became more restless. He would drum his fingers on the polished table, snap curt questions at the Court Scribes, or even lash out with a sharp word at a lesser noble who spoke out of turn. He was a caged serpent, agitated.
Aiel, meticulously cataloguing the Silverwood census records, felt a smug satisfaction. A strange sense of superiority, even. He was confident. Soon, Theron would be officially dismissed from court, or perhaps confined to his estate indefinitely. And Roric, deprived of his current fixation, would inevitably seek new entertainment. Aiel simply had to wait.
A few more days bled into the next.
“Volkov seems rather subdued,” Kaelen remarked one afternoon, leaning against a pillar in the grand hall, watching Roric pace impatiently at the far end. Aiel’s heart gave a heavy thud, a discordant drumbeat against his ribs. He yearned to turn, to assess Roric’s expression, to confirm Kaelen’s observation, but his cowardice held him rigid. When it came to matters of the heart, or perhaps, matters of pride, Aiel was a craven. He could only listen to Kaelen, his mind conjuring Roric’s downturned countenance.
Yet, nothing changed. The day wore on, lessons concluded, and Roric remained distant. Aiel reassured himself; matters of power and interest shifted slowly. There would be another chance, tomorrow. He continued his vigil.
When the day’s duties were finally discharged, and Aiel was gathering his quills, Kaelen’s voice cut through the quiet. “You and Volkov… a prolonged silence, is it not?”
Aiel turned, a jolt of surprise. “Indeed.”
“Still chafing from that… unpleasantness in the dining hall?” Kaelen’s brow furrowed slightly. “This has lasted longer than I would have thought.”
Aiel avoided Kaelen’s direct gaze, busying his hands with the fastening of his scroll case. “To be honest, Volkov’s conduct was… beyond the pale. Such blatant disregard for common decency, for the welfare of Lord Theron Vance. It left a sour taste.”
“A sour taste?” Kaelen echoed, his voice laced with an edge Aiel couldn’t quite decipher. “That’s what you call it?”
Aiel’s cheeks warmed. “The manner in which he wielded his Essence against Theron… it was… crude. Undignified. Theron is a noble, however minor. Such public shaming… it was an ugly display. Unnecessary.” He searched for the right words, for the proper justification for his outburst. “It felt… wrong. A violation of the sacred decorum of court.”
“Aiel, you will surely ascend to the highest spheres of the Celestial Choir,” Kaelen said, his voice dripping with mock reverence. The sarcasm stung. Aiel’s face burned, a sudden, mortifying realization that Kaelen saw through his noble pronouncements, to the raw, visceral emotion beneath. He turned his back abruptly, ignoring Kaelen’s knowing smirk, and hastened from the scriptorium.
He hurried down a less-used corridor, intent on returning to his modest chambers. A hand clamped suddenly on his shoulder. Assuming it was Kaelen, pursuing his mockery, Aiel spun around, irritation flaring, and pulled his arm free. It was not Kaelen, but Master Elian, the Head Keeper of Records, a man of quiet authority. Aiel quickly smoothed his expression.
“My apologies, Master Elian. I was startled.”
Elian, his face usually placid, held an unusual gravity. “No, the fault is mine, Aiel. I am truly sorry, but… might I speak with you for a moment?”
Aiel, intrigued by Elian’s seriousness, nodded. “Of course, Master.”
“Today,” Elian began, his voice cautious, “Lord Roric requested Lord Theron Vance’s precise whereabouts.”
“Lord Roric?” Aiel’s breath hitched. Elian, as Head Keeper, could not be blind to the subtle brutalities Roric inflicted, yet he was also not bold enough to directly confront the paramount House. His seeking Aiel out now, however, hinted at a deeper concern. “I do not find it strange, Master. Volkov often demands such information.” Aiel spoke quickly, feigning nonchalance.
“Ah, yes. But… given your recent… intervention on Lord Theron’s behalf, I wondered if you might… act as a conciliatory presence. If you comprehend my meaning.”
Aiel couldn’t answer immediately. His jaw tightened. Roric’s obsessive Essence, a potent, coiling presence, seemed to reach out, an unseen tendril snaking across the stone floor, wrapping around Aiel’s ankles, holding him captive. Aiel’s fists clenched. He could not, would not, remain still.
“Perhaps,” Aiel managed, his voice strained, “I could obtain Lord Theron’s personal messenger scroll? I might convey… a message of goodwill, an offer of scholarly assistance for his convalescence.”
“Ah, yes. Of course, Aiel. A most suitable suggestion. Here, I have it from the daily registry. A trusted courier route. Try to reach him first.” Elian pressed a small, tightly rolled parchment into Aiel’s hand.
“I will endeavor to do so, Master. Rest assured, I shall handle it with the utmost discretion.”
“I am counting on your wisdom, Aiel.”
“Indeed.”
On the surface, Aiel presented a facade of calm, but internally, panic seized him. He *had* to stop Roric from reaching Theron. He had to prevent Roric’s peculiar, possessive fixation from escalating, from consuming them both. The moment Master Elian’s footsteps faded, Aiel unrolled the parchment, his fingers trembling, and scribbled a swift, coded message, summoning his personal, most discreet courier. His leg jittered, and he clenched and unclenched his hands as he waited for the runner to arrive. The lad, nimble and swift, appeared within moments.
“Deliver this to Lord Theron Vance, with the utmost urgency,” Aiel commanded, his voice low, his urgency barely contained. “Ensure it reaches his hand directly. No one else.”
The courier nodded, snatching the scroll and vanishing. The message was terse: *Roric seeks you. Remain indisposed. Seek safe harbour, or consider a long journey. I can provide the necessary documents for an extended leave.* Aiel knew the court records intimately. He could obfuscate Theron’s presence for months, perhaps even a year, if needed.
As soon as the message was dispatched, Aiel felt a strange relief, followed by a fresh wave of unease. He had acted. But what were the consequences?
What truly transpired that night within Theron’s sequestered chambers, Aiel could only guess. But from the following morning, Lord Theron Vance began to reappear at court, albeit with a heightened wariness. And within a week, the faint, bruised shadows beneath his eyes receded, replaced by a healthier, though still anxious, pallor. Theron also ceased seeking Aiel out, his demeanor now distant, almost evasive.
This abrupt shift, Theron’s sudden self-sufficiency, planted a seed of suspicion in Aiel’s mind. Yet, when all visible traces of Roric’s cruel attentions vanished from Theron’s face, Aiel couldn’t help but nurture a faint, unlikely hope.
Then, two weeks later, Lord Roric Volkov approached Aiel directly in the archives. “Aiel.”
“My Lord?” Aiel’s head snapped up, his breath catching.
“Aiel,” Roric repeated, a hint of something unreadable in his tone.
Aiel did not look away, though his lips felt dry, ready to part with a gasp. Could it be? Was Lord Roric Volkov finally tired of Lord Theron Vance?