A sudden, unwelcome curiosity seized Elian one day, like a serpent coiling in his gut. He found himself wondering about Lord Kaelen and Seraphina, specifically how their paths diverged after the daily decrees were read in the Grand Hall. Seraphina, ever diligent, usually lingered in the archives, while Kaelen, a whirlwind of charisma and disdain, swept away with his retinue.
From what Elian had observed, Seraphina would invariably follow a short distance behind Kaelen once the hall cleared. She moved with the quiet grace of a shadow, never quite abreast of him. Yet, the image persisted: Seraphina, a noblewoman of considerable presence despite her subdued demeanor, trailing Kaelen as if bound by an invisible tether. The thought sent a shiver down Elian’s spine, a premonition of ill fortune. This felt like prying open a forbidden reliquary, not merely a fleeting thought.
A small, intricate box, sealed not just with despair, but with a cruel, intoxicating glimmer of hope. Despite every instinct screaming retreat, the temptation to peer inside was almost unbearable.
“...I must be mad,” Elian whispered, his hand instinctively gripping the stylus on his desk. His heart thrummed a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Indeed, reason had deserted him. Still, the next day, after the evening court dissolved, Elian found himself tracing Seraphina’s steps. He moved with practiced stealth through the labyrinthine corridors of the Imperial Library, a space he knew better than his own reflection, careful that Kaelen, or anyone else, would not notice his presence.
He did not go far.
Through a latticed screen, Elian saw Seraphina pause, her gaze fixed on Kaelen’s retreating back. The fading light from the arched windows cast long shadows across the ancient stone, illuminating peeling fresco details, tarnished bronze fixtures, and stacks of forgotten scrolls. A scene of quiet decay, a stark contrast to the court’s usual opulence. Two figures stood within it: Kaelen in front, Seraphina following, and Elian, observing them from a distance, hidden amongst the towering shelves.
Everything about it felt wrong, a grotesque parody of courtly observation. He turned away, the shame burning hot on his cheeks.
Later, seated in the hushed solitude of his private scriptorium, the soft glow of a single enchanted lamp illuminating his meticulous scrolls, Elian felt a perverse satisfaction. His initial curiosity had been dangerous, a lapse in his usual caution. Had he pursued it, who knew what vile truth he might have unearthed? It was better this way. Better not to know. He was not so foolish as to shatter a sacred trust out of mere, vulgar curiosity.
Lord Kaelen’s obsession with Seraphina had, by all accounts, only deepened. Seraphina, in turn, seemed to recoil from him—or perhaps, despised him outright. Yes, hatred. How could she feel anything but utter loathing for a man who had, since her arrival at court, relentlessly hounded and intimidated her? A quiet, grim satisfaction settled over Elian. He had not intervened in Kaelen’s early aggressions towards Seraphina. Perhaps, in hindsight, that inaction was for the best.
Elian laced his fingers behind his head, leaning back in his chair. Above him, a miniature celestial orrery, a gift from a visiting scholar, spun silently, its polished orbs reflecting the lamp's light. His life, he acknowledged, had been fortunate. Born into a respected, if not exceptionally wealthy, scholarly family, he had received the finest education and rarely been denied anything within his purview.
“...Damn it,” he muttered.
He once believed himself impervious, immune to the vagaries of fortune. Until, that is, he had fallen for Lord Kaelen. The man had revealed the cruelest truth: life does not always bend to one's will. And Elian suspected Seraphina was now learning that same bitter lesson.
Ah, the Courts of Lyra could be mercilessly cruel.
At least Elian had learned to master his emotions, to conceal his true feelings behind a mask of diligent neutrality. Kaelen, on the other hand, consumed by his own fervent desires, failed to recognize the alarming intensity of his gaze upon Seraphina. That raw, abnormal emotion must have been deeply unsettling for her.
Elian understood Kaelen’s torment, for he had endured a similar, quiet agony. But while Elian had persevered in his silence, Kaelen could not. So, instead of attempting to win Seraphina’s favor, he acted in ways that only earned him her disdain. For Elian, this worked out precisely as he desired.
“Please, just keep being oblivious,” Elian murmured to himself.
Or better yet, let Seraphina grow weary and depart the court entirely. Elian harbored no hope that Kaelen would ever turn his affections towards him. If anything, the very thought of such a tumultuous love terrified him.
He desired only one thing: for a day to arrive when his heart no longer ached for Kaelen, and for Kaelen to find love elsewhere, with someone, anyone, but Seraphina. That was his sole wish. Yet, the currents of the court rarely flowed as one desired.
To exacerbate matters, Kaelen’s strategic maneuvers brought him ever closer to Seraphina. Not a mere change of seats, but a subtle manipulation of court protocol. During the Emperor’s weekly addresses, Kaelen arranged for Seraphina to be seated in the front row, directly before the imperial dais, and conveniently, directly in his line of sight. This exposed her to direct imperial scrutiny and Kaelen’s relentless gaze, a truly terrible position for her quiet nature. Seraphina’s previous assigned seatmate, a minor scribe, now awkwardly offered greetings to Elian and Lord Valerius, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and discomfort.
“Evening, Masters.”
Valerius and Elian exchanged an imperceptible glance, offering curt nods in return.
“Haha…”
The awkward laugh hung in the air, unnoticed. Neither Elian nor Valerius responded. They held no interest in such trivialities.
Kaelen sat beside Seraphina, maintaining a silent, watchful vigil. Elian hoped—no, desperately wished—that they could continue in this frozen, uncomfortable tableau for another year, another season. That someday, this fraught moment would fade into nothing more than a vague, forgotten dream.
Another shift rippled through the court. Kaelen, who had once spent his evenings indulging in lavish, sometimes scandalous, courtly escapades, had seemingly curtailed his pursuits. From the whispers Elian overheard from Valerius’s retinue, it wasn’t that Kaelen had completely forsaken such diversions. But at least he no longer openly boasted of his conquests in the public halls, nor did the lingering scent of rich wines and forbidden perfumes cling to him. For Elian, that was some small mercy. He no longer had to endure the stench of Kaelen’s excesses so intimately.
“Still abstaining from your usual diversions, Kaelen? No more late-night carousing with the courtesans, eh?” Lord Theron, a boisterous young noble known for his crudity, swayed suggestively, his hands gesturing obscenely below his waist. Kaelen’s face twisted in disgust at the vulgar display. His eyes flicked to Seraphina’s rigid back before he bellowed, his voice echoing through the antechamber.
“You oaf! I told you to cease that vulgar chatter in public!”
“Why the sudden modesty, my lord?” Theron challenged, a leering grin on his face.
“Mention that again, Theron, and you’ll regret it,” Kaelen snarled, his hand resting menacingly on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger.
“But Kaelen—”
“I said, silence!”
“...As you wish, my lord.”
The others in Theron’s small circle were visibly disappointed. Kaelen, with his imposing stature and aura of dangerous maturity, had once been the perfect conduit for the prurient curiosities of young courtiers. These were not novices; they had all indulged in clumsy, ill-advised liaisons before. Compared to sheltered virgins, they were more easily titillated by Kaelen’s past exploits. With Kaelen no longer sharing his escapades, their attention shifted to Lord Valerius. Valerius merely bared his teeth in an expression of pure disdain.
“You filthy degenerates.”
“Ah, there he goes again! Valerius with his holier-than-thou pronouncements.”
“He’s just a fanatic. Honestly, such a waste.”
Laughter rippled through the room, loud and fleeting. Most of the young nobles in the group had ventured into forbidden territory at least once, but for some reason, Valerius had not. While they teased him good-naturedly, calling him a 'cloistered monk,' no one actually disrespected him. He was Lord Valerius, after all. At the same time, Valerius possessed a lighthearted, almost flippant attitude about everything, which made his actions seem casual and his cutting remarks easier to bear. People found this either charming or approachable, often commenting that his easy demeanor didn’t match his formidable reputation.
“Hush, you louts, stop gaping. You’ll provoke a scandal.”
“Indeed, Valerius has a rather severe countenance when he's displeased.”
“Do you imbeciles truly desire an impromptu fencing lesson?”
Valerius scowled, and the group burst into laughter, though nothing particularly humorous had been said. Some lesser courtiers lingering in the background, perhaps his acquaintances—or merely hangers-on—joined in with their obsequious chuckles, adding to the general din. Seated amongst them, Elian stared blankly at the polished marble floor, lost in thought.
He recalled with stark clarity that he had never felt a flicker of desire for a woman. By default, he supposed, that made him… different, from birth. He had felt arousal, certainly, when observing certain forbidden scrolls depicting both men and women, but never once had he fantasized about a woman’s form while in private contemplation. The former felt more about the forbidden intensity, the latter, a simple absence of true desire.
He had once been dragged by Kaelen to a private, decadent gathering in the merchant quarter, but Elian had not even made it past the entrance. He lacked the proper false credentials, and the thought of such debauchery filled him with revulsion. Instead, he waited outside until Kaelen returned. Brothels? Unthinkable. He couldn’t comprehend why anyone would willingly subject themselves to such squalor.
Because of all this, the courtiers in Kaelen’s circle jokingly referred to him as “Abstinent Elian.” In truth, his abstinence was less a choice and more a fundamental facet of his being, enforced by a profound, unspoken fear.
Elian let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. The others were too absorbed in Valerius’s sardonic wit to notice. Seizing the moment, Elian glanced at Kaelen, who sat in silent intensity, his gaze fixed on the back of Seraphina’s head as she diligently studied a scroll across the hall.
And, as always, Elian regretted it. Why had he looked? Why was he perpetually curious? To distract himself, he posed a pointless question to Valerius.
“So, are you truly committed to this celibate path until some distant, hypothetical marriage?”
Valerius, lounging in his chair as if it were an imperial throne, turned his head, his sharp eyes settling directly on Elian’s lap. His gaze was so persistent that Elian instinctively crossed his legs, shielding himself. What in the Empress’s name?
“You’re not my betrothed, Elian, so why the sudden interest? What, are you offering to break my vows?” Valerius’s lips curved into a malicious smirk. The others laughed, and Elian kicked Valerius sharply in the shin. Such was the monotonous rhythm of his days—over and over, the same cycle of discomfort and longing.
***
Alone in his private scriptorium, Elian often found himself lost in thought, contemplating all manner of convoluted scenarios. Inevitably, those thoughts sometimes drifted into strange, unsettling fantasies.
Today, he wondered what it would have been like if his affections had been captured by Lord Valerius instead of Lord Kaelen. It seemed, even in fantasy, a far less agonizing situation. If he had loved Valerius, he would not have had to endure the heartbreak caused by Kaelen’s messy, public dalliances.
Yet, even then, his heart would still ache. Neither Kaelen nor Valerius would ever return his feelings. But at least his soul wouldn't be tormented by the specter of Seraphina, the true object of Kaelen’s fixation.
This train of thought eventually led to familiar feelings of inferiority and impotent anger. In the end, he simply wished he could complete his imperial service swiftly and become an anonymous stranger to Lord Kaelen.
***
At some point, Elian had developed a peculiar habit: unconsciously placing his hands under his desk whenever he sat down in private. This began in his second year of scholarly training, and the cause was always the same—men. As he fiddled with the ornate buckle on his tunic, his thoughts drifted again. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint clicking sound of metal tapping against his nails filled the quiet room. Just as he applied pressure with his thumb to undo the buckle, a soft, polite knock sounded on his chamber door.
“Master Elian? Are you studying?” It was his junior aide, Jori, his voice barely audible through the thick oak.
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!” Elian nearly leaped from his chair. His heart seized. Today was clearly not the day. Mortified, he buried his face in his arms. Damn it.
***
Lately, Lord Kaelen’s behavior grated on Elian’s nerves, a constant, low thrum of irritation. Sometimes, when Seraphina’s gaze inadvertently flickered towards Elian, Kaelen would deliberately initiate conversation with her, his voice suddenly amplified. Seraphina, caught in the middle, would avert her eyes from Elian, her lips parting as if to speak, only to close them again. Then, as if wary of Kaelen’s looming presence, she would lower her head and answer in the faintest whisper.
“Y-yes, my lord…”
Just like that.
Seraphina subtly sought Elian’s presence more frequently, and had even started addressing him simply as “Elian.” Aside from a few close family members and mentors, almost no one in the court called him by his given name, so the change was remarkably noticeable. She seemed to think she was being discreet, but she was not. The worst part was how Kaelen couldn’t conceal his fierce discomfort whenever Seraphina dared to be so familiar.
“Seraphina, do not disturb Master Elian while he is engaged in his work.”
“What?” Her voice was barely a breath.
“I said, cease bothering him. Do you not understand my meaning?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, my lord…”
When Seraphina stammered and avoided his gaze, Kaelen immaturely slammed his fist against the leg of the heavy archive table beside him. Elian pretended not to notice, his calligraphy brush freezing mid-stroke. Annoyingly, oblivious Seraphina seemed to think no one cared about her calling him “Elian” anymore. She grew bolder, casually using it as if it were her right.
“Uh, Elian… my apologies for disturbing your concentration.”
Elian stiffened, staring at her in disbelief. Was she mad? Kaelen was seated mere feet away, his back rigid.
Sure enough, Kaelen pounded his fist on the table again. Damn it.
“Seraphina!” His voice was a whip crack.
“...My lord?”
The atmosphere soured instantly, thick with suppressed rage.
“I warned you.” Kaelen’s anger was blatant, unapologetic. “I told you not to call him ‘Elian,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…” Seraphina faltered.
“His name is Master Elian. Or Scribe Elian. Use his proper title.” His gaze turned sharp, almost predatory, as he looked directly at Elian, as if daring him to protest. Elian hated that look and instinctively lowered his head, pressing his stylus harder against the parchment. At that moment, Lord Valerius, seated beside him, casually draped an arm over Elian’s shoulder. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Elian’s ear, too quiet for Kaelen to overhear the exact words, but loud enough to signify defiance.
“Kaelen, if you persist in this folly, you will truly regret it.”
“What in the Abyss are you talking about, Valerius?” Kaelen’s eyes narrowed.
“I am merely suggesting you will come to rue your actions, my lord.” Valerius smirked, and Elian felt a flicker of irritation, for one reason only: Valerius's touch on his shoulder, though seemingly casual, was drawing even more attention. His throat felt tight. Kaelen's glare intensified, now split between Elian and Valerius. Elian swallowed hard, his heart a trapped bird in his chest.