Kaelen cultivated an absolute mastery over his own person. Years within the Empire’s unforgiving strictures had forged his spirit, hardening him against the slightest tremor of perceived vulnerability. He loathed the thought of his inner workings being laid bare, especially to the discerning, often cruel, eyes of the court. So, even when tides of turmoil threatened to engulf him, Kaelen could project an astonishing, almost inert, composure.
Many mistook this for apathy. A quiet, dull man, untouched by the passions that consumed others. But within, every emotional disturbance, every slight, every unspoken judgment, simply calcified. They became layers of a protective sheath, making true provocation an increasingly rare event.
This held true, even in the noxious orbit of Lord Valerius.
His carefully constructed shell had allowed Kaelen to navigate the treacherous currents of the Scriptorium, to carve out a respectable, if fragile, niche. He was a scholar of exceptional utility, his unique gifts indispensable for validating sensitive court documents. Preserving this position, a precarious edifice built upon sheer intellect rather than bloodline, was Kaelen’s paramount concern.
“Ser Cillian, are those scrolls complete?”
“Near enough, Lord Valerius,” a scribe stammered, his fingers ink-stained and trembling. Valerius, a man whose presence filled any room with a certain insolent weight, merely grunted. He was flanked by his usual sycophants—Baron Torval, the sneering scion of a minor house, and Commander Borin, a brute from the Imperial Guard, both eager to affirm their Lord’s every pronouncement.
“The petition from the northern marches,” Valerius continued, a languid hand tracing patterns on the polished table, “is of little concern to us. Find a replacement. A more… agreeable subject.”
Borin chuckled, a low, guttural sound. “Agreeable, my Lord? Or merely amenable to your whims?”
Valerius’s lips curled. “A detail, Commander. Simply ensure it aligns with the Emperor’s current… inclinations.” His gaze, however, drifted. It settled, with a familiar, predatory quality, on the distant, unassuming figure of Seraphin, hunched over a faded ledger at the far end of the Scholars’ Refectory.
Valerius was volatile, crude, and utterly self-serving. His appetites were famously unbridled, his disdain for weakness absolute. Kaelen had no need for further proof of his nature. And so, Valerius’s casual cruelty, unconstrained by any semblance of decorum, only intensified with the passage of the Imperial seasons. By this late summer, Seraphin had been left in near complete isolation, a pariah whispered about in hushed tones. Yet, even this ostracization seemed insufficient to satisfy Valerius.
Valerius’s circle, while superficially similar to other noble cliques, operated with subtle distinctions. His immediate retinue—Torval, Borin, and the ever-smirking Ser Emrys—would linger dutifully after official sessions, awaiting his pleasure. Other, lesser nobles and scribes, those from the outer wards of the Imperial Palace, would vanish the instant the midday gong sounded, fleeing to more private, less perilous, meals.
In his first year of service, Kaelen had been a peripheral presence in Valerius’s orbit. Not truly *of* the group, but close enough to bask in the reflected glow. But by his second year, a quiet shift occurred. Ser Emrys, with a dismissive wave, had once remarked, “Kaelen always takes so long to decipher the daily edicts. We’re always late to the sparring grounds because of him.” Without Kaelen’s input, or even direct confrontation, he was subtly, yet irrevocably, excluded from the noble’s immediate sphere.
Most galling of all, Valerius hadn’t seemed to notice. Whether Kaelen remained or departed made no difference to the Lord. A faint tremor ran through Kaelen’s hand, a physical manifestation of the insult.
Quietly, Kaelen approached Emrys. “Am I truly so slow in my work?”
Emrys offered a condescending shrug. “Of course, Ser Kaelen. Your diligence is admirable, but you pore over every glyph like a novice, while we finish our duties in a fraction of the time.”
“Indeed,” Borin added, his voice like grinding stone. “We’re always delayed heading to the exercise yard, awaiting your final drafts.”
“…Ah.” The sound was barely a whisper.
“We have a challenge match against the Fourth Cohort today. Perhaps you should take your midday meal with Lord Torvin.”
Kaelen’s pride, a brittle thing, prevented him from arguing. Besides, the faint indigestion that had plagued him throughout his first year, a consequence of rushing his detailed work to keep pace with their casual dismissiveness, might finally subside. And, truthfully, the thought of clinging to Valerius’s coattails like an unseemly barnacle repulsed even him. He did not plead. He did not protest.
Just like that, he was out. His own will, his own meticulous pace, rendered irrelevant.
Feigning indifference, Kaelen found his gaze meeting Lord Torvin’s. Torvin, a scion of a famously eccentric, yet powerful, ducal house, sat reclined in his ornate chair, idly polishing a silver signet ring. He offered Kaelen a casual, almost challenging, glance.
“Will you break your fast soon?” Torvin inquired, his tone dry.
“…Yes.” Kaelen’s voice was tight.
“I usually proceed to the Refectory in ten bell-strikes.”
“Yes, that suits me as well.”
In truth, Kaelen had never observed the midday meal at such a late hour. But a primal instinct for social survival kicked in. If he wished to remain in *any* noble’s circle, even Lord Torvin’s, he would adapt. The first time he shared a meal with Torvin, Kaelen left half his portion untouched, feigning a sudden lack of appetite. Torvin raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
“Are you a child of eighteen summers, still prone to such finicky habits?”
“What concern is that of yours?” Kaelen shot back, irritation flickering through his carefully maintained composure.
“Honestly, you are like a pampered page.”
“Even men of age do not consume sweetbreads drowned in honey-cream.” Kaelen retorted, a rare flash of petulance. Why did this man care? The observation annoyed him.
In his initial year, Kaelen and Valerius had often crossed paths, their duties occasionally aligning. But in his second year, those encounters dwindled significantly, largely due to Torvin’s presence. Still, Kaelen had no right to complain. Lord Torvin, despite his indolent air, outranked Kaelen significantly.
Torvin and Valerius’s social circles overlapped considerably, largely comprising the more dissolute sons of minor nobility, those who’d forge false Imperial mandates to skip mandatory court sessions or vanish from scholarly assemblies, exploiting the lax oversight of indifferent functionaries.
Valerius, ever mindful of his powerful parents’ scrutiny, typically remained until the day’s duties were formally concluded. As for Torvin, whose reputation for hedonism was almost as infamous, Kaelen had once cautiously inquired why he bothered to adhere to the rigid schedule. Torvin’s response had resonated with Kaelen.
“Do you take me for one of those sniveling wastrels?”
“No, my Lord, but your… associates often partake in such indiscretions.”
“Associates? What in the Emperor’s name is that nonsense? They are not my associates. They are trash.”
“My Lord?”
“A noble’s duty is to uphold the Emperor’s law and cultivate wisdom, yes?”
“…That is true, my Lord.”
“Then do not lump me in with those curs. It offends me.”
“My apologies, my Lord.”
“I was not soliciting an apology.”
Of course, it was a perfectly reasonable declaration, but hearing it from Lord Torvin—a man whose self-proclaimed “friends” absconded from their duties at least once a week—felt utterly absurd to Kaelen. Regardless, Kaelen found himself spending the majority of his second year of service in the company of Valerius and Torvin during the midday meal. He considered it a sacred, if uncomfortable, space, one that no one else could intrude upon. It would have been perfect without Torvin’s aggravating presence, but surprisingly, they coexisted with a strange equilibrium. Kaelen did not *like* Torvin, but the noble was not so intolerable that Kaelen would simply abandon his lunch. He was merely… vexing.
But then Seraphin turned even those days into a nightmare.
Today, the usual rhythm felt subtly altered.
“Damn it. Torval and Borin, those doltish curs,” Valerius swore, clutching his head as the fourth morning session drew to a close.
Valerius’s voice carried across the room. Kaelen instinctively turned, a nascent flicker of anticipation, both unwelcome and undeniable, stirring within him. “They have absconded again, my Lord?”
“Fools, the lot of them.”
“That is unfortunate. Who will you observe the midday meal with, then, my Lord?” Kaelen’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the back of his chair. A foolish hope blossomed.
Valerius let out a heavy sigh, his gaze settling on Torvin, who was now meticulously cleaning his fingernails with a small, silver pick.
“Torvin. I shall join your table today.”
Torvin did not look up. “Do not. No one offered you an invitation.” His voice was flat.
“Continue with that insolence, and I will ensure you speak no more.”
“Gods, Valerius, today truly compels me to strike you.”
“Attempt it, then, imbecile.”
“Such brave words from a Lord who would otherwise dine in solitary disgrace.”
Kaelen could not restrain himself. He interjected, his voice surprisingly firm. “Come, my Lords, let us all observe the midday meal together. We cannot allow Lord Valerius to dine alone.” His desperation, a raw thing, must have been evident in his tone.
Valerius smirked, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, and cast a sly glance at Torvin. “See, Torvin? I possess loyal companions.”
…
“What do you think, Torvin? Kaelen is quite useful, is he not?”
Torvin scowled, then with a deliberate flick, swept Valerius’s inkwell from the desk. It clattered against the stone floor, dark liquid spreading like a stain. Whether Torvin held Kaelen in regard mattered little. What mattered was that Valerius would join their table for the midday meal.
It had been so long since Kaelen had shared a table with Valerius in such a manner. He was so unreasonably thrilled that he even forced himself to consume a portion of the detested spiced legumes, a side dish he usually avoided.
But Valerius paid little attention to his food. His eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the bustling Refectory like a predator seeking prey. Kaelen, too consumed by Valerius’s presence, did not notice Torvin casually pilfering a cured fig from his own platter. Then, without warning, Valerius’s silver spoon clattered onto his tray, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing by.
Kaelen looked up. It was Seraphin.
“Sit here,” Valerius commanded, gesturing with his chin toward the empty seat beside him. “You have no one else to dine with anyway.”
Seraphin’s face flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted around, catching Kaelen’s for a fleeting moment before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, settled into the indicated seat.
Kaelen felt a cold shock. Dumbfounded. Since when did Valerius care for Seraphin’s company? And Seraphin’s isolation was, by and large, Valerius’s own doing. Valerius despised it when anyone showed Seraphin the slightest kindness, a fact Kaelen had learned to his own detriment. A bitter, metallic taste coated Kaelen’s tongue.
Unconsciously, Kaelen slammed his spoon onto his tray, the sound unnaturally loud in the suddenly hushed corner of the Refectory. Only Seraphin reacted, flinching visibly and looking at Kaelen with wide, nervous eyes. Valerius, however, remained fixated on Seraphin, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Damn it. At that moment, Kaelen felt the meticulously crafted shell, honed over years, begin to fracture. He tried to arrest the sensation, but it was a dam threatening to burst. Perhaps he was approaching a breaking point he had never dared to acknowledge.
Clinging desperately to his faltering composure, Kaelen snapped at Seraphin. “Seraphin. You should leave.”
“H-huh?” Seraphin stammered.
“Do not heed Valerius. Simply go. It will be fine.”
“Kaelen,” Valerius said, his voice a dangerous, low growl.
When Kaelen told Seraphin he could leave, Valerius, who had ignored the jarring clang of Kaelen’s spoon, finally gritted his teeth and fixed Kaelen with a glare that promised retribution. That malevolent gaze only solidified Kaelen’s resolve. He held Seraphin’s eyes, unwavering.
“I shall handle this. You may depart.”
“Uh, o-okay.” Seraphin’s voice was barely audible.
“And Valerius, cease this foolishness.”
“Indeed, I concur,” Torvin chimed in, his words muffled by a mouthful of spiced meat. His sudden interjection felt wholly out of place, yet undeniably Torvin. He chewed and swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Kaelen and Valerius, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. “Why the prolonged stares? You are quite spoiling my appetite.”
As always, Torvin’s unnecessary provocations grated on Kaelen’s already frayed nerves. The man was insufferable, no matter the circumstance. Ignoring him, Kaelen turned back to Valerius.
“Leave Seraphin be, my Lord.”
“Who in the Emperor’s name do you presume to command?” Valerius shot back, his voice rising.
“It is… tiresome for the rest of us to observe.”
Kaelen did not blink, holding Valerius’s furious gaze. Valerius slammed his fist onto the table, making the utensils jump. The sudden impact made Seraphin, perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat, flinch violently and squeeze his eyes shut. Torvin, conversely, chuckled lazily, raising a hand as if in surrender.
“Count me out of this particular drama.”
He licked a droplet of spiced wine from his lips and added, “Let us decide by consensus. I am neutral. Kaelen desires his departure. Valerius insists he remains.” For the record, Torvin was one of the few who referred to Kaelen by his given name alone, a casual familiarity Kaelen found perpetually vexing. That irritation often sharpened Kaelen’s tone, just as it did now.
“Cease your interference, Torvin. Your opinion carries no weight here.”
“Why ever not? There is another person right there, is there not?” Torvin, entirely unfazed, smirked and gestured toward Seraphin with an indolent flick of his wrist. “What? Is Seraphin not a person?”
“You are beyond reason.”
“Why does he remain so silent? Let him voice his own desires.”
As if Seraphin could possibly speak in this oppressive atmosphere. Kaelen sighed at Torvin’s thoughtless antics, picked up his spoon, and idly stirred the remaining spiced legumes on his tray. It was then that Valerius tapped a single finger on the polished table, a sharp, rhythmic sound.
“If you depart, Seraphin, you will find your life at court… untenable. Starting today.”
Tears began to well in Seraphin’s large, brown eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Kaelen, a silent plea for help. Damn it. Kaelen pressed his lips into a thin line.
“It is fine. I shall deter him,” Kaelen said, his voice low, trying to reassure Seraphin.
“Kaelen,” Valerius growled, his voice tight with barely contained rage.
Kaelen forced himself to meet Valerius’s gaze, projecting a calmness he did not feel, but inside, he felt an overwhelming urge to succumb to the pressure, to break down. To suppress it, he lifted his gaze to the vaulted ceiling for a brief moment before lowering his head and replying, his voice betraying nothing. “My Lord?”
“You…” Valerius clenched his fist, glaring at Kaelen with an intensity that felt capable of incinerating him. Still, Kaelen had to endure. His deepest instincts screamed that he could not abandon Seraphin to Valerius’s cruel whims.
But Valerius’s focus shifted back to Seraphin.
“I-I will depart,” Seraphin stammered, his voice trembling uncontrollably.
…
“Th-thank you, Kaelen.”
Seraphin hurriedly rose from his seat, his footsteps unsteady, almost a shuffle, as he fled the Refectory. As soon as his retreating figure vanished through the archway, Valerius turned abruptly, his cold, calculating fury fully directed at Kaelen.