A dull throbbing pulsed behind Elian’s eyes. He lay upon his bed, the silken sheets tangled around his limbs like an unwanted embrace. The heavy oak door of his modest chambers, he knew, was bolted. A small mercy, even in this fog of pain. *Remarkable, even on the brink of collapse, some instincts remain.* He heard the thought, distant, echoing in his own mind. His awareness returned in fractured waves. A searing ache radiated from his jaw, numbing his cheek. He lifted a hand, each joint a rusted hinge, sending a jolt of pain through his shoulder. “Ah…” The sound was a strangled whisper. Fingers brushed against tender, swollen places on his face. He pressed a palm to the mattress, pushing upright. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of gilt and shadow. He sat on the bed’s edge, staring at the polished stone wall. Then, a raw, whimpering sound tore from his throat. It scraped past his vocal cords, a desperate, painful cry. Tears blurred his vision. A sudden surge of fury propelled him to his feet. He swept an arm across his small writing desk, sending scrolls, quills, and inkpots clattering to the floor. He cried, he raged, a silent scream in the privacy of his room. Exhaustion finally buckled his knees. He sank, trembling, to the cool flagstones. He clamped his mouth shut, but tears still welled, thick and hot, spilling down his cheeks. His sobs hitched. *Damn it!* The thought was a venomous whisper. Death seemed a welcome release. But it wasn’t life he wanted to escape. It was *last night*. The window had been tightly latched. Could anyone have heard? Had the sounds of his humiliation carried? *Damn Lord Kaelan. Damn Seraphina Thorne. Why did they seek me out? Why did they shatter everything?* *…Damn it.* His pride, not just his body, lay trampled. Lord Kaelan’s words, his cruel display before Seraphina, felt worse than any casual disdain. A devastation so profound it clawed at his very soul. Even now, choked by despair, a part of him fretted over appearances. He wiped his face with a trembling hand. The silence pressed in. He glanced at the small clockwork orb on his fallen desk. Just before the eighth bell. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Joric, his aide, would arrive soon. To be seen like this… unthinkable. His mind sharpened. He could not, *would not*, let anyone witness his disgrace. He scrambled up, righted the writing stand, and swept the scattered scrolls and quills under his bed. He sat on the bed again, composed, waiting for the inevitable knock. It came a few moments later, precisely on time. He forced his voice level. “Joric, do not enter. I believe I’ve caught a chill. My head aches. I shall be unable to attend the Scriptorium today.” “A chill, my Lord? Should I send for a Healer?” Joric’s voice, muffled, held concern. Elian swallowed a bitter taste. “Later, if the fever worsens. Just rest is needed now.” “Very well. Would you like some broth? Perhaps a sweetened cordial?” “Leave it outside the door, if you please. I thank you, Joric.” “At once, my Lord. Rest well.” He would skip his duties. He was in no fit state. The very thought of facing the Scriptorium made his stomach churn. Some salve lay discarded in a small silver pot. He retrieved it, smearing the cooling unguent over his aching jaw and temples. He yearned for the pain to simply vanish. Then, he crawled back into bed. The pot slipped, clattering to the flagstones. His entire body trembled, but it was the humiliation that cut deeper than any bruise. A thousand tiny, cruel fingers seemed to pinch his gut. It was absurd. He drew the heavy drapes, plunging the room into shadow, and burrowed deep beneath the silken blankets. Only their oppressive weight offered any semblance of refuge. *Sleep. I must sleep.* He squeezed his eyes shut. It would be fine. Lady Valerius did not know. Lord Kaelan would not boast of such a petty victory. It would be fine. He buried himself deeper still. *** It was not fine. Not at all. Beneath the blankets, he whispered, a desperate litany of words that burned his tongue. To the Fates, to the unseen spirits of the Court, to anyone, he wanted to scream: *It was Kaelan! Lord Kaelan struck me! He shamed me! That viper! Kaelan is mad. He’s possessed. He’s out of his mind. All because of Seraphina Thorne… after all my quiet work, all my hopes… he crushed them. He crushed them before her. I am an idiot. I showed that pathetic, quivering side to Seraphina. And the thought that anyone else might have seen…* His frantic thoughts ceased. A wave of self-loathing washed over him. He wanted to cease existing. The saddest part: what he did after the tears finally subsided. He crept from under the covers, deleting every message and call log from Seraphina Thorne’s comm-orb that night. Then, he hurried to the small scrying mirror near the entrance, wiping the truth-weave tracers clean, erasing any magical echoes of that early morning. That night became a shameful secret, something no one could ever know, no one could ever see. *** He skipped his duties at the Scriptorium for three days. His face, though hideous to his own touch, began to heal. Perhaps he had managed to turn his head just so, or perhaps the court’s restorative tonics, usually reserved for minor ailments, worked with surprising efficacy. The visible injuries were minimal: a few dark bruises beneath his collar, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he stayed beneath the blankets, crying, raging, ignoring every missive and summons. He thought he could hide until he was fully recovered. Fate, however, rarely favored the meek. Lady Valerius, his patron, who had been away at the Imperial Summit, returned to the Lyra Keep. Panic coiled in his gut. “Elian, what happened to your face?” Her voice was sharp, cutting through the formality of their morning repast. “Ah, well…” He mumbled, averting his gaze. “A skirmish? You sent word you had taken a chill.” As Lady Valerius’s questions became a torrent, he scrambled for a plausible tale. “Indeed, I felt quite unwell. A junior scribe, however, required a particular volume from the restricted archive, late into the night…” “And?” Her eyes narrowed. “And I… encountered some trouble on the way back to my chambers.” “What manner of trouble leaves a scribe’s face looking thus? Who was it?” Lady Valerius’s voice rose, edged with imperial authority. He waved his hands frantically. “No, truly, my Lady, I wish no trouble. It was a minor disagreement, nothing serious. We have already reached accord.” “Tell me, boy—what was the disagreement?” “…Well.” He hesitated, then launched into a pathetic fabrication. “I… I made a jest at his expense. Regarding a recent romantic disappointment.” “What?” Surprisingly, his ridiculous answer seemed to deflate her anger. Lady Valerius let out a sigh of disbelief, then a short, abrupt laugh. “Are you all common street urchins, enacting some base drama?” “No, my Lady…” “Do not let such foolishness repeat itself.” “…I shall endeavor not to.” His injuries, thankfully, did not look as dire as they felt. The incident seemed to blow over. For now. Then, a strange thing happened. That evening, while dining with his family in the solarium, his mother, Lyra, suddenly spoke of Lord Kaelan. “By the way, Elian, are you still engaged with Lord Kaelan’s studies these days?” “What?” He almost dropped his goblet. “He doesn’t seem to send for you as often.” For someone so rarely present in the Keep, her observation was unnervingly astute. The mere mention of Kaelan’s name soured his mouth. He snapped back, irritability seeping into his tone. “It is as it always was.” *As it always was, my ass. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.* A hot flush of shame spread through him. He wished the floor would swallow him whole. “Didn’t a new acquaintance visit your chambers recently? Joric mentioned it. A lady, I believe? Are you becoming close with this Seraphina?” Elian’s body went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head towards the service archway, where Joric was quietly overseeing the removal of platters. A cold chill snaked down his spine. *Did Joric hear? Could he have heard anything that night? Was he the one?* “Elian? What is wrong?” His mother’s question startled him. He blurted out a response without thought. “Yes. We are… acquainting.” What else his mother said, he couldn’t recall. The sheer terror, rooting him to his seat, obliterated everything else. But he remembered the specific way she had looked at him when she mentioned Lord Kaelan. The same look she reserved for ill tidings. *Why?* That single thought plunged him into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew icy. No. Joric couldn’t have heard. Joric’s chambers were in the lower servant’s wing, far from his own. His hearing was also famously poor. No. He couldn’t have heard. But why did it feel… wrong? He prayed to the Court’s distant deities, gods he rarely acknowledged. Three more days passed. Lady Valerius began to press him to return to his duties at the Scriptorium. He absolutely dreaded it. But if he kept feigning illness, his patron would surely suspect a deeper problem than a minor skirmish. That was the last thing he needed. He forced a cheerful mien. There was nothing wrong with him. The days leading up to his return were filled with endless dread. What if he ran into Lord Kaelan? Or Seraphina Thorne? Would Kaelan enact another display of power? Would he humiliate Elian before the other scribes—or worse, before Seraphina again? Would he continue to trample Elian’s quiet aspirations as if they were mere dust? The thought alone made him nauseous. When he finally arrived at the Scriptorium, he hung his satchel on the side of his desk, scattering some spare parchment over it. He sat down, staring blankly at the polished cedarwood. The murmur of the hall grew louder. As soon as footsteps approached, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep. If he pretended to be asleep, no one would notice his bruised face. At least not immediately. But he had forgotten one thing: the desk behind his belonged to Lysander. Lysander was a junior courtier, sharp-eyed and cynical, one who often understood the currents of the room but chose to ignore them for his own amusement. Lysander arrived. He paused by Elian’s desk, then slipped a hand between Elian’s shoulder and neck. With surprising strength, he tilted Elian’s face up by the jaw. Elian had no time to resist. He was forced to expose his injuries. Lysander’s eyebrow arched as he examined the bruises. “What the blazes happened to your face, Elian?” His tone was blunt. “...Nothing of consequence.” “Did you trip and fall upon your own quill again?” “Aye. Something akin to that.” “Truly?” Lysander clicked his tongue, shaking his head slowly. He abruptly let go, and Elian’s head nearly slammed onto the desk. “Damn you, Lysander!” He glared, startled, but Lysander merely offered a crooked, speculative grin, lost in thought. Whatever he mused, Elian had no way of knowing. Neither Lord Kaelan nor Seraphina Thorne appeared at the Scriptorium that day. But during Elian’s absence, whispers had begun to circulate through the Keep. “Did you hear? Lord Kaelan… that viper, he actually…” No one directly questioned Elian about his injuries, but the curious, lingering glances were proof enough. The rumors had already taken root. Perhaps, he thought, he was luckier than he deserved. *** The whispers centered around Elian and Lord Kaelan. Neither had attended their usual duties since the rumors began, and even Seraphina Thorne had vanished shortly thereafter, leaving no one to contradict the insidious tales. Elian’s battered face, a visible testament, fueled the gossip’s spread. The story went thus: Elian had a grave falling out with Lord Kaelan. And, more damningly, Lord Kaelan was secretly involved in… *unseemly magical practices*, and Elian was somehow implicated or had borne witness to a secret shame that tainted him by association. “That brute, I tell you, he entirely lost his temper over Elian’s… *scrupulous attention to detail*.” “What’s scrupulous attention? Oh, wait. By the Fates. I can’t stop laughing.” “He’s like one of those perfectly pressed parchments, isn’t he? Always so… *neat*.” The Scriptorium’s antechambers buzzed with such conversations. “All those who were once indebted to Lord Kaelan have begun to shy away, like shadows from the dawn…”

A Serpent's Sting