A leaden weight pressed upon Lysander’s eyelids. Awareness returned in fragments: the silken coolness of his bedsheets, the faint scent of polished ancient wood in his private chambers, and a profound, throbbing ache radiating from his temples, down his jaw, and into the sinews of his neck. Even in the shadowed veil of semi-consciousness, he must have instinctively locked the heavy oak door. The subtle arcane ward he’d instinctively woven around his space shimmered faintly against his internal perception, a fragile barrier. He lay still, blinking against the encroaching light of morning filtering through the enchanted panes.
“Remarkable,” he murmured, the word a raspy echo in the suffocating quiet, “even in this dissolution.”
His entire visage pulsed with a dull, insistent rhythm. He lifted the hand that felt least encumbered. His shoulder protested, a sharp, grinding pain echoing the sensation of rust-seized joints. A soft moan escaped him, barely audible.
“Ah, gods…”
Tentative fingers brushed against his skin, encountering tender swells, unnaturally hardened beneath the surface. After a prolonged moment, he braced his palm against the mattress, pushing himself upright with an arduous groan.
Seated on the edge of the bed, he stared blankly at the opposing wall, the intricate runic carvings blurring before his eyes. A raw, guttural sob tore itself from his throat, a whimpering sound that clawed its way into the stillness. His voice felt flayed, as though his vocal cords had been abraded by sharp crystal shards.
An incandescent surge of anger, cold and desolate, propelled him from the bed. He began to sweep objects from his writing desk – rolls of parchment, arcane foci, delicate quills – sending them scattering across the polished floorboards. He cried, a desolate, silent rage consuming him, until his strength gave out, and he sank back onto the floor amidst the scattered remnants of his scholarly pursuits. His mouth clamped shut, eyes squeezed tight, yet defiant tears welled, tracing hot paths down his cheeks as his sobs hitched, ragged and painful.
“Confound it!”
His spirit yearned for oblivion, for the utter cessation of this crushing burden. But it was the indelible stain of the previous night, the memory of his utter helplessness, that truly made him wish for dissolution.
The window had been firmly sealed, the sound-dampening charms meticulously applied. Yet, had anyone heard? Could the subtle tremor of his humiliation have pierced the layers of his arcane defenses? *Damn Eldrin. Damn Caius.* Why had they sought him out? Why had they—or rather, *he*— allowed this degradation to be visited upon his person, to tear at the carefully constructed edifice of his academic decorum?
“…Damn it all.”
What Caius had trampled, perhaps with Eldrin’s chillingly passive observance, was not merely Lysander’s physical form – it was his very pride, his standing, his diligently cultivated image of intellectual might. That humiliation, far deeper than any of Caius’s past sneers or Eldrin’s veiled barbs, was a wound so profound it brought forth this visceral, anguished cry.
Yet, even in the throes of this devastating vulnerability, a part of Lysander remained rigidly aware, agonizing over how he might appear to others. This was one such moment. The oppressive silence of his chambers suddenly registered, sharp and accusatory. He ceased his ragged breathing, glancing at the chronometer discreetly embedded in the wall. The hour neared eight bells.
A chilling thought pierced the fog of his despair: if Magister Thorne’s personal aide, tasked with daily chamber checks, were to discover him thus, it would spell utter ruin. A cold dread seeped into his bones.
His mind, ever pragmatic even in distress, cleared with startling speed. He could not, *would not*, allow anyone to witness him in this pathetic, disgraced state. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the overturned furniture, gathering the scattered scrolls and quills, tucking them beneath his bed. Then, he sat, feigning a studious posture, awaiting the inevitable, perfunctory knock.
It came a few minutes later, precisely on schedule. He spoke, his voice strained but surprisingly steady.
“Enter not. I believe I have contracted a potent chill. My constitution feels compromised. I shall forgo the morning’s lessons.”
The aide’s voice, muffled through the heavy door, was tinged with concern. “Indeed, Master Thorne? Perhaps the infirmary?”
Lysander swallowed a bitter taste that bloomed on his tongue. “I shall consult a Healer later, if the malaise persists.”
“Very well. Would you desire a tonic, or a light broth left outside your door?”
“Only if it is no imposition, Master Ren. My gratitude.”
“It is no trouble, young lord. Endeavor to feel better.”
Lysander decided to absent himself from the Aurelian Academy’s demanding schedule. He was in no fit state to attend, and the very thought of facing the scrutinizing gazes of his peers churned his stomach.
Thankfully, a phial of soothing balm, a common remedy for minor sprains from late-night research or dueling practice, lay on his bedside table. He uncorked it, slathering the cooling unguent over the tender swell of his jaw and the bruised hollow of his shoulder, praying desperately for the physical pain to recede. The phial slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering softly onto the floor.
His entire form shivered, an uncontrollable tremor. But deeper than the physical pain, sharper than any bruise, was the searing humiliation. It felt as though tiny, cruel needles were pinching his very soul. It was absurd. To conceal his tear-streaked visage, he drew the heavy, enchanted draperies across the window, plunging the chamber into a false twilight. He burrowed deep beneath the silken blankets, seeking refuge. The only thing that offered even a fleeting shield against the crushing despair was the weighty comfort of the covers.
*I must sleep. I must.* Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated a litany: *It will be fine. Magister Thorne does not know. Caius is too proud to boast of such an ignoble confrontation. It will be fine.*
With that desperate thought, he buried himself deeper under the quilted folds.
–––
In truth, it was not fine at all.
Hidden beneath the blanket, he muttered words that clung bitterly to the tip of his tongue. To any entity, to the ancient deities of the Dominion, to the very stones of Aurelian, he wanted to scream it aloud, like a waterfall pouring over a precipice.
*Please. It was Caius. Caius struck me. He defiled me. That erratic scion. Caius is deranged. He is unhinged. Merely because of Eldrin, he… after everything, after the expectations, the… he crushed it. He crushed my composure, my very essence, perhaps before Eldrin’s chillingly calm eyes. I am an imbecile. I revealed such a pathetic facet of myself. And the thought that someone might have witnessed it all…*
He abruptly halted his frantic mental cascade. A wave of searing self-loathing surged, threatening to drown him. He yearned for an end to this crushing reality.
The most agonizing part was what he did *after* the tears had finally subsided beneath the blanket. The first thing he did, a panicked, desperate act, was to scour his arcane-encrypted communication ledger, deleting every encrypted missive and ephemeral call record from the previous night, particularly those from Eldrin. Then, in a rush of cold dread, he manipulated the subtle scrying-wards around his chambers, clearing any residual magical echoes or lingering visual imprints from the early morning hours. That night had become something he could not bear for anyone to know, a shameful secret he could not allow to see the light of day, or the scrutiny of magical perception.
–––
Lysander excused himself from the academy for three full days. Despite the harrowing ordeal, his physical constitution, well-nourished by the finest Dominion fare, began its slow, inevitable mending. Perhaps it was because he’d managed to shield the most visible areas, or perhaps his underlying arcane resilience wasn’t as negligible as he’d feared. Either way, the visible injuries were minimal—just a few dark bruises concealed beneath the high collar of his tunic, with nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself in his chambers, alternating between periods of anguished weeping and desperate, unfocused research. He ignored every single mental message and magical summons.
He had hoped to maintain his seclusion until he was fully recovered, but fortune, fickle as ever, was not on his side. Magister Thorne, his esteemed patron and a distant kinsman, who had been absent on official duties, unexpectedly returned. Lysander had no choice but to confront him.
“...Lysander, what has transpired with your visage?”
“Oh, well…”
“Did you engage in a physical altercation? I was informed you were afflicted by a chill.”
As Magister Thorne’s questions rained down, sharp and incisive, Lysander scrambled to conjure a convincing explanation.
“Ah, Magister, I was indeed feeling… unwell. A friend kindly offered to retrieve a specific arcane text for me from the restricted archives…”
“And?”
“And I… encountered an unforeseen magical backlash en route to collect it.”
“A backlash? What manner of arcane mishap leaves a scholar’s face thus? Which theory were you testing?” Magister Thorne’s voice, usually a measured baritone, sharpened. Lysander waved his hands frantically, attempting to quell his kinsman’s rising concern.
“No, truly, Magister, I wish to cause no undue alarm. It was not a grievous incident. A minor miscalculation, easily remedied. The spell’s volatility was simply… underestimated.”
“Come, explain—why did you engage with such an untested theory without proper supervision?”
“…Well…”
After a brief, desperate pause, he offered a half-truth, a pathetic but plausible excuse for his scholarly persona.
“It involved a nascent theory on inter-dimensional resonant frequencies… and I was attempting to verify a particularly audacious hypothesis regarding temporal displacement of thought-forms. A youthful, overly ambitious endeavor, I confess.”
“What?”
Surprisingly, his ridiculous, academic-sounding explanation seemed to diffuse the situation. Magister Thorne let out a sigh of disbelief, then a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “My boy, are you attempting to rewrite the very laws of chronomancy in your chambers?”
“No, Magister…”
“Endeavor to exercise greater caution. Such pursuits are best undertaken with a proper warding circle and a qualified overseer.”
“...I shall, Magister.”
It also helped that his injuries, though painful, were not as disfiguring as they might have been. Thankfully, the incident, at least in the Magister’s eyes, blew over.
Something unsettling did transpire, however. As they shared a somber repast in the Magister’s private study, his kinsman abruptly brought up Caius Vesper.
“By the by, Lysander, are you still closely associated with young Vesper these days?”
“What?”
“He doesn’t seem to grace the common rooms with your company as frequently.”
For someone whose own time within the academy was often less than half, what could he possibly be curious about? The mere mention of Caius Vesper forced the volatile noble’s image into Lysander’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back with an irritable tone, his composure fraying.
“It remains as it always has.”
*The same, my ass. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.* He felt such a profound shame and humiliation, he wished for the earth to swallow him whole.
“Did not another young lord visit your chambers recently? The chamber warder mentioned a notable presence. Are you becoming more closely acquainted with this other companion?”
Lysander’s body stiffened. Slowly, his gaze drifted towards the door, picturing the diligent warder, Master Ren, who would be silently clearing the adjoining antechamber. A cold chill snaked through his spine. Had Ren overheard? Could he have perceived any of the anguish, any of the sounds that night? Was it possible the warder’s keen senses, attuned to subtle magical fluctuations, had detected the raw emotional energy emanating from his chambers?
“Lysander? Is something amiss?”
Startled by Magister Thorne’s gentle query, Lysander blurted out a response without true consideration.
“Yes. We are… indeed, becoming acquainted.” This referred, of course, to Lord Kaelen, his most recent, unsettling associate.
What else did Magister Thorne say after that? Lysander could not recall. The sheer terror that rooted him to the spot, a primal fear of exposure, wiped everything else from his mind. What he did remember was the subtle, almost imperceptible shift in Magister Thorne’s expression when he mentioned Caius Vesper. It was the kind of look one reserved for the delivery of disquieting tidings.
*Why?*
That thought propelled him further into a spiral of dread. His fingers grew cold, trembling. *No. Master Ren could not have heard. The warder’s quarters are distant, and the arcane sound-dampening spells were robust. He could not have discerned anything distinct.* But why? Why did it feel as though something was profoundly, irrevocably *wrong*? All he could do was offer silent supplications to the ancient, indifferent deities of the Dominion.
Three more days elapsed, and Magister Thorne began to gently but firmly urge Lysander’s return to his academic duties. Lysander absolutely did not wish to. But if he continued to absent himself, his kinsman would surely suspect a deeper problem than a mere arcane mishap. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced himself to adopt a facade of serene scholarly diligence. There was nothing amiss with him.
The days leading up to his return were filled with endless anxiety about what he would do if he encountered Caius Vesper or Eldrin. Would Caius erupt again? Would Eldrin somehow orchestrate a public humiliation, perhaps in the very halls of their shared studies? Would they continue to trample on his carefully guarded dignity as if he were naught but dust beneath their expensive boots?
The very thought turned his stomach to churning acid.
When he finally arrived at Aurelian Academy, the grand archways seeming to mock his internal turmoil, he hung his satchel on the side of his designated desk in the common study hall, scattering a few arcane scrolls atop it. Then he settled into his seat, staring blankly at the polished desk surface as the hallway clamor gradually swelled. As soon as he discerned the approaching cadence of familiar footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning profound concentration, or perhaps, sleep.
If he pretended to be lost in thought, or even slumbering, perhaps no one would notice the lingering disarray of his face. At least, not for a while. But he had failed to account for one crucial detail: the scholar assigned to the desk directly behind him was Lord Kaelen. Kaelen was precisely the sort of noble who possessed an unnerving ability to read the unspoken currents of a room, yet frequently chose to act with a blithe, unsettling disregard for social niceties.
As soon as Kaelen arrived, he paused beside Lysander’s desk. A hand, surprisingly deft, slipped between Lysander’s shoulder and neck, tilting his face upwards with firm fingers. Lysander had no time, no capacity, to resist. He was forced to reveal his bruised and still-tender visage. Kaelen’s dark gaze narrowed, an eyebrow raising slightly as he critically examined Lysander’s face. He spoke, his voice a low, blunt inquiry.
“What in the Hells transpired with your face?”
“…It is naught.”
“Did you, perchance, miscalculate another step?”
“Aye. Something akin to that.”
“Truly?”
Kaelen clicked his tongue, a soft, dismissive sound, shaking his head. Then, he abruptly released Lysander’s face, causing Lysander’s head to nearly collide with the desk surface.
“Confound it!” Lysander snapped, startled, glaring at the younger lord. Kaelen merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private amusement. Whatever calculations he was making, Lysander had no way of divining them.
Neither Caius Vesper nor Eldrin attended the academy that day.
But during Lysander’s enforced absence, a subtle, insidious rumor had begun to spread through the hallowed halls of Aurelian.
“Hear ye? Caius Vesper… that proud scion, he actually…”
No one directly inquired about Lysander’s lingering facial marks, but it was abundantly clear from the curious, lingering glances he received that the whispers had already woven their way through the student body. It seemed Lysander was, in a twisted sense, luckier than he’d initially thought.
–––
The rumors, insidious and pervasive, centered around Lysander and Caius Vesper. Neither Caius nor Lysander had attended the academy since the whispers began, and even Eldrin had disappeared shortly after, leaving no one to definitively dispel the burgeoning scandal. With Lysander’s bruised face serving as silent, visible proof, the whispers spread even more swiftly, taking on a life of their own.
The story, subtly embellished by each retelling, coalesced into a disturbing narrative: Lysander Thorne and Caius Vesper had suffered a profound falling out. And, far more devastatingly, it was whispered that Caius Vesper harbored an unseemly, almost obsessive fascination with Lysander.
“That scion, I tell you, he was utterly captivated by that… that chipped shard of common crystal.”
“What’s a chipped shard? Oh, wait. By the Arcane. Wait a moment. Damn, I cannot cease my amusement.”
“He truly resembles a common, unremarkable piece of crystal, does he not? So easily broken.”
The common study halls were rife with such disdainful conversations.
“All those who were once close to Caius Vesper were utterly betrayed by his sudden, inexplicable devotion to such a… such an insipid academic.”