Aiel found the note precisely folded, tucked beneath his favored bone stylus within the satchel he carried to the Collegium. It was a slip of vellum, too fine for common use, bearing a script that was not his own – a hesitant, almost childish hand. The message requested his presence in the lesser scullery, a disused chamber near the kitchens, before the midday Essence drills. For a moment, a foolish flicker of expectation, a whisper of a forgotten romance novel, stirred in his mind. Then, the absurdity of it settled. This was the Volkov Collegium, a place of iron discipline and ancient bloodlines. No one would dare such a frivolous summons, especially not to him, Aiel of a diminished House. He dismissed it, attributing it to some administrative error, until the bells for the drills began to chime. He navigated the hushed corridors, the scent of polished stone and old parchment clinging to the air. The scullery, as he recalled, was a rarely disturbed place, kept clean but seldom occupied. Aiel pushed the heavy wooden door open, its hinges groaning softly. Within, a figure stood, dwarfed by the cavernous space. Lady Elara of House Lysander, her slight form clad in the subdued colors of her minor noble family, twisted the hem of her simple tunic, her head bowed. Black hair, neatly braided, obscured her face. “Lady Elara?” Aiel’s voice, carefully modulated, cut through the quiet. His brow furrowed instinctively. He felt an unwelcome irritation bloom in his chest. Aiel maintained a polite, but rigid, distance from those who might seek his particular talents without the proper channels, or worse, those who might drag his already precarious standing into further scrutiny. His stomach, a faithful barometer of his stress, gave a familiar, low clench. She started, her small head snapping up. Her eyes, the color of damp earth, met his for a brief, terrified instant before darting away. A tentative, almost pleading smile touched her lips. “Lord Aiel. I… I wished to speak with you.” Her voice was a wisp of sound. “Yes? About what?” Aiel shifted his weight, his patience fraying. The midday drills, focused on basic Essence control, were mandatory. He could ill afford to be late, especially with Theron recently discharged from the infirmary and demanding his full attention. He did not want to be seen in this secluded corner with Lady Elara, a girl known for her quiet demeanor and her House’s expertise in healing herbs – a useful, but undeniably humble, Essence. Elara gnawed at her lower lip, her fingers plucking at a loose thread on her sleeve. Her gaze flickered around the sterile room, as if seeking an escape. She seemed to gather her courage, her mouth opening, then clamping shut again. This indecision, this agonizing lack of directness, stoked a sharp, almost violent, impatience in Aiel. He prided himself on precision, on clarity. This dithering was insufferable. “Lady Elara,” Aiel pressed, his tone a little sharper than intended. “My duties await. If you have a matter, please state it.” He knew he was being unkind, perhaps overly sensitive, but a knot of frustration had tightened in his chest. His head throbbed with the lingering aftermath of Theron’s previous strange intensity, a disquiet that had seeped into his bones. Just as Elara seemed to finally steel herself, a thunderous crash reverberated through the scullery. The heavy door flew open, slamming against the stone wall with startling force. Both Aiel and Elara spun, their eyes widening. Framed in the doorway stood Theron Volkov, heir to the Dominion, his chest heaving, his face flushed. He had been running. His gaze, wild and furious, swept over Elara before locking onto Aiel, burning with an unholy light. “Aiel,” Theron bit out, the single word a raw accusation. His fists clenched, then slowly relaxed, only to clench again. Aiel’s breath hitched. A cold dread seeped into him. He felt like an insect caught under a boot, unjustly implicated in a storm of raw, untamed Volkov Essence. Theron’s eyes held no concern, no camaraderie. They held the possessive fury of a territorial beast, the consuming madness he had seen in the infirmary, magnified tenfold. “What in the blazes are you doing here with her?” Theron’s voice rose, a low growl that vibrated through the stone floor. Aiel could not stand the way Theron looked at him – not with the anger of a friend betrayed, but the rage of a master whose property had been tampered with. It was an unbearable, suffocating gaze, drenched in jealousy, bordering on the deranged. *Why gaze at me like that?* Aiel thought, a bitter retort forming on his tongue. *She summoned me. I am merely a bystander caught in this ridiculous drama.* Yet, even as he thought it, a self-loathing gnawed at him. *Perhaps I am the pathetic one.* Theron’s long strides carried him across the room in an instant. Aiel registered the motion, the sudden closeness, the scent of woodsmoke and rage. The world spun. A sharp, searing pain exploded across his cheek, throwing him backwards. He crumpled to the floor, a dull thud echoing in the stillness. “No,” Aiel whispered, his voice hoarse with disbelief. He touched his cheek with trembling fingers. The heat blooming there was undeniable. He had been struck. Theron, heir to the Volkovs, had struck him. “Lord Theron!” Elara cried out, rushing towards Aiel, her face a mask of horror. Theron roared, an animalistic sound. “You promised, Lysander! You swore you wouldn’t approach him! Damn you!” His words were laced with a venomous fury that made Elara flinch, tears welling in her eyes. She was not the one who should be weeping. Aiel felt a hot sting behind his own eyes. Before he could fully process the humiliation, Theron seized Elara’s arm with bruising force, yanking her out of the scullery. The door slammed shut, plunging Aiel into a sudden, echoing silence. He remained on the dusty floor, staring at the half-open door. A thin shaft of sunlight cut through the crack, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air. The dam within him broke. Hot tears streamed down his face. He hated Elara for bringing him here, for her foolish summons. He hated Theron for his violence, for reducing Aiel to a mere plaything in their twisted theatre. He was miserable, reduced to nothing. --- Aiel skipped the midday Essence drills. His cheek, already a blooming purple, made any excuse about a ‘fall’ utterly believable to the Collegium tutor. She seemed to understand, offering a sympathetic nod before granting him an early dismissal. When he reached his family’s modest estate, Aiel collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in the pillows. Sleep offered little solace, only a heavy oblivion. Hours later, he woke, his face throbbing, puffy and bruised. Out of habit, he reached for his personal scrying shard. A message glowed on its surface, hours old, from Kaelen. Theron’s most trusted blade rarely contacted Aiel directly, preferring to communicate through official channels. *“You left Collegium early. All well?”* Aiel clicked his tongue, a bitter taste in his mouth. He typed a quick, dismissive reply. *“A slight headache. Nothing to concern yourself with.”* He wanted no one to know, least of all Kaelen, that Theron had struck him. The humiliation was a raw wound, impossible to confess. And all because of Elara, of House Lysander, of all people. *“Are you certain?”* Kaelen’s reply came instantly, tinged with an unusual note of something akin to concern. It felt… strange. Aiel frowned, the unfamiliarity of it unsettling him. He powered down the scrying shard, preferring the quiet. Hours stretched. A profound sadness settled over Aiel. He replayed the scene in the scullery, the sickening thud of Theron’s fist, the rush of tears. He found himself wishing, foolishly, irrationally, for a message from Theron. To be wanted, even after such an act, felt like a perverse validation. He was mad, he knew. But perhaps, he consoled himself, this was the fate of those consumed by the maddening love of a Volkov. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, trying to turn a blind eye to the stark reality of his position. *I am not the only one,* he thought, a strange, twisted kinship forming with Elara. *She too is a victim.* A selfish, wicked, childish hope intertwined with the thought. Just then, his dormant scrying shard flared to life, indicating an incoming message from an unknown frequency. *“Lord Aiel, are you feeling very unwell?”* Aiel’s frown deepened. No one outside his immediate household used his proper title in such a personal context, not without a formal greeting. Kaelen had his official frequency. Before Aiel could consider, another message arrived, relentless in its quiet despair. *“I am sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.”* *“Please forgive me.”* His anger surged. He recognized the hesitant phrasing, the humble tone. Elara. How did she acquire his personal frequency? He’d only ever shared it with a handful of trusted retainers. Then, a memory surfaced, sharp and unwelcome. Days ago, she had approached him, nervous and deferential, requesting his frequency to relay a message from her ailing matriarch regarding an old family ledger. He had given it, almost dismissively. Aiel cursed himself, throwing the scrying shard against the wall. It clattered harmlessly against a padded section. He pounded his fists against the bed in frustration, until his muscles ached. Just before exhaustion claimed him, one last message flickered across his mind’s eye. *“Please, do not hate me.”* *Funny,* Aiel thought, a bitter laugh dying in his throat. *I have hated you for months.* The next morning, his face was swollen, a mottled canvas of purple and yellow. --- Aiel skipped Collegium again. Model student or not, he could not face the scrutiny, the whispers. Mistress Elara, his household’s head retainer, tutted over him during luncheon. “Lord Aiel, you must be more careful when out in the gardens,” she chided, placing a bowl of soothing broth before him. He swallowed the tasteless liquid in large gulps, barely chewing the soft vegetables. As he reached for a glass of water, Mistress Elara, clearing the dishes, spoke again. “Lord Aiel, you have a visitor.” “A visitor?” Aiel’s heart fluttered, a wild, foolish bird trapped in his ribs. He barely heard her ask if she should admit them. Before he could even name the emotion, his mind had already begun to paint a picture. Could it be Theron? The thought was a desperate, childish fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the Collegium knew the location of his modest family estate, fewer still would dare to visit. If it was Theron, he must have come to apologize, a rare moment of remorse for his violence. Theron had never struck him before. Yes, he must be worried, upset. “Yes, please,” Aiel managed, his voice barely a whisper. “Please, admit them.” The fantasy solidified into certainty. He chided himself for such naive hope, yet a small, insidious satisfaction curled in his gut. Despite everything, he was still important. That thought, perverse as it was, warmed him. He turned towards the main door, his pace quickening with a treacherous excitement. The figure waiting there, however, was not Theron. “Aiel, you old dog, what’s this about a ‘headache’?” Kaelen, Theron’s blade, leaned against the doorframe, a playful smirk on his sharp-featured face. He held a small, leather pouch, likely filled with some exotic delicacy from the Volkov kitchens. His smile faltered, replaced by a look of genuine alarm as his eyes took in Aiel’s face. “By the Seven Hells, what happened to you?” Aiel’s knees almost buckled. The sudden plunge from hopeful anticipation to stark reality was a physical blow. He felt the dull ache in his cheek double in intensity. He was an idiot. A complete, wagging-tailed idiot. “I fell,” Aiel mumbled, the lie feeling utterly hollow. Kaelen frowned, his lips twisting in that familiar, cynical manner. “You truly are an imbecile, aren’t you?” Aiel merely rubbed his throbbing cheek. The humiliation of his earlier hope, the self-flagellation, was almost as painful as the bruise. Theron did not care. Aiel was not important. “Here,” Kaelen said, extending the leather pouch. “Theron said you enjoy these.” Aiel accepted the pouch, his fingers fumbling with the drawstring. Inside lay a small, perfectly chilled ice-cream confection, an expensive treat infused with rare Silverwood berries. “It’s… Silverwood berry,” Aiel noted, the taste of bitter irony on his tongue. “Is it? Didn’t pay it much mind.” “Figures. Why would you?” “Harsh, Aiel. Very harsh.” Kaelen pushed off the doorframe. “What are you doing here, anyway?” Aiel asked, his voice flat. “What do you think? Came to check on you.” Kaelen strode past him, his long legs carrying him into the receiving hall. “Mind if I enter?” “Wait!” Aiel protested, but Kaelen was already moving deeper into the house. “Which way to your chambers?” “Where are you going?” “Where else? Nowhere else worth seeing in a house this size.” Aiel had no retort. Kaelen was right. He followed, feeling awkward and utterly defeated, as Kaelen surveyed the quiet, unassuming interior of his family home with an air of casual intrusion. It was yet another small, unbearable violation.

A Stain on the Ledger