Aiel woke to the hush of his modest chamber, the chill morning air a crisp contrast to the lingering fever in his veins. His injured cheek, a testament to Theron Volkov’s abrupt cruelty, had receded from its swollen indignity. A thin poultice of crushed nightshade and silverleaf, a forgotten remedy from his House’s dwindling lore, had worked its quiet magic, leaving only a faint, bruised pallor that could be dismissed as a clumsy brush with a doorframe.
Yet, the phantom ache throbbed deeper than skin, a wound to his meticulously constructed pride. He ran a hesitant finger over the tender spot, each pulse a reminder of his powerlessness, his family’s faded influence. The thought of facing the Scriptorium, a place where his intellect should grant him sanctuary, now filled him with a brittle apprehension.
The Scriptorium, however, was not quiet. Its usual murmur of quill on parchment, a soothing hum of concentrated study, was replaced by a heavy, stifling silence. The air felt thick, charged with unspoken tension. His gaze swept the solemn faces of his peers, lingering on the polished oak table where Theron Volkov usually held court. Theron was already there, a dark storm cloud in the center of the room.
Instinctively, Aiel sought out Lysander, Lady Elara’s younger brother. Lysander, frail and perpetually nervous, arrived just as Master Borin, the chief scribe, began the day’s lesson, narrowly avoiding a tardy mark. The sight of him stole Aiel’s breath, tightening his chest with a sudden, sickening guilt.
Lysander’s face was a ruin. A lip split, swollen to twice its size, glistened faintly. One eye, a bruised plum against his pale skin, was nearly closed. Aiel had, in his most bitter moments of pain, wished a similar fate upon Theron, a childish vengeance. Now, seeing Lysander, shame burned through him. He was disgusted by his own pettiness, his own cruelty, however brief and internal.
Lysander’s eyes, skittering nervously around the Scriptorium, met Aiel’s. For a long moment, he froze, his bruised gaze holding Aiel’s, a silent plea or accusation in their depths. Then, abruptly, he flinched, turning his head sharply, shuffling to his usual spot near the back, avoiding any further contact.
A strange twist of unease settled in Aiel’s gut. He glanced at Theron. Theron was glaring at him, a predatory glint in his dark eyes, promising further retribution. A cold dread seeped into Aiel’s bones. He should have feigned illness, stayed home under the pretense of a delicate constitution. Regret, sharp and bitter, flooded him.
---
Through the morning’s study of ancient scrolls, Lysander remained silent, his usual hesitant questions absent. During the mid-day repast, he vanished entirely, leaving with Theron and his usual coterie of rough-hewn guardsmen. Aiel, left alone, found himself drifting towards Valerius, who sat munching on a dried fruit tart with cheerful abandon.
A part of Aiel longed to follow them, to demand answers, to intervene. But the thought curdled into a cold fear. He was afraid of what he might witness, what new indignity Lysander might be suffering. He told himself it wasn’t his place, but Lysander’s battered face haunted his peripheral vision. Surely, Theron wouldn’t strike him again… would he?
Valerius, meanwhile, remained oblivious, his usual banter flowing freely. He gestured animatedly with his tart.
“Did you feel it? The gloom in that room? I swear, I almost choked on my own nerves.”
“You seemed perfectly fine devouring those spiced cakes yesterday, Valerius.”
“Give me some credit, Aiel. I’m a master of emotional suppression, a veritable rock of stoicism.” Valerius winked, a stray crumb clinging to his cheek. Aiel sighed, swatting playfully at his calf under the table. Valerius only grinned, rubbing his chin with a mock-sheepish expression. Aiel felt a strange warmth, a tiny ember of relief, in the midst of his turmoil.
---
Life possessed a peculiar, meandering current. Aiel had never sought the company of Valerius. Valerius, with his boisterous humor and disregard for courtly etiquette, was everything Aiel was not. Yet, here they were, closer than Aiel had ever anticipated.
Valerius’s lightheartedness, his flippant remarks, had a way of cutting through the oppressive weight of Aiel’s world. In the past, Aiel had dismissed such traits as shallow. Now, he found himself clinging to that levity, a tether against the undertow of despair. Had his family still held its former standing, had Theron remained the respected, if distant, figure, Aiel might never have understood how much he truly needed Valerius.
After that day, Theron began to separate himself from the main group of younger nobles. Sometimes he would disappear with Lysander, other times he would command a few of his guards to follow. Aiel even overheard hushed whispers from Master Peros, a young man from a lesser House tasked with maintaining the ink-wells, about Theron’s escalating cruelty. Peros, his face pale with unease, confessed he’d been avoiding Theron’s summons, revealing that Theron had been instructing others to ‘discipline’ Lysander, one blow at a time. Aiel’s stomach churned. Peros, sensing Aiel’s shock, quickly added that he was merely on his way to the Whispering Hearth with Master Carden, another minor scribe, and begged Aiel not to misinterpret his words. Then he scurried away.
During a late afternoon break, Aiel and Valerius found themselves sharing honeyed apricots in the sheltered courtyard, the sweetness a fleeting balm. The cold juice coated Aiel’s tongue, momentarily numbing the bitter knot of unease in his chest. He held his composure, refusing to let the turmoil show.
“Is it good?” Valerius asked, his own lips stained amber. He eyed Aiel’s apricot greedily.
“Want to try?” Aiel offered, half-teasing, bringing the sticky fruit, already touched by his lips, close to Valerius’s mouth. Valerius, without hesitation, smirked, lifted a corner of his lip, and took a large bite.
“Hey! You actually ate that?”
“You told me to.”
“That’s… unsanitary. And why such a huge bite?”
“It was but a single bite,” Valerius said, grinning, shrugging a shoulder. A fragile sense of peace settled between them. The crisp autumn air was deceptively calm, a stark contrast to the storm raging within Aiel.
Where were Theron and Lysander now? Aiel could guess the likely spots: the practice yard, a secluded alcove in the stables, or the neglected western wing. He didn't go looking. He feared what he might find, what further degradation he might witness.
He tried to banish Theron from his thoughts, to sever the lingering threads of admiration and loyalty. But the harder he tried, the more vast, the more suffocating, Theron’s presence became in the landscape of his mind. How long would it take to dismantle a devotion so deeply ingrained? How much effort would it demand? He felt lost, adrift in an endless desert, not merely sad, but terrified. Sometimes, he retreated, like a startled hart, trying to make sense of the tangled footprints before him. And sometimes, he simply spoke to Valerius.
Suddenly, Aiel heard his own voice, hushed and raw.
“Valerius.”
“Aye?”
“...Do you think flowers will ever bloom in a barren desert?” The words, so uncharacteristically vulnerable, made Aiel’s cheeks flush. He scratched his head awkwardly, but Valerius, to his surprise, did not mock him.
“They will.”
“...”
“They have to. Life’s enough of a struggle as it is.”
Valerius’s simple, unwavering words, from a person Aiel never imagined capable of such depth, brought a strange, heavy clarity. How much longer would he cling to these meaningless feelings, this futile hope? “...Aye. Life is a struggle.”
Theron Volkov. That infuriating brute. Why was he so intent on destroying the last vestiges of Aiel’s long-standing loyalty? Theron, who seemed to have abandoned all noble decorum, now came and went from the Scriptorium as he pleased, always with Lysander trailing behind him. The situation grew increasingly suspicious, and a restless unease, a silent resentment, began to ripple through the younger attendants.
---
One afternoon, Aiel saw Theron dragging Lysander by the wrist through the main hall. Theron’s grip was tight, Lysander’s face etched with pain. Aiel stopped, his blood running cold. He looked from Theron’s rigid back to Lysander’s tear-filled eyes, then spoke, his voice carefully controlled.
“Your House watches, Theron.” It was a lie, a calculated gambit. House Volkov, in its power, rarely worried about such trifles. But Theron, ever sensitive to any perceived challenge to his authority, might interpret it as a veiled threat from his own family, or perhaps even the Dominion’s Arch-Scribes. He always left himself an escape route.
“If grievance must be met, let it be upon your own head. Lysander has done nothing.”
“Move,” Theron snarled, his eyes locking onto Aiel, daggers in their depths. Aiel’s chest tightened, a cold vice clamping down on his heart. He hated him. And yet, pitiful Lysander, on the verge of tears, clung to Theron’s sleeve, whimpering softly. “J-Theron, please,” Lysander stammered, his voice trembling. Only then did Theron pause, his gaze fixed solely on Lysander. Aiel watched the rigid set of Theron’s shoulders, his back turned.
“As I said, your House—”
Lysander, his small frame shaking, tightened his grip on Theron, desperate to stop him. The sight was unbearable, so excruciating that Aiel closed his eyes. After a moment, Theron looked at Lysander again, then turned and walked back towards the Scriptorium. He remained there for the rest of the day, a rare occurrence.
---
The day of the great procession to the Hall of Ancestors had arrived. A long caravan of closed carriages was arranged to transport the young nobles and their retainers for the annual review of the Dominion’s historical archives. While some grumbled about the tedious duty, most welcomed the chance to escape the routine of the Scriptorium, even for a single day. No need for elaborate preparations; they would return before dusk.
The Arch-Scribes offered only a few half-hearted admonitions before releasing them. This was no middle-school excursion, no giddy excitement of youth. Aiel approached it as another obligatory event, a day of quiet observation. He had no idea this seemingly mundane journey would be the flashpoint for his carefully bottled frustrations, that they would explode so abruptly.
Traditionally, Aiel, as a favored apprentice of Master Borin and a member of an ancient, if diminished, House, would sit beside Theron Volkov in the lead carriage. Aiel hadn’t even considered where Valerius would sit, as they had never shared such a formal journey. Aiel harbored a subtle apprehension that Valerius, in his easy familiarity, might inadvertently claim the coveted spot closest to Theron. Now, Aiel realized how pathetic that worry had been. Neither he nor Valerius would occupy that particular seat.
He approached the lead carriage, finding the back row already claimed by a boisterous group of younger nobles, including Master Peros, who waved at Aiel, then hesitated, pointing towards Theron’s seat. “Aiel! There’s a spot here!”
“...Right.” Of course. It had always been his designated place. But today, Aiel hesitated. He let out a silent breath of relief, however, seeing the seat beside Theron still empty. He swallowed, a brittle determination hardening his resolve. This was his place. His pride, the last fragile bastion of his identity, compelled him to claim it, even after the indignity inflicted by Theron just days ago.
Aiel’s hand brushed the plush velvet of the seat, his gaze flicking around the ornate interior. He spoke, his voice barely a whisper.
“Theron… this seat…”
“It is not yours. Find another.” Theron cut him off, his gaze fixed on the carriage entrance. Following his line of sight, Aiel saw Lysander timidly making his way towards them, his eyes downcast. Aiel’s fists clenched, his words dying in his throat. “...Fine. As you wish.” He tried to infuse his voice with indifference, though his heart felt shredded, a silken banner ripped to tatters.
He retreated quickly, scanning the carriage. An empty spot beckoned, across the aisle from Valerius’s small group, directly opposite his friend. Aiel hurried over, sinking into the seat, speaking before he had even fully settled.
“Valerius, sit with me.”
No answer. Valerius was already asleep, head lolling against the carved window frame, a familiar morning habit. His head bounced gently with each jostle of the carriage. Aiel shook his head at the ridiculous posture, then carefully slipped his small, meticulously bound travel journal between Valerius’s head and the hard wood, cushioning it. He leaned back, the uncomfortable velvet pressing into his back.
Across the aisle, a glimpse of dark, rich brown hair. Theron. Taller, broader than most, he was unmistakable. Aiel couldn’t see him clearly, but he knew exactly where he sat, next to Lysander, who huddled miserably by the window. The scent of ozone and the subtle, cloying sweetness of Theron’s House Essence seemed to permeate the air, suffocating Aiel even from this distance. Lysander’s fragile form, perpetually seeking to shrink from notice, was now forced into intimate proximity with his tormentor. Aiel averted his gaze, tracing the delicate stitching on his tunic sleeve, trying to quell the furious, churning emptiness within him. The carriage lurched forward, carrying them further from a life Aiel no longer recognized, and closer to a future he could not yet discern.