Two days after the whisper of Lord Kaelan’s disgrace had spread through the minor courtiers, the contents of his private study were found scattered. Scrolls, meticulously penned treatises on ancient Veridian law, even his personal sigil — a carved griffin’s head—lay trampled near the palace’s secondary refuse chute. Not burned, as such acts were deemed barbaric, but dismissed with an unmistakable disdain.
Discernment was not required to identify the orchestrator. Scarcely a few watch cycles later, a particular smile played on Lord Vesper Thorne’s lips as he conversed with his acolytes. Already, hushed reports circulated through the servants’ passages, detailing how Vesper himself had overseen the ‘disposition’ of Lord Kaelan’s effects.
“How exceedingly audacious,” Elian murmured, the words tasting like ash.
He watched the discarded remnants, a testament to the bitter contention between Prince Caelen and Lord Kaelan. The sight struck a familiar chord, echoing his own past ambitions, his own hidden desires, now curdled with a cynical resignation.
Weeks prior, Kaelan had suffered a loss to Caelen, a defeat he likely never registered. The motive, though veiled in the court’s subtle machinations, became starkly clear to Elian. Initially, he had dismissed the escalating tensions as mere sibling rivalry, albeit a virulent one. But a certain unnameable something had begun to surface, a collective disquiet among Kaelan’s own circle. His feelings for Prince Caelen were not mere fraternal animosity; his fervent displays, often mistaken for passion, bled into something unsettlingly aggressive. The moment Elian witnessed their private confrontation – not a duel, but a sharp, verbal clash – his suspicions solidified.
Yet, even as he sensed the tide of opinion turning against Lord Kaelan, Elian felt no impulse to intervene, no guilt to acknowledge. It was a courtly ballet, and he was not so foolish as to trip on another’s misstep. To rise to Kaelan’s defense would be to invite scrutiny, to appear virtuous, perhaps even loyal.
But in the gilded cage of the Veridian court, where every action birthed a dozen interpretations, such virtue invited a single, damning question.
*Why?*
The thought chilled him. He knew the answer they would devise. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the cool, embroidered fabric of his chamber wall. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, he wished that when he reopened them, the relentless currents of the court would be stilled. He yearned for slumber’s oblivion. Had he been left undisturbed, he might have drifted into its depths.
Then, a sharp rap struck the polished wood of his door, jolting him from his near-sleep. Elian straightened, rubbing a hand across his brow. His eyes flickered open to find Lord Vesper Thorne already entering, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
“Daydreaming, Elian?” Vesper’s voice, a silken ribbon, seemed to unspool into the quiet.
“My lord, a moment of respite is a rare indulgence.” Elian’s tone was smooth, practiced. “What brings you to my humble chambers so early?”
Vesper offered a shamelessly glib smile. “A stroll, perhaps. And I chanced upon this.” He held up a polished silver stylus, its tip blunted, as if forcefully snapped. “Found it abandoned in the archives’ discard bin. Thought it might serve a purpose, perhaps as a pointer.”
Elian’s expression tightened imperceptibly. Vesper always seemed to unearth the oddest, most telling discards.
He ran a hand through his hair, though the tap on his door had not been forceful enough to dislodge it. He merely sought to compose himself, to ensure no stray strand betrayed his disquiet. Vesper, meanwhile, kicked aside a velvet stool with a casual swipe of his foot, then settled onto it with an easy grace that belied the stool’s precarious balance. He tossed a slim leather-bound volume onto Elian’s writing desk, using it as a makeshift cushion as he leaned forward, arms draped across the surface.
“You disturb my peace, only to seek your own?” Elian’s voice held a faint, calculated edge of irritation.
“Ah, but I worried for your alertness, Elian. Lest you miss an important courtly maneuver. My own attention matters little; my standing is already… well, known.”
“A false humility, if ever I heard it,” Elian countered, twisting in his chair. Vesper possessed a peculiar knack for eliciting a defensive retort from him. Elian nudged Vesper’s foot with his own, a small, controlled gesture of annoyance. Vesper merely smirked.
“Is it permissible to assault a guest, Elian? A man with a newly acquired bruise, no less?” His tone was light, yet the question lingered, a wisp of smoke in the air.
Elian scoffed, then deliberately kicked the silver stylus. It tumbled towards Vesper, but without even lifting his head, Vesper caught it mid-fall, his fingers closing around the cold metal. He did not bother to meet Elian’s gaze, simply laughed soundlessly, then spoke again, his voice a low thrum.
“I’ve meant to inquire.”
“Of what, my lord?”
“That mark on your cheek… it was no accident, was it?”
*Damn it all.* Was it truly so evident? Elian had thought the subtle discoloration beneath his jawline barely perceptible, easily masked by the dim chamber light.
He paused for a fraction of a second, then, with an almost imperceptible sweep of his hand over his cheek, he answered, his voice a murmur of indifference.
“A momentary lapse in judgment, my lord. I stumbled.”
“Hm.” Vesper chuckled, a soft, dry sound. His chin still rested on the leather volume.
“Indeed?”
His eyes flicked up, bright as a falcon’s, and a slender finger pointed at Elian. Elian could not fathom his intent, only the sudden, unsettling attention. “What?” he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
“You are quite… resourceful.”
As Vesper smiled, leaning his blunted stylus against his cheekbone, Elian felt a peculiar paralysis. His thoughts scattered like startled birds.
*What in the ancestral spirits is he implying?*
“…Resourceful in what regard, my lord?”
“I do not believe you merely… ‘stumbled,’ Elian.”
Silence descended, heavy and suffocating. Vesper’s words were always enigmatic, but this time, they carried an undercurrent of quiet menace, a promise of revelation. His gaze was unnervingly still. Bright irises held dark pupils that pinned Elian in place. It was like watching the sharpened tip of an arrow, unable to predict its trajectory, only knowing it was aimed directly at him. His mind went utterly blank. Two words echoed, a frantic rhythm in his skull. *No way. He couldn’t have. No way. He couldn’t have.*
Then, Vesper’s eyes narrowed further, the smile fading to a thin line.
“It seemed more as if you deliberately sought a collision.”
His long, serpentine eyes curved upward, a predatory arc. Elian’s throat went dry. His breath caught, a trapped thing in his chest. A silent gulp. Vesper parted his lips, and Elian found himself unable to blink.
“Should others learn of this… premeditation… it would be quite the embarrassment, would it not?”
“…”
“I shall endeavor to keep it a secret.”
Raising the hand that held the stylus to his lips, Vesper whispered the words, then delivered a slow, deliberate wink. The breath Elian had been holding slammed against his ribs, a frantic, caged animal.
Vesper did not wait for a reaction. Instead, he casually ran a hand through his dark hair, then pointed a finger at Elian once more.
“But did you truly imitate my hairstyle? It seems… rather unoriginal.”
Elian was speechless. Vesper crinkled his nose in an exaggerated expression of disapproval.
“At any rate, I shall now resume my studies.” He stifled a yawn, then buried his face back into the leather-bound volume. Staring at the curve of Vesper’s neck, Elian finally managed a response, a low mutter.
“I did not imitate you, my lord, nor have I altered my hair.”
“Oh, indeed?” His muffled voice rumbled from the depths of his makeshift pillow.
---
“By the Ancestors, deliver me from this torment.”
Vesper intoned the mock prayer, clutching a newly delivered scroll of courtly assessments in one hand. It was the Fourth Hour. As the lessons on ducal edicts concluded, the quarterly evaluations were distributed. Vesper buried his head in his unfurled scroll, scanned his rankings, and promptly launched into his theatrical lament. Then, he threw his head back dramatically, letting out a profound sigh that seemed to drain the very air from the room.
“Ah, I am utterly bereft.”
Elian glanced at his own assessment, noted the commendations, then folded the scroll meticulously and tucked it into the inner pocket of his tunic. He looked back at Vesper, who remained suspended in his sighing tableau.
Vesper’s head was thrown so far back that Elian could only see the prominent bob of his Adam’s apple. It pulsed heavily, almost chastising him for staring. Fixing his gaze on Vesper’s throat, Elian offered, “That is not the traditional use of such an invocation, my lord.”
“What matter the tradition? A prayer is a prayer, Elian.”
Then, abruptly, “Tell me, Elian, is it Ancestor or Lord Grand Duke that truly holds sway?”
It was then that Elian noted something peculiar about Vesper – his approach to reverence was strangely…fluid.
“Why inquire of me, my lord? It is your reverence to command.”
“Come, Elian, do not be so reticent. You are so acutely perceptive, I presumed you understood all matters of the spirit.”
“I do not. I am merely an observer.”
Vesper, who had been leaning back with exaggerated lassitude, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met across the short distance. Elian instinctively averted his gaze, feigning interest in the intricate carvings of the window frame. Yet, a sharp prickle spread across his chest, as if he had been caught in a petty transgression.
He stared absently at the window, then shifted his focus to the stiff, impeccably pressed collar of Vesper’s tunic. The crisp white linen rested against his neck, but with every exaggerated movement, the sharp line of his collarbone flashed into view.
“So? Will you join me for the Ancestors’ Offering on the morrow?”
“My lord? No.”
“Ah, why not? Come. On the designated holy days, and during the Grand Harvest, they distribute gifts. Rare fruits, spiced cakes, vials of elderberry wine…”
“Wait, do you partake solely for such… benefits?”
“Of course, Elian. Why else?”
Elian finally met his gaze, his eyes landing on a slender, unlit taper Vesper had idly balanced on his upper lip. At first, pride had prevented the admission, but in that moment, Elian had to acknowledge it: Vesper Thorne was undeniably handsome. A smug bastard, but handsome nonetheless.
The taper, wedged between his nose and upper lip, distorted Vesper’s voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “But the way you phrase it, Elian, it sounds as if I am pilfering. If they are freely given, what fault lies in accepting them?”
“Can one truly call it devotion if one believes for such self-serving reasons?”
“That is the very genesis of belief, Elian. Few begin with grand pronouncements of faith. They think, ‘Ah, the Grand Duke’s offerings are generous. That Grand Duke must be benevolent.’ And then, little by little, their appreciation for the ‘benevolent dispenser of spiced cakes’ morphs into an absolute, unwavering belief in the Grand Duke’s divine right. The initiation, the journey—they are ultimately irrelevant. What matters is that now, I believe.”
Vesper Thorne occasionally spouted pronouncements that bordered on the absurd. Lord Kaelan himself had, at times, been caught in their dizzying current.
Sometimes, it was pure nonsense, designed to provoke. But sometimes, it was the kind of audacious, self-serving logic that even Elian found himself contemplating with a dangerous fascination. This, he realized, was the latter.
He ran a hand through his bangs, brushing them back from his forehead. But they stubbornly fell back into his eyes, so this time, he shook his head from side to side. The fine strands of his hair swayed, a dark curtain. He gathered them near his temples, and finally, the persistent tickling eased. He had been so consumed by the recent courtly skirmishes, so distracted, that he had neglected his usual trim.
With Prince Caelen’s ascendance and Lord Kaelan’s retreat, the foremost seats in the Grand Audience Chamber felt strangely hollow. There was no longer any reason for Elian to cast his gaze in that direction.
Six days ago, the Grand Duke’s Chamberlain had summoned Elian to his antechamber, inquiring if he had heard from Lord Kaelan.
Elian had answered honestly, without the faintest hesitation.
“No, my lord. He has not sought my counsel.”
“You have not reconciled with Lord Kaelan, then?” The Chamberlain’s eyes, keen and discerning, held Elian’s.
Elian offered a small, bitter smile. A perfectly calibrated expression. In truth, he felt no inclination to smile at all.
“No. Kaelan… took great offense at my perspective, my lord.”
“Lord Kaelan took offense at *you*?” The Chamberlain’s brow furrowed, a flicker of surprise in his gaze.
“Indeed.”
Rumors, thin but persistent, already circled the court. The Chamberlain was not entirely oblivious to the unspoken implications of Elian’s words. He had surely heard the whispers of Kaelan’s increasingly erratic behavior.
“Very well, Elian. I understand,” the Chamberlain said, dismissing him with a weary wave. Then, as he settled back into his plush chair, Elian heard him mutter, barely audible, complaints about Lord Kaelan’s recent outbursts and the private chiding he had received from Kaelan’s father, the esteemed Lord Consort Alden.
Elian pretended not to hear the Chamberlain’s pathetic monologue, turning to leave, yet still, he listened. That was how he grasped the true atmosphere within the antechamber, a subtle shift in the winds of favor.
Later, after the evening’s court duties, as Elian prepared for his private lessons in statecraft, Lord Consort Alden himself sent for him. The question was identical to the Chamberlain’s, phrased with an almost desperate formality – if Elian knew of Lord Kaelan’s whereabouts.
Elian gave him the same answer, delivered with practiced solemnity.
“No, my lord. Kaelan has ceased all communication with me.”
“—I see…” Alden’s voice, usually resonant, was thin with worry.
“I am truly sorry I cannot be of any assistance, my lord.”
“—No, Elian. There is nothing for you to apologize for. It is… understandable.”
Lately, Lord Consort Alden had been calling upon Elian more frequently than was customary. And each time, the conversation unfolded in precisely the same manner. There was something oddly deliberate in his persistent attempts to link Elian and Lord Kaelan, to ascertain Kaelan’s status through Elian’s testimony. Elian, sensing the subtle manipulation, hurried to end the summons.
Honestly, there was nothing for him to apologize for. Yet he offered the apology anyway – a calculated deference, designed to foster a favorable impression. It was the same ingrained instinct that compelled courtiers to praise a duke’s questionable decree or call an uninspired ballad ‘sublime.’ A social convention, a form of exquisite etiquette that allowed the complex machinery of court to function, smoothly, if not honestly.
He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that the adults in power did not perceive him as a pawn to be played. If anything, his politeness was more akin to a crude pantomime performed by a favored jester, a wry performance of loyalty.
Elian always knew his place. And because he invested such diligence in being agreeable, in being useful, he was destined to become a truly well-regarded jester. Even if, one day, he made a blunder so glaring it caused the Grand Duke himself to frown, they would forgive him. That was the intricate groundwork he meticulously laid.
Unlike some hapless fools, Elian Thorne was navigating his life with a cold, clear wisdom. Perhaps, from an elder’s perspective, his methods were nothing more than narrow-minded, petty tricks to wriggle out of true accountability. But among his peers, and indeed among the lesser courtiers, it was undeniable: Elian possessed an uncanny ability to manage unpredictable situations with a shrewd, self-preserving grace.
Proof lay in the sudden shift in demeanor of Lord Aldric.
---
Lord Aldric, a former confidante of Lord Kaelan, now showed an almost desperate eagerness to align himself with Lord Vesper. Because of this, Aldric now extended a cautious, yet noticeably warmer, friendliness toward Elian, acknowledging Elian’s nascent, yet visibly growing, connection to Vesper.