A cool, metallic tang still lingered on Elian’s tongue, a phantom taste of Lyra’s fury. Yet, when he woke, Seraphin’s balm had worked its subtle magic. The angry puffiness along his cheek had receded, leaving only a faint discoloration, a bruise that could easily be dismissed as a clumsy bump against a low archway. It was manageable. A small mercy.
He dressed with meticulous care, each button fastened, each fold of his tunic smoothed. A cold knot tightened in his stomach as he thought of the day ahead. The relief was fleeting, eclipsed by a deeper unease.
Upon entering the Imperial Scriptorium, a palpable hush descended, thicker than usual. The air itself seemed to thrum with unspoken tension, stifling breath. Elian’s gaze swept the polished ranks of scribes, then sought the private alcove reserved for the Imperial family’s studies. Lyra’s usual seat lay empty.
Moments later, a stir at the grand entrance. Lyra, the Crown Princess, slipped in, skirting the edges of punctuality. Her usual radiant composure was gone, replaced by a strained pallor. A faint tremor ran through Elian. His breath caught.
Her lip was split, a thin, dark line marring its perfect curve. One eye, usually sharp and imperious, showed a faint, sickly bruise, just beginning to bloom. Elian, who had, in a fleeting moment of bitterness, wished her to share his pain, now felt a sickening wave of guilt. His stomach churned with self-loathing. He despised himself for the thought.
“The Serpent’s scales are showing,” a whisper rippled near him, swiftly silenced. Elian felt a shiver, a cold premonition.
Lyra moved hesitantly, her eyes darting like a trapped bird. She caught Elian’s gaze across the room, her expression locking into a startled grimace. For a long moment, she stared, then abruptly averted her face, shuffling to her designated desk. Her avoidance stung more than he expected, a fresh wound.
What had happened? Elian’s instincts, still raw from Lyra’s striking, screamed a warning. His eyes, almost without his conscious will, sought Prince Kaelen. The Prince, who had watched Lyra’s entry with a rigid, almost predatory stillness, now fixed his gaze on Elian. Kaelen’s eyes were narrowed, sharp as obsidian shards, promising retribution. The silent, seething fury in their depths made Elian’s throat clench. Damn it. He should have stayed hidden in his quarters.
Regret, sharp and bitter, welled within him. This entire court, a viper’s nest.
During the midday meal, Lyra, who once had commanded attention even in the refectory, vanished with Kaelen, leaving her peers to speculate in hushed tones. Elian, left to his own thoughts, found himself sitting opposite Seraphin.
Seraphin, ever the unburdened spirit, gnawed on a roasted bird leg, oblivious to the storm brewing in Elian’s mind. His cheerful chatter, though, was a strange comfort amidst the stifling air of the mess hall.
“It’s tense as the Emperor’s patience today,” Seraphin said, wiping grease from his chin with a napkin. “Felt like I was choking on my own nerves earlier.”
“You seemed fine raiding the confectioner’s stand yesterday,” Elian murmured, pushing a half-eaten tart around his plate.
“Give a man some credit. I sucked it up like a seasoned diplomat.” Seraphin winked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Though, those candied plums are meant to be sucked, after all.”
Elian delivered a light kick to Seraphin’s shin under the table, a familiar reprimand for his friend’s irreverence. Seraphin merely chuckled, rubbing his calf. He looked oddly sheepish for a moment, then shrugged, the fleeting expression gone. Elian wondered if he imagined it.
Life possessed a cruel, capricious humor. Elian had never intended to befriend Seraphin. In fact, he found the man’s flippant mannerisms irritating. Yet, here he was, closer to Seraphin than anyone else in the Courts. Seraphin’s lightheartedness, his utter refusal to take anything too seriously, provided a strange ballast against the crushing weight of court intrigue.
He used to resent those very qualities, dismissing Seraphin as shallow. Now, he leaned on them. Without Seraphin, Elian knew he would drown in the currents of the court. Had his previous loyalty to Lyra remained unbroken, he might never have recognized this silent, profound need.
After that day, Kaelen began subtly distancing Lyra from the usual gatherings of young nobility. Sometimes, they would disappear to the training grounds or the arcane libraries. Other times, Kaelen would gather a few junior courtiers, and Lyra would be with them. A few, like Lysander, looked uneasy when asked to join, shaking their heads with a troubled gaze.
One afternoon, Elian crossed paths with Lysander near the stables, far from the central court. Lysander, trying to avoid a disgruntled stable master, confided in Elian. Kaelen, he said, had been ordering others to engage Lyra in ‘sparring matches’ or ‘intellectual debates’ that inevitably left her humiliated, sometimes with minor cuts or bruises. Lysander’s face twisted in disgust. He quickly added he had been avoiding Kaelen’s coterie lately because of it, then mumbled he was off to the Imperial Menagerie with Valerius, and that Elian shouldn’t misunderstand his words. He left abruptly.
Valerius, once close to Kaelen during their earliest days in the Scriptorium, had drifted after being assigned to a different court division. Now, he seemed to keep his distance.
Lunchtime saw Elian and Seraphin escape to a quiet garden alcove, sharing sugared pastries and chilled cordials purchased from a vendor. The sweet chill soothed Elian’s tongue, but a bitter knot remained, tightening in his chest. He held his expression neutral, unwilling to betray the turmoil within.
“Is that good?” Seraphin asked, eyeing Elian’s pastry, his own half-eaten.
“Try it.” Elian, in half-mockery, offered a bite. Seraphin, without a flicker of hesitation, grinned, lifted one corner of his lip, and took a large, deliberate mouthful.
“Hey! Did you truly?” Elian gasped, feigning outrage.
“You bade me.” Seraphin shrugged, chewing with gusto. “And it was but one bite.”
Seraphin’s easy smile, the clear autumn light filtering through the garden leaves—it was a moment of unexpected peace. Elian looked at him, then beyond, to the distant spires of the Imperial Palace. Where were Lyra and Kaelen now? He could conjure a few possibilities, but he did not go looking. Perhaps, he feared what he might find.
He tried to push thoughts of Lyra from his mind. But the harder he tried, the more her image, her battered face, asserted itself. How long would it take to dismantle a devotion, a respect cultivated since childhood? How much effort would it demand? He did not know. It felt like wandering a vast, trackless desert, not just sad, but suffocating, terrifying.
Sometimes, he retreated into himself. Like a scribe struggling to discern the true ink from a forgery, he stepped back, trying to make sense of the increasingly convoluted power plays. When it became too much, he would occasionally speak with Seraphin. And, for now, that was enough.
Suddenly, Elian broke the quiet.
“Seraphin.”
“Hm?” Seraphin hummed, wiping his hands on a napkin.
“...Do you believe flowers can bloom in a barren desert?” The words felt foolish, too emotional for the reserved courtier he was supposed to be. He scratched his head, embarrassed. Seraphin, however, did not mock him.
“They will,” Seraphin said, his voice surprisingly firm.
“...”
“They must. Life’s a shifty beast already.”
Hearing such an earnest conviction from Seraphin, a man Elian considered incapable of profound thought, a strange sense of futility washed over him. How much more time before he could surrender these meaningless, persistent feelings? “...Aye. Life is shifty.”
Lyra. That stubborn, foolish Princess. Why did she seem intent on destroying the fervent, almost filial loyalty he had once offered? Lyra, who seemed to have abandoned all the delicate protocols of a high-born noble, now came and went as Kaelen pleased. And always, by Kaelen’s side, was Lyra.
As the situation grew increasingly suspicious, the Scriptorium buzzed with uneasy murmurs. It became clear: Kaelen’s subtle cruelty was escalating. A fog of resentment toward Kaelen, slow and insidious, began to spread through the junior ranks. None of it felt good.
So, when Elian saw Kaelen dragging Lyra by the wrist down a secluded corridor leading to the lower archives, he stopped. He watched them, alternating his gaze between Kaelen’s grim face and Lyra’s downcast one, before finally speaking.
“The Emperor has noted your recent absences from courtly duties, Prince Kaelen.” It was a calculated lie. Kaelen was not close to his Imperial father, so he might not know. And even if he did, Elian could always argue that at this rate, the Emperor *would* indeed have plenty to worry about. He always left himself an escape route.
“If censure must fall, let it fall only upon you. What has Princess Lyra done to merit this?” Elian’s voice, though quiet, carried an unexpected steel. He felt the words resonate with a subtle truth, a faint tremor in his nascent magical sense, confirming his moral conviction.
“Move, scribe.” The moment Elian mentioned Lyra’s name, Kaelen’s gaze locked onto him, a tangible pressure like a physical blow. Elian’s chest tightened, a suffocating weight. He hated this feeling, this powerlessness.
Lyra, on the verge of tears, clung to Kaelen, her voice a reedy whisper. “K-Kaelen, please.” She tried to stop him. Only then did Kaelen pause, his eyes fixed solely on Lyra. Elian saw only the back of Kaelen’s head as he turned away from him.
“As I said, your Imperial Father—”
Lyra, her face streaked with silent tears, tightened her grip on Kaelen, pleading. Watching that pitiful scene unfold, Lyra’s despair so raw, was unbearable. It was so excruciating, Elian closed his eyes. When he opened them, Kaelen looked at Lyra, then turned and walked back into the Scriptorium, dragging Lyra with him. For the rest of the day, they stayed within its walls, a chilling echo of past weeks.
—
The day of the Imperial Delegation had arrived, a journey to inspect the burgeoning trade routes along the Serpent’s Spine. A fleet of ornate sky-skimmers, normally reserved for high-ranking officials, had been chartered. While a few grumbled about young nobility being pulled from their studies, most were excited by the chance to escape the palace for a full day. There was no need to pack provisions; they would return before dusk. The chaperoning tutors gave only perfunctory warnings before releasing them.
It wasn’t like their academy days. There was no giddy excitement keeping Elian awake. He viewed it as just another assignment: depart without a satchel, return without a satchel. He had no idea this day would be the catalyst for his carefully bottled frustration to finally shatter. He had expected the inevitable, but not so suddenly.
Historically, whenever courtly journeys occurred, Elian had always found his place beside Lyra, a silent, trusted presence. He hadn’t even considered where Seraphin would sit, having never shared such a formal journey with him. He had been wary, at first, of Seraphin claiming the bench closest to Lyra. In hindsight, such a thought felt pathetic. Neither Elian nor Seraphin would occupy that space.
When they arrived at the embarkation platform, Elian ascended the ramp of their assigned skimmer. The rear benches were already claimed by a boisterous group of young nobles, including Lysander, who waved and then hesitated, his hand pointing vaguely toward Lyra’s usual seat.
“Elian! There’s a space here!” Lysander called out.
“Right.” Elian murmured, though he didn’t move. He had always been the one beside Lyra. But today, a strange hesitancy rooted him to the spot as he approached her customary bench. He sighed, a quiet exhalation of relief, when he saw the space beside her still empty. Swallowing hard, a flicker of stubborn resolve ignited within him.
It was his place. His pride, the last shard of dignity he clung to, compelled him to claim it. Even after Lyra had struck him, even after Kaelen’s veiled threats, a deep-seated loyalty lingered, a ghost of what had been.
He nervously touched the polished backrest for a moment, glancing around the half-filled skimmer, then quietly asked, “Princess, this seat—”
“That place is taken. Seek another, Scribe.” Lyra cut him off, her voice flat, her gaze fixed on the entrance. Following her line of sight, Elian saw Kaelen timidly making his way aboard. Elian’s fists clenched. He swallowed the bitter words burning his tongue.
“Very well.” He forced indifference into his tone, though his heart felt as if it had been shredded by a thousand tiny blades.
He quickly retreated from the bench, scanning the skimmer. He found an empty space near Seraphin’s cohort, directly opposite his friend. Relieved, he rushed over, sinking onto the padded bench, and spoke without waiting for a response. “Seraphin, share this bench with me.”
No answer came. When Elian looked closer, Seraphin was already deep in slumber, head lolling against the gridded viewport. He always seemed to doze in the early hours, and today was no exception. His head bounced gently with every subtle tremor of the skimmer. Shaking his head at Seraphin’s ridiculous posture, Elian shoved his rigid scroll-case between Seraphin’s head and the cold metal frame. He leaned back into the uncomfortable seat.
Across the narrow aisle, he caught a glimpse of dark, lustrous hair. It was Lyra’s, unmistakable among the varied hues of the court. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but Kaelen was now seated beside her, their silhouettes framed by the skimmer’s elegant arch. The tableau, silent and distant, filled Elian with a cold, desperate despair.