Lord Kaelen’s animosity, a raw wound in Elian’s side, had festered since the incident in the hidden alcove. No longer did Kaelen bother with the courtly pretense, the thin veneer of shared schooling. His disdain was a cold, palpable presence, a shadow stretching across every chamber Elian entered. Now, Seraphim, with his quiet grace, occupied the seat directly beside Kaelen in the Grand Refectory, in the Imperial Scriptorium, everywhere. A constant, gilded reminder of Elian’s displacement. Elian was adept at masking his true feelings, a necessary skill in these Courts. But his pride chafed. He would not stand as a pathetic figure, head held high in feigned ignorance. Yet, the courage to address Kaelen, to shatter the frosty silence, eluded him. A familiar melancholy often settled upon him, a dull ache beneath his ribs. Sometimes, a flicker of petty vengeance would ignite, hot and fleeting. But always, endurance was his only recourse. Kaelen, impulsive and volatile, now regarded Elian with childish envy, a petty resentment that clawed at the courtly facade. The reason was stark, painfully obvious: Seraphim. Elian’s dislike for Seraphim deepened with each passing day. Seraphim was not his to claim, never had been, yet he felt a profound theft. Not only had he drawn Kaelen’s attention away, he had also turned Kaelen’s affection into bitter loathing for Elian. A vicious twist of fate, Elian thought, a cruel design. He knew, intellectually, that Seraphim was merely a leaf caught in Kaelen’s tempestuous current. But emotion often defied logic. Blaming Seraphim offered a fragile scapegoat, a way to bear this wretched situation. Still, Elian’s choices remained rational. He never allowed a flicker of hostility to mar his expression towards Seraphim. A part of it was embarrassment, a shame at his own unseemly jealousy. Another, more potent part, was the cold calculation that any display of anger would only make him appear foolish. It would surely deepen Kaelen’s hatred and, worse, invite the whispered accusations of “unnatural” inclinations, a label that could shatter his precarious standing within the Courts. “This is… intolerable,” Elian murmured, the words barely a breath. He hated it. A deep, consuming hatred, far more potent than the sting of Kaelen’s animosity. A sudden, unbidden image of Lord Valerius flickered in his mind. Valerius, the aggravating noble he’d found himself entangled with lately. What would Valerius say if he knew the depths of Elian’s heart? Likely something sharp, something cutting: ‘So, Elian, turns out you’re just another deviant, aren’t you?’ The thought of Valerius’s disdainful gaze made Elian’s fists clench. His stomach lurched. No one, absolutely no one, must ever know. Courtly friendships were fickle things. As Kaelen’s animosity became undeniable, Elian’s connections with Kaelen’s former circle frayed. Amusingly, Master Theron, usually an isolated figure within Valerius’s periphery, had initiated a pointless exchange the previous day. “Elian, Lord Valerius sought your presence earlier.” “Indeed? For what purpose?” “He did not specify.” Such was the nature of their conversations, empty pleasantries devoid of true substance. It was clear. Others now perceived Elian as belonging to Valerius’s orbit, rather than Kaelen’s. Yet, the old ties were not entirely severed. Occasionally, in the training yards, or by chance in the morning, polite greetings were exchanged. Mostly with Master Theron. “Elian! A fine morning.” “...Likewise, Theron.” Elian remembered one such awkward encounter. Theron had lowered his voice, a conspiratorial murmur. ‘Kaelen has been… peculiar, of late. His treatment of Seraphim… it verges on the unsettling, does it not?’ Elian must have grimaced, for Theron seemed to interpret it as agreement. Theron recounted how Kaelen would compel Seraphim to sit beside him, his hand gripping Seraphim’s arm, an unbreakable hold. Elian’s jaw tightened. “Such distasteful matters hold no interest for me.” That silenced Theron immediately. Of late, Master Theron had been subtly attempting to ingratiate himself with Valerius and his companions. He seemed to be quietly seeking an escape from Kaelen’s overwhelming shadow. Perhaps his shared observations were a clumsy attempt to bridge the distance between them. Today, as often happened, only Valerius and Elian remained in the small antechamber, apart from the others. Leaning against a polished obsidian pillar, Valerius regarded Elian with an unreadable expression. Was he dismissing him, or merely appraising? Annoyed, Elian turned his head, choosing to ignore him in kind. “Elian.” “What now?” “Let us partake of chilled honey-cream after court sessions. The confection we sampled last time was quite palatable.” Valerius ignored Elian’s attempted slight. He lazily tossed a polished jade sphere against the antechamber wall. The orb bounced erratically, threatening to strike passersby, yet no one dared utter a word to him. He was utterly indifferent to the prevailing mood, selfish in his ease. Elian watched the sphere rebound with a deepening frown, finally breaking his silence. His irritation at Valerius’s brazenness sharpened his tone. “You refer to the portion you consumed entirely yourself? You procured it solely for your own indulgence, did you not?” “Not entirely. I merely favored the flavor.” “Then my preferences held no sway?” “How was I to discern your desires? You remained silent.” By then, the jade sphere had rolled to a stop near a junior attendant. Valerius extended a hand, a casual gesture. The attendant hesitated, then awkwardly retrieved the sphere, placing it carefully in Valerius’s palm. Valerius shook the orb idly, then drawled to the retreating figure, “My gratitude, lackey.” An insufferable disposition. ‘Lackey this, scullery dog that.’ Every utterance from his lips grated on Elian’s nerves. Truthfully, it made no sense that Valerius, so overtly obnoxious, gravitated towards Elian rather than Kaelen. Valerius ate with him, sat with him, attended court alongside him. Kaelen was often preoccupied, yes, but Valerius could easily seek him out, send a missive, arrange a meeting. The thought surfaced, unbidden, and Elian voiced it without much reflection. “Why do you not frequent Lord Kaelen’s company these days?” Valerius, mid-throw, the jade sphere suspended in his hand, froze. He turned a puzzled gaze upon Elian. “You quarreled with him,” he stated. “I did?” “Indeed. You and Lord Kaelen.” “I am aware. The disagreement was mine. How does that concern you?” “Your pronouncements are truly bewildering. It is because you are my companion.” Valerius scrutinized Elian from head to toe, an oddly blatant gaze. Feeling a prickle of unease, Elian avoided his eyes, retorting, “You were also companions with Lord Kaelen, were you not?” “Remarkable. You jest. Are you implying we are not companions?” Now his tone was incredulous, a finger pointing at Elian. “No, I consider you a companion. But you were also Kaelen’s. So why do you align yourself with my side?” “Well, I have known you longer.” “What nonsense do you speak? We became acquainted through Lord Kaelen, did we not?” “Hear me. What is this preposterous assertion? We shared a bond even in our first year of schooling!” “When was this?” “Truly, you are an insolent wretch. Unbelievable. In the Grand Refectory, we often exchanged glances!” “Ah… back then.” “So, was I alone in perceiving a connection? You rogue. That is why, upon finding ourselves in the same courtly duties, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unconscionable. I am deeply disappointed.” “Oh.” “Truly. Unbelievable. Just… confound it. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?” “Very well, my apologies. I apologize, is that sufficient?” Elian mumbled a hasty apology, recalling those awkward, yet strangely frequent, shared glances from their earliest days in the Courts. So that was within Valerius’s “companion” categorization. Elian felt utterly duped. How could anyone interpret those stares as anything but veiled animosity? They were pure irritation. Wait, did that mean the first to suggest sharing a meal wasn’t Kaelen, but… Valerius? The realization struck him with the force of a physical blow, leaving him momentarily stunned. It was unsettling, almost shocking. Yet, unwilling to delve deeper into the tangled past, he merely feigned understanding and nodded. “Alright, alright. I comprehend. My apologies.” “I was genuinely quite vexed just now.” Valerius glared briefly. Sometimes, Elian found Lord Valerius’s mind utterly inscrutable. “And furthermore, Kaelen is acting profoundly odd.” “...” “That man is entirely unhinged at present. He has always possessed a certain… eccentricity, but this? This is beyond the pale. Truly.” Valerius gripped the jade sphere with four fingers, idly spinning it around his temple with his index finger. The gesture reminded Elian of Master Theron and other attendants who had awkwardly attempted to discuss Kaelen’s conduct with him. From that alone, one truth emerged: Kaelen’s standing, his carefully cultivated reputation, was in a perilous freefall. “Unnatural.” The word – the most feared, the most damning stigma in the world of the Imperial Courts – sent a shiver through Elian. His body trembled slightly at the unspoken implication. At the same instant, a wave of profound relief washed over him that no one knew of his own hidden truths. Did that relief mean he valued his own safety above Kaelen’s ruin? Uneasy, Elian met Valerius’s eyes, feeling like a heretical scholar concealing forbidden scrolls from the High Scribes. “Indeed,” he murmured. Then he let out a laugh – a brittle sound, a strange blend of fear and derision. It was almost farcical that, to the courtly observers, he was Valerius’s closest companion. In truth, Elian was no different – a criminal branded with an unholy stigma, merely unexposed. Only moons ago, he had been Kaelen’s intimate. And yet, here he was, clinging to survival in a precarious trap he had barely escaped. He had only managed to evade capture. That was all. --- It was the hour before dawn. A sealed missive, bearing no Imperial crest, arrived unexpectedly. A silent courier had slipped it beneath his door. Elian, half-lost in the haze of sleep, briefly wondered if his current reality was but a dream. He had consciously avoided Kaelen, seeking to protect his heart from further injury, yet a perverse flicker of hope still ignited at the thought that the message might be from him. He rubbed his eyes, hastily scanning the parchment’s script. His feelings were conflicted. A part of him hoped it was a missive for some mundane record-keeping task. But as soon as he read the trembling script, he knew it was not from Kaelen. “Elian-ah, I offer my deepest apologies for disturbing you at this hour. Might you grant me a moment beyond your private quarters? My regrets. My profound regrets.” “Just this once. Only this once.” Lord Kaelen would never issue such a desperate apology. Among his peers, only two ever addressed him as ‘Elian-ah.’ Of those two, only one possessed such a plaintive, desperate tone. How did Seraphim even know the location of his private residence? The moment his eyes registered the words, Elian’s face tightened into a scowl. He wished to avoid him – fervently wished to avoid him. Seraphim always brought a knot of unpleasantness. Yet, despite his internal protestations, Elian rose from his cot, buttoned the clasps of his sleeping tunic, and stood. He walked to his chamber door, but paused before stepping through, resting his forehead against the cool frame with a deep sigh. “...Damn it all.” It was an overwhelming sensation, a tightening in his gut. No other words captured the feeling. He clutched at his chest. He prided himself on his vast vocabulary, gleaned from countless scrolls and ledgers, but none of the words he knew could adequately express this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated. The simmering resentment he felt for Seraphim, the vivid memory of Seraphim’s bruised face from that day, and the desperate moons he had spent trying to distance himself from Kaelen’s orbit – all swirled into a maelstrom within him. Biting his lip, he fiddled with the door handle, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive twist. In the private courtyard, the cold pre-dawn dew clung to the air, heralding the arrival of late autumn. To avoid the damp cobbles, Elian stepped carefully onto the cool marble flagstones that paved the path. The chilling air made him pull his tunic tighter. His soft court shoes, barely visible beneath the hem, carried him to the main entrance of his residence. He paused there, clicked his tongue lightly, and grasped the heavy handle. The low creaking of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the door even more slowly. Beyond the threshold, illuminated by the soft glow of an aether-lamp on the cobbled path, stood Seraphim in his simple attendant’s tunic. His head hung low, as he idly traced invisible shapes on the ground with the tip of his shoe. “...Seraphim.” At Elian’s voice, Seraphim’s head snapped up like a startled bird. “Elian, Elian-ah!” “What is it you require?”

A Serpent's Embrace, A Spider's Thread