The acknowledgment from Sir Gareth was a silken barb. He executed a mockingly earnest bow, then favored Elian with a slow, knowing wink, a gesture far too familiar for the hushed confines of the Ducal antechamber. Elian felt his jaw clench, a barely perceptible tremor in his thighs. He picked at a candied ginger, its sweet heat doing little to quell the roiling unease in his gut. The stick remained clutched in his fingers, its delicate scent mingling with the heavy perfumes of the court.
He replayed Gareth’s casual insolence, the way his voice had dropped, the shared glance that implied a secret understanding Elian certainly didn’t possess, nor wished to. The sensation was a clammy mist, elusive yet undeniable. Did Gareth truly associate with Lady Seraphina? That vibrant, notorious courtesan, whose spirited youth had given way to a precarious existence within the less reputable salons, a fate not unlike that whispered for other peripheral figures such as Lord Torvin.
Such lives, woven into the very fringes of Veridian’s grand narrative, often seemed interchangeable. Lord Torvin, known for his crude jests and desperate wagers, and Captain Fenn, whose temper was as short as his purse. Their ambitions were a flickering candle in the grand ducal hall, easily snuffed.
“My coin, Torvin! You owe me for that wretched skirmish at the Lyra’s Edge!”
Captain Fenn’s voice, usually a low growl, rose in agitated whisper. He gripped Torvin’s arm, his knuckles white. Lord Torvin, equally agitated, threw his hands up, a gesture of exasperation that earned him disapproving glares from more esteemed courtiers.
“A hundred times that sum, Fenn, you owe *me* for that horse. A crippled beast, you swore it was sound!”
The corner of the antechamber became a simmering vortex of bickering. Guards and minor functionaries, caught between duty and distraction, shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting towards the front of the room where the Grand Duke’s banner hung in silent judgment.
Elian, still holding the candied ginger, felt a subtle shift in the air. He turned his head, drawn by an almost imperceptible movement. Sir Gareth, seated nearby, met his gaze. For a fleeting instant, a current of unspoken intensity passed between them.
Without a word, Gareth reached out, his long fingers elegant and precise. Elian froze, mesmerized by the perfectly manicured nails, the almost predatory grace. Gareth’s fingers twined around the white stick of candied ginger held between Elian’s lips. He pulled it slowly, the sticky residue clinging to Elian’s tongue, a sweet warmth grazing his mouth. Then, with a sudden tug, the heavy, hot mass was plucked free.
“A fine morsel,” Gareth murmured, the corner of his mouth curving into a sly, disarming smile. He licked his lips with languid grace, as if savoring a shared secret. “Why such a grave mien, Elian?”
Gareth often smiled. But his smiles, like his humor, rarely brought genuine cheer.
“It is… unseemly,” Elian managed, his voice a low thrum.
“Do you not know? The sharing of essence, a most potent boost to one’s vitality.”
“That is truly… distasteful.” Elian pressed his lips together, feeling them as parched as desert earth. Gareth merely rested his hand on his thigh, sweeping upwards to his knee, his posture a picture of negligent ease. Elian curled his fingers, burying them deep within his palm. He knew. He knew he was an idiot, caught in Gareth’s web of unsettling charm.
Gareth, half-turned on his seat, popped the remainder of the ginger into his mouth, then shrugged.
“You always eschewed citrus, I recall?” he asked, a hint of playful malice in his tone. He sucked on the candy with an almost vulgar elongation, a soft whistling sound escaping his lips. A singularly ordinary act, for a man so profoundly unsettling.
“That was spiced melon rind,” Elian corrected, his voice tight.
“Ah. Well, spiced melon is quite to my liking.”
And with annoying precision, Gareth licked the candy that someone else had already tasted, quite skillfully.
Another day passed. The crisp air of early autumn began to bite, hinting at the harsh, unforgiving winter to come. Under a sky of deepening cerulean, sharp and heavy, the Grand Ducal court felt the weight of impending change. Grand Maesters felt responsible, and minor courtiers sensed a grave duty to solidify their positions. Yet, there were always exceptions.
Lord Torvin, Captain Fenn, Lady Seraphina—these and others, excluded from the hallowed inner circle, were like expendable pawns, meant to highlight the success of the favored few. As time wore on, the censure for their wanderings softened, and interest in their misfortunes waned. The only difference was that Baronet Alaric, whose lineage was ancient but whose present standing was disastrous, remained a persistent annoyance.
The truly pitiable one was Maester Solon. Had he not become so entangled with Baronet Alaric, he might have found a comfortable post within the Archives, his reputation unblemished. Or, if only his sister had not fallen prey to the Blight, leaving him financially vulnerable.
Yet, Elian decided to ignore everything happening outside his own sphere. That, he had concluded, was the best decision for his life.
And so he lived, until the day he had to face something inevitable.
Every courtly misstep held the potential for disaster. Especially for a fool like Baronet Alaric, who seemed to accelerate his own downfall without any semblance of a plan.
Baronet Alaric returned to the Court of Petitions.
---
Elian clicked his tongue, a barely audible sound. Baronet Alaric was slumped over a polished petition table near the dais, visible through the partially open archway. His father, a lesser baron, had finally retrieved him from whatever disgraced exile he’d endured. Twenty days, Elian recalled. Twenty days since Alaric had vanished, only to be found lurking in some forgotten tavern, as if daring the court to rediscover his shame. What a baffling choice.
Elian’s fingers tapped lightly on the carved oak frame of the archway. Entering felt entirely uncomfortable.
His gaze fell upon the back of Alaric’s head. A few strands of his once-immaculate dark hair stood stiffly on end. There had been a time, long ago, when Elian might have smoothed them down under the guise of a casual, deferential gesture. Now, that memory was distant, blurred. He decided to sever any lingering attachment and turned to head towards the lower galleries. There was nothing to be gained by encountering Alaric alone, with few witnesses.
The court, Elian knew, was a place of a thousand watchful eyes. Even a simple exchange with Alaric would undoubtedly spark rumors: ‘Thorne and Alaric, seen whispering in private.’ Such whispers would inevitably be twisted, inflated. The worst scenario, a public outburst from Alaric, casting a pall over Elian’s own carefully constructed composure. The thought of such a public shaming, even if undeserved, was humiliating enough.
The best possible outcome, Alaric ignoring him, was a gamble Elian was not foolish enough to take. The wisest choice, then, was to eliminate the bad situation altogether, to ensure no one saw anything untoward.
So, Elian descended to the first floor, loitering near the Grand Vestibule until, ten minutes before the afternoon’s general audience, he blended into the crowd of courtiers returning to their various duties. Only then did he find the spot where he should have already been, observing and annotating a collection of ducal decrees.
He tried not to show any interest in the unfolding drama surrounding Alaric. Or, rather, he tried not to let others know that he possessed a significant interest. His consistent efforts, he believed, were paying off.
Yet, Baronet Alaric remained Elian’s greatest variable. Frustration, tinged with disgust, washed over him. A profound discomfort, a gnawing anxiety, intensified after Sir Gareth had arrived for the day’s proceedings.
Gareth approached Alaric as if nothing were amiss, even offering a casual, almost mocking, greeting.
“Returned at last, Baronet Alaric?”
His friendly tone was so absurd it stunned Elian. For a moment, curiosity overcame his anxiety. Looking up, Elian saw Gareth standing, his hands clasped casually behind his back, a broad, unsettling smile playing on his lips. Alaric merely grunted, not responding.
“What a dour reception. So frigid.”
Gareth subtly nudged Alaric’s petition table with his foot. It seemed inappropriate, considering Gareth’s known influence in Alaric’s diminished standing within this courtly hierarchy. Yet, unwilling to bother with such petty distinctions, Elian tried to focus back on the genuine complexities of the ducal decrees before him. That effort, however, was disrupted as Maester Archivist, a thin, stooped man, entered for the morning roll call of attendance.
The Archivist seemed genuinely pleased that Alaric had returned, yet a clear sense of guilt clouded his expression when he noted Maester Solon’s continued absence. “Solon is absent today as well,” he murmured to himself, his voice laced with unspoken implications. He then tapped his quill gently against the attendance roll on his desk.
The incident occurred quicker than expected.
As Alaric rummaged through the small drawer of his petition table, grimacing at the disarray of his customary documents, a couple of minor functionaries, who had left their own papers in adjacent cubbies, raised their hands and exited. Alaric’s expression worsened as they left.
Since he rarely attended to his official duties, the presence or absence of his documents likely held little practical meaning for him. The real issue for Alaric was probably the symbolic disappearance of items marked with his personal seal.
Everyone in the antechamber knew the truth, yet as if by unspoken agreement, no one uttered a word. Not about who had scattered Baronet Alaric’s documents, nor about who had instigated it.
“Who was it?”
As soon as the morning session concluded, the moment everyone had unconsciously anticipated began.
“I said, who was it?”
Alaric, hands jammed into the pockets of his velvet breeches, chin lifted in defiance, demanded answers. Those who disliked the brewing confrontation slipped quietly from the antechamber, while those intrigued glanced around, their curiosity barely veiled. In that charged atmosphere, Sir Gareth, holding a thoroughly smudged, almost unrecognizable quill, was idly sketching something in a ledger. He spoke nonchalantly.
“What vexes you, Baronet?”
“Who?” Alaric hissed.
“Who, what? Clarity, Baronet. One must articulate their grievances for others to comprehend.”
His audacity was staggering. Truly brazen.
“The cur who tampered with my documents.”
It was clear to Alaric that his documents had not simply vanished by chance, especially for someone as sensitive to perceived slights as he, akin to a cornered beast. Moreover, Gareth’s failure to answer ‘who’ meant he was complicit, acknowledging the underlying truth. Even a fool would understand this. Yet, Gareth continued to jest, as if unaware of the severity of the situation.
“Documents? Did you even possess them? I recall you more often sprawled across a tavern table, sleeping off a stupor.”
There he went again, laughing unnecessarily. There was no way Alaric was going to let that slide.
“Enough, Gareth! Was it you, Thorne?”
And naturally, Elian was implicated. This was obvious; any fool could see it.
“…No,” Elian said, his voice measured.
In this antechamber, no one was more volatile, less refined than Baronet Alaric, who constantly made foolish missteps. He must have felt his downfall acutely, as every look, every whispered word, held all the accumulated emotions and memories of his disgrace. Yet, those of us sharing the same space pretended as if nothing had happened.
“Come now, would our paragon of discretion, Thorne, truly treat another’s esteemed papers in such a manner?”
“Gareth—damn you, why do you keep interfering?”
“Interfering? If a peer faces an injustice, it is only proper to offer assistance.”
“What in the blazes are you speaking of, you imbecile?”
“Imbecile? A trifle harsh, Baronet.”
“Cease your blustering. Who else here could have fouled the atmosphere this thoroughly in my absence, if not you two?”
Alaric scoffed, a sneer twisting his features. Only then did Gareth put down his quill. His lips were still slightly puckered in that knowing smirk. Alaric’s face twisted in profound displeasure. Unable to contain his anger, Alaric snatched a heavy, velvet-covered cushion from a nearby chair and hurled it. Unfortunately, it struck Elian squarely in the chest.
“Ah!”
It wasn’t particularly painful, being merely a cushion, but it was startling. Elian frowned as he watched the object fall to his knees.
“This madman simply flings objects now.”
Before Elian could speak, Gareth interjected, his voice sharp with annoyance. At that moment, Alaric slowly lifted the corners of his mouth, a look of vindictive triumph in his eyes.
“Ah, I see.”
It was the look of someone who believed he had won. What did he think he understood? Elian’s furrowed brow would not relax.
“Sir Gareth. Thorne. You two colluding?”
“What?”
Elian was at a loss for words, and Gareth’s playful smirk vanished instantly, replaced by genuine bewilderment. Elian felt more disoriented than Alaric, who had lost his documents. It seemed Gareth felt the same.
“Baronet Alaric, forgive me, but your pronouncements are so utterly nonsensical I fail to grasp their meaning.”
Despite clearly hearing them, Gareth placed a hand near his ear—a blatant mockery. And from what Elian had observed, Gareth rarely stopped at a single jest. This was merely the start of his provocation. Sensing the uneasy air, Elian stood up. Meanwhile, Gareth stuck his pinky finger into his ear, twisting it with an exaggerated air of profound thought, as if Alaric’s words were nothing but an irritant to be dislodged.