Two days later, a small, tightly folded note found its way into the daily ledger I was meticulously preparing for the Crown’s Seal. Its parchment felt coarse under my thumb, an unusual texture for official missives. I almost dismissed it as a misplaced scrap. But then I saw the hurried, almost spidery hand. Kaelen's. My heart gave a small, unpleasant lurch.
“Elian, could you meet me in the Lower Gardens’ abandoned pavilion before the evening meal today?”
I stared at the words, the ink a deep, almost bruised purple. A summons, then. Not a request. My mind immediately conjured the image of Kaelen, his disfigured hand reaching for mine, his dramatic pronouncements. The thought of any illicit meeting, let alone one with Kaelen, sent a shiver of dread down my spine. Such gatherings were ripe for misinterpretation, for gossip to fester and coil through the Court like a viper.
I crumpled the note, then smoothed it out again. Ignoring it felt like a risk, perhaps greater than attending. Kaelen, in his current state, seemed capable of anything. Forgetting the note would be a grave error. I tucked it into a secret fold of my tunic, the parchment scratching against my skin, a constant reminder of the impending discomfort.
Later, as the sun began its slow descent, painting the marble halls in hues of rose and gold, I made my way to the Lower Gardens. My steps were light, almost imperceptible against the gravel path, a habit honed from years of trying to be unnoticed. The air was cool, carrying the scent of late-blooming jasmine and the damp earth. An abandoned pavilion, once a place of courtly dalliance, now stood in a state of quiet decay, its intricate carvings worn, its roof sagging slightly. It was, as I had suspected, the perfect place for discretion—and for shadows.
Kaelen stood amidst the skeletal remains of what was once a water feature, his back to me. His hunched form, draped in loose silks, looked fragile, almost swallowed by the encroaching twilight. A low, anxious hum emanated from him. He turned at the sound of my approach, his face a pale mask of apprehension, eyes darting, unsure.
“Elian. You came.”
His voice was a reedy whisper, barely audible above the rustle of leaves. He fidgeted, his gnarled fingers picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. An almost imperceptible shudder ran through him. I kept my expression neutral, betraying none of the irritation that tightened my chest. My stomach, always a barometer for my unease, churned with a familiar acidic burn.
“You asked for me, Kaelen.” I kept my tone clipped, formal. “What is it you wished to discuss?”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He seemed to shrink further into himself, his gaze sweeping the deserted pavilion as if expecting unseen eyes. This hesitant dance was maddening. I wanted to be gone. The longer I stayed, the greater the chance of discovery, of my name becoming entangled with his in the whispers that were the true currency of the Court. I could feel the invisible threads of gossip already beginning to weave around us, tightening, suffocating.
“Ah, I… I have something. Something important.” Kaelen’s words were a breathy exhalation. He wrung his hands, his head bowed. “I… I wanted to say…”
His voice trailed off, lost in the gathering dusk. I watched him, my irritation mounting. I had never quite understood Kaelen, or the intensity of his fixations. Now, caught in his orbit, I merely found his presence—and his silences—unbearable. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, a fish out of water. This might seem innocent to another, perhaps even endearing. But to me, it was a torment. My head throbbed with the day's accumulated anxieties, a tangled mess of ledgers and political minutiae.
“Look, Kaelen, I truly must return to my duties. Can you simply say what you need to say?” My voice, though low, carried an edge.
Perhaps it wasn't Kaelen I was truly angry with. Perhaps I merely sought an outlet for the constant, gnawing fear that permeated my days. Lately, the oppressive atmosphere of the Court had settled upon me like a physical weight. My stomach clenched, threatening to erupt.
As I wrestled with my own turmoil, Kaelen finally seemed to steel himself. His small frame straightened almost imperceptibly. He opened his mouth to speak, a raw, vulnerable sound escaping.
“Elian… I… you see, I…”
“Yes?” I replied, my voice sharper than intended. My fingers dug into my palm. The evening meal bell would ring soon. I imagined forcing the words from his throat, just to be free.
Just then, the pavilion's entrance, shrouded in twilight, was suddenly filled. A figure, silhouetted against the last vestiges of twilight, stood there. Both Kaelen and I turned, and our gazes met the sharp, cold eyes of Lyra. She was not gasping for breath, nor had she been running. She simply existed, a force of nature, her presence chilling the air. Her eyes, narrowed and predatory, were fixed on Kaelen, then flickered to me.
Lyra stepped into the pavilion, her silk robes rustling, her movements precise and deliberate. Her gaze swept over us, taking in the scene. A frown, sharp and elegant, marred her perfect features.
“What are you doing here with him?” Her voice was a low murmur, yet it held the undeniable weight of a royal command. Her hands, adorned with heavy rings, clenched and unclenched at her sides. My blood ran cold.
Beneath my outward composure, a frantic rhythm beat against my ribs. After a tense silence, Lyra finally settled her burning gaze on me. I couldn’t bear the intensity, the unspoken accusation. It was a look that stripped away all pretense, all dignity.
“What is the meaning of this, Lyra?” My voice, I noted, did not tremble.
*Please, Lyra. Do not look at me like that.* Blame Kaelen. He had summoned me. Why cast such a resentful shadow upon me, a loyal and diligent scribe, one who merely followed a summons? I was but a victim of his strange whims.
Even as I pleaded silently, Lyra’s eyes, full of a fierce, possessive anger, remained fixed on mine. I knew those weren’t the eyes of mere concern. They burned with a rage, a jealousy, a madness I had only glimpsed before. It was the face of a woman deranged by some twisted affection for her brother—a sight I found both terrifying and pitiable.
“Why are you here with him, Elian!” Her voice rose, though still tightly controlled.
You look pathetic, Lyra. So pathetic. I wanted to scream the words, but they caught in my throat. I glared back, matching her intensity. Yet, in that moment, I realized the truly pathetic one wasn’t her. It was me.
Without warning, Lyra’s long stride brought her directly before me. The moment her face filled my vision, the world spun. A sharp, stinging blow landed on my cheek. My head snapped back.
“…!”
I couldn’t process it. My body toppled, my balance lost. Only as I hit the ground did my mind replay the impossible, horrifying event.
“No… she didn’t…”
She struck me. Lyra had struck me.
Lying on the cold stone, I brought a trembling hand to my cheek. A blossoming pain radiated across my face. It was unthinkable. A Royal, striking a common scribe. The humiliation, the injustice, scalded me.
“L-Lyra!” Kaelen cried out, a high-pitched sound of horror. He stumbled towards me, but Lyra screamed like a banshee, her carefully maintained composure finally shattering.
“You promised! You swore you wouldn’t! Damn you both!” Her fury was a palpable thing, a storm unleashed.
Kaelen recoiled, his face ghostly pale, tears beginning to well. He was not the one who should be crying. I was.
Tears pricked at my own eyes, threatening to spill. Before I could break down entirely, Lyra cursed violently. She seized Kaelen’s arm, her grip surely bruising, and dragged him away, disappearing back into the deepening twilight. It happened so quickly, a blur of motion and raw emotion.
Left alone, I sat on the cold stone, staring at the empty entrance. Moonlight, weak and watery, began to filter through the gaps in the pavilion’s roof. Something inside me finally fractured. The dam holding back my own fear and humiliation burst. Hot, silent tears streamed down my face.
I hated everything. Kaelen, who had dragged me into this wretched confrontation. Lyra, who had struck me. I wished them both to simply vanish. I felt wretched, reduced to a mere pawn in their twisted, incomprehensible drama.
I pushed myself up, my cheek throbbing. The evening meal would be starting soon, but my duties were far from my mind. Instead, I sought out my superior, the Master Archivist. My swollen, reddened face made my excuse — a sudden, severe migraine — believable. His stern expression softened with a rare flicker of concern, and he dismissed me for the evening without further inquiry.
***
Back in my cramped chambers, I collapsed onto my cot and slept a fitful, dream-haunted sleep. When I awoke, my face felt puffy, a dull ache pulsing beneath my eye. Out of habit, I reached for the slate-tablet I used for personal notes, then paused. The last time I had received a message was a curt directive from the Head Scribe. I certainly didn’t expect one now. My fingers hovered. What if it was news of a formal inquiry? Of punishment?
Then, a faint shimmer of light from the small, rarely used scrying-orb on my writing desk caught my eye. A message had been left. Not by the Court’s usual couriers. I tapped the orb, and a familiar name materialized in shimmering script: Seraphin. He was a clerk from the Treasury, a minor noble of a lesser house, known for his sharp wit and even sharper political antennae. We rarely conversed, save for the occasional formal exchange regarding financial ledgers. *Why him?* His name, I knew, was often mentioned in proximity to Lyra’s circle. *Damn it all.* If it were anyone else, I might have ignored it. But Seraphin held a certain influence, a web of connections I couldn’t afford to offend.
“You vanished from the Scriptorium without a trace. What happened, Elian?” The message was direct, three hours old.
I clicked my tongue, my jaw tight. I needed to reply. I needed to control the narrative. “Haha, I wasn’t feeling well.” I chose my words carefully, keeping them light, dismissive. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing. The humiliation of being struck, of being so utterly powerless, particularly by Lyra, was a secret I would carry to my grave. And all because of Kaelen.
Seraphin’s reply materialized almost instantly. “Are you well now? A sudden fever?”
Concern. From Seraphin? A strange, unnerving sensation. I dismissed the orb, unable to stomach the unexpected inquiry.
Hours later, a wave of profound sadness washed over me. Other colleagues, minor scribes who shared my work, had sent formal inquiries through the messenger service, expressing concern over my sudden departure. But none of their messages were what I truly wanted. No formal inquiry from the Royal Guard. No summons from the Crown. No one searching for *me* to offer apologies. Not Lyra. I must be mad. Yet, I consoled myself, thinking this was the cruel fate of those consumed by a madness of their own—Lyra’s madness, in this case.
Even knowing the bitter truth, I lay there like an idiot, doing what I did best—closing my eyes and turning a blind eye to the stark reality.
“…I’m not the only one,” I whispered to the dark. Perhaps Kaelen and I were, in some strange, twisted way, alike. That grotesque thought lingered, a selfish, wicked, childish hope entwined within it.
As I lay staring at the ceiling, another message appeared in the scrying-orb, its light flickering insistently. This one from an unknown sender. The glyphs were clumsily formed, almost childish.
“Elian, are you very sick?”
I frowned. Who among my peers would forgo proper address? Seraphin? But this was not his elegant script. Before I could ponder further, a follow-up message materialized, relentless and infuriating.
“I’m sorry. Truly sorry. It’s all because of me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please, forgive me.”
Whether it was three words or five, each one grated against my frayed nerves. I hurled the scrying-orb onto the padded floor in frustration. How had this… this broken noble, supposedly confined, managed to send me a message? And how did he know my private orb’s frequency?
Then it dawned on me. *Oh.* I had called upon him, hadn’t I? In the infirmary, with Lyra present, I had given him my attention, a sliver of my time. My idiotic brain. I let out an angry sigh. To vent my frustration, I punched the mattress repeatedly until my arm ached, until I was too tired to continue, and eventually fell back into a restless sleep. Just before my thoughts completely faded, one last message lingered in my mind, the crude glyphs burned into my vision.
“Please, don’t hate me.”
Funny. I’ve already hated you for months.
The next morning, when I finally stirred, my face felt tight, swollen like a risen dough.
***
I did not report for my duties. No matter how diligently I strove to be the model scribe, I wasn’t so enamored with my ledgers that I would appear in the Scriptorium with a face like this.
The palace servant, a wizened woman named Maeve, brought my midday meal. She set a bowl of spiced gruel and a plate of steamed greens before me, her expression unreadable save for a subtle tightening around her lips. “Young master Elian, you must be more careful.” Her scolding was gentle, but clear. I swallowed the bland meal quickly, not bothering to chew properly.
As I set down my spoon and reached for a cup of water, Maeve returned to clear the dishes. Plate in one hand, she said, “Elian, you have a visitor.”
“What?” My voice was hoarse.
“Shall I admit them?”
A visitor. My heart fluttered, a wild, unexpected surge. Before I could even identify the emotion, my mind had already begun to construct a fantasy. *Could it be… Lyra?*
It seemed a foolish, impossible dream, yet it wasn’t entirely so. Few outside the Scriptorium knew the location of my modest chambers. Of those, only a handful were of a standing to simply appear unannounced. If it were her, she must have come to apologize, after her fury had cooled, after guilt had finally found purchase in her heart. Lyra had never struck me before. Never. Yes, she must have been worried, upset by her own actions. She must have realized the gravity of her transgression.
“Yes, please, admit them.”
The fantasy solidified into a certainty. Even though I chastised myself for such foolish hope, a small, irrational sense of satisfaction bloomed within me. Despite everything, I was still important to her in some way. That thought, treacherous as it was, filled me with an inexplicable warmth. I quickly turned toward my door, my pace quickening with an excitement I loathed.
But the person Maeve ushered in was not Lyra.
“Elian, look at you.” A sharp-featured face, belonging to Seraphin, greeted me with a wry, almost pitying smirk. He held a small, elegantly wrapped parcel. As soon as his eyes fell upon my bruised face, his smile vanished. His tone, usually laced with playful sarcasm, grew unnervingly serious.
“What in the Serpent’s coils happened to your face?”
My knees almost buckled from the sudden, crushing disappointment. How did Seraphin even know where my chambers were? The humiliation, fresh and raw, resurfaced.
“I… I tripped,” I mumbled, my voice flat.
Seraphin’s brows furrowed, his lips twisting in that way he always did before delivering a pointed remark. “You really are a clumsy fool, aren’t you?”
I didn’t bother to argue. I merely rubbed my swollen cheek, a dull ache throbbing. Shame surged, hot and unpleasant, as I recalled my earlier, idiotic anticipation. I was a fool. Lyra did not think of me as someone important. And here I was, wagging my tail like a hopeful stray—like a complete imbecile.
“Here. This might help.” Seraphin held out the parcel. I accepted it mechanically, peeling back the silk. Inside lay a small jar of soothing balm, fragrant with crushed herbs, and a small, exquisitely carved sugar confection, shaped like a miniature serpent.
“Green tea and mint… for swelling.” I murmured, my voice devoid of emotion.
“Is it? Didn’t even notice.”
“Figures. Why would you care?”
“Damn, Elian, that’s harsh.” He shrugged, unbothered. “What are you even doing cooped up here?”
“What do you think? Resting.”
“Resting with a face like that? Came to check on you. Mind if I come in fully?”
“Hey, wait!”
Without an invitation, his long legs carried him further into my small, private space. He strode past my cot, towards the small writing desk, inspecting my meager belongings with a casual air that felt like an invasion.
“Where is your Scriptorium ledger? I wished to consult it.”
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Where else? There’s nowhere else to go in your chambers.”
I had no retort. He was right. Chambers, like houses, were all the same. Feeling awkward and exposed, I followed Seraphin, who seemed intent on cataloging every detail of my private world. My face still throbbed, a constant reminder of Kaelen, Lyra, and my own profound vulnerability.