A curious tremor, faint yet sharp, vibrated in Lord Kaelen’s chest at the calm, almost detached timbre of Lysandra’s voice. He furrowed his brow, a crease deepening between his dark eyes. “Why this sudden urgency to discard it? I remember a time when you treasured that wedding gown above all else.” Lysandra did not offer a denial. For three years, a dedicated alcove within the sprawling wardrobe of the House of Vane had been reserved solely for that gown. Each cycle of the twin moons, she had entrusted it to the meticulous hands of the alchemists at the Grand Atelier of Alchemical Garments, ensuring its delicate elemental weaves remained pristine, its subtle shimmer untouched. She had cherished it with a quiet, unwavering devotion, for she had believed in the singular sanctity of such vows, in the immutable permanence of a true union, and in the gown as a sacred vessel of that singular moment. But now, the threads of their marriage were irrevocably severed. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that Kaelen would soon usher Elara Thorne into these very chambers, perhaps even into this house. The gown, like Lysandra herself, had become an anachronism, a superfluous whisper in a space that would soon hum with a different song. A faint, almost spectral smile touched Lysandra’s lips. “It is beyond repair. I discovered a significant tear in the intricate lacework only yesterday.” “Even so, you cannot simply cast it aside.” Kaelen’s gaze, though bewildered, held a touch of something akin to pity. He observed her forced smile, misinterpreting her composure as a valiant attempt to mask deeper sorrow, assuming she wrestled with the pain of parting. “Tell you what — I shall dispatch a courier to the Atelier. They possess master weavers. Perhaps it can be restored.” “Do not trouble yourself.” Lysandra met his eyes, her head shaking with a quiet finality. “Some things, once broken, simply cannot be mended.” Her words, though ostensibly for the garment, carried the profound weight of a truth meant for their sundered bond. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. Before Kaelen could utter another syllable, Lysandra turned, her silken robe rustling softly, and walked back towards the inner chambers. As she moved, a subtle unevenness in her gait, a hesitant drag of her left foot, caught his attention. His memory, sluggish and unreliable, seemed to reawaken. He hurried, a sudden urgency propelling him forward. “Wait, Lysandra, are you still injured? It has been days. Why do you still limp?” *A little late, aren’t we?* The thought, sharp as a shard of ice, pricked at the edges of Lysandra’s mind, though her expression remained placid. She needed his belated guilt now, a quiet tool in her arsenal. Lowering her gaze, she replied in a tone utterly devoid of self-pity, “It was almost healed, yes, but last night… I was compelled to kneel outside the Thorne estate for nearly four hours.” “What did you say?” Kaelen’s voice, usually modulated and calm, rose in disbelief. His eyes, sweeping over her, sharpened on her hands, swollen and reddened, the delicate skin chafed raw. His pupils tightened to pinpricks. “Your hands, too?” Lysandra blinked, her gaze steady. “I was… disciplined.” Her tone was as casual as discussing the weather, utterly bereft of complaint or accusation. A frown, deeper and more troubled, settled on Kaelen’s face. “Why did you kneel for so long? And… why were you disciplined?” He could not, dared not, fully conjure the images such words implied. *Lysandra is practically kin to the Thorne family,* he thought, a bewildered current running through his mind. *How could a mere visit leave her in such a state?* Lysandra looked up, her vision blurring for a brief, disorienting moment. A memory, shimmering and fragile as spun glass, flickered in her internal landscape: her younger self, vibrant with naïve hope, eager to pledge her life to him. She had truly, profoundly, dreamed of growing old beside Kaelen, their lives entwined like ancient, resilient vines. She remained silent for a long, heavy moment, then offered another faint, sorrowful smile. “Because you were not with me.” Frustration, hot and bitter, surged in Kaelen’s chest, constricting his throat. “You are still smiling. Does it not ache?” “It does.” Lysandra nodded, a slight tremor passing through her. “But I am accustomed to it.” “Accustomed?” The word hung in the air, weighted with a terrible implication. Lysandra pressed her palm gently with her thumb, her voice soft, as if recounting a tale that belonged to another, a stranger. “Each time you are absent from my side, something akin to this inevitably transpires.” She knew, with a cold certainty, that this was not even the zenith of such cruelties. Since the tender years of childhood, whenever she had deviated from Matriarch Seraphina’s exacting expectations, the punishments had followed. The courtyard of the Matriarch’s private estate, paved with an intricate mosaic of etched obsidian and alchemically-treated granite, had been designed, or so it felt, specifically for her transgressions. Before she had even reached her seventh winter, Lysandra possessed the grim knowledge of how to kneel perfectly—knees aligned with the severe angles of the stones, legs held rigidly straight, toes tucked beneath her—a grotesque ballet performed solely to appease Matriarch Seraphina’s unyielding will. Kaelen, his face a mask of dawning horror, crouched low, his fingers trembling slightly as he lifted the hem of Lysandra’s robe. What he beheld twisted his gut into a knot of sickening dread. Her knees were horribly swollen, dark, bruised blooms spreading beneath the delicate skin. Her calves were mottled purple and blue, as if a cruel artist had taken brush to flesh, painting a canvas of pain. Against the alabaster pallor of her complexion, the bruises appeared even more stark, more agonizing. Compared to this brutal tableau, the slightly reddened knees Elara Thorne had sustained were but a trivial scratch, a fleeting inconvenience. Kaelen’s anger, a dormant, long-suppressed ember, ignited into a sudden, consuming blaze. Without a single word, he gathered Lysandra into his arms, the unexpected gesture jarring her, and gently settled her onto the cushioned sofa. His brow furrowed deeply, a chasm of consternation. “Why did you not send for me? Why did you not summon me?” The Houses of Thorne and Vane had, in generations past, stood as equals, their influences interwoven, their alchemical prowess respected in parity. Only in recent cycles, following Lord Julian Thorne’s ruthless consolidation of power and reformations of the elemental guilds, had the chasm between their standings truly widened. Yet, his wife, a Vane by birth and by alliance, should never have been subjected to such degradation, treated as if she were refuse. Lysandra’s eyes were clear, untroubled pools. Her tone was gentle, a subtle undercurrent of a tease in her voice. “You stated you had an urgent matter to attend to when you departed, Kaelen. I assumed it was of utmost importance. I did not wish to impose upon your critical endeavors.” Kaelen found himself utterly bereft of words. For a fleeting, disquieting moment, a thought, cold and calculating, surfaced in his mind: *If I had known that pursuing Elara would exact such a steep price, would I have still gone?* The query lingered, a bitter aftertaste, as his gaze fell upon Lysandra’s face, which seemed to him, in that moment, so utterly obedient, so perfectly docile. His chest tightened with a complex mixture of shame and something he couldn’t quite name. He fetched the silver-bound chest containing the House’s alchemical salves and mending tinctures, and with uncharacteristic tenderness, began to apply the soothing balms. “Why did you not inform me?” he murmured again, his voice thick with a nascent remorse. Lysandra remained silent, her gaze fixed on a distant point. She had, in the earnest days of her youth, yearned to be an exemplary wife, a dutiful daughter-in-law. She had truly believed Kaelen would be a steadfast partner. To the outside world, the Thorne family was her family, a formidable lineage she had married into. What kind of woman would speak ill of her own kin to her husband? Lysandra was no fool; she knew, with a certainty that had solidified over years, that Kaelen had never loved her enough to create a sanctuary where such honesty would be safe. She had always been acutely aware of the thin, tenuous thread of his affection, if it could even be called that. Only recently had the chilling realization dawned upon her: he had never loved her at all. It was a cold comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, that she had never truly relied on anyone’s love for her survival. Her fingers pressed lightly into her bruised palm, a phantom ache blooming beneath her touch. Her voice, when it came, was soft, almost ethereal. “I did not wish to place you in an difficult position, caught between my needs and the exigencies of the Thorne family. After all, the House of Vane still maintains crucial elemental trade agreements with them.” She could not, would not, speak the stark, brutal truth. All she could offer was this carefully constructed falsehood, delivered with a face of perfect, guileless sincerity. Kaelen swallowed, the bitterness of guilt rising in his throat. Her consideration, her selfless thought for his position, should never have been weaponized against her. He took a deep, shuddering breath, consciously pushing down the acrid taste of his own culpability, and gently ruffled the silken strands of her hair. “Lysandra, I am truly sorry. I should have been better. And I… I completely forgot our anniversary as well. Is there anything, anything at all, that you desire? I will procure it for you, whatever it may be.” “Hmm…” Lysandra tilted her head slightly, her gaze thoughtful, her voice light and steady, surprisingly unburdened. “Then… I wish for you to appreciate the birthday gift I presented to you.” “That is all?” he asked, genuinely taken aback. She nodded. “Indeed.” When she had turned twenty, Lysandra’s most fervent birthday wish had been to wed Kaelen. Now, at twenty-four, her wish was to depart from him, cleanly, completely, leaving no lingering trace. For the briefest, most fragile moment, as her eyes met his, so earnest in their belated concern, a flicker of something akin to guilt ignited within her. Then, Kaelen’s comm-sphere chimed, not with its usual, unobtrusive tone, but with a custom melody, distinct and insistent. Lysandra’s gaze drifted, drawn by an invisible current, and she saw the illuminated caller identification: *Elara Thorne.* Kaelen answered, a few clipped words exchanged, and then he shot to his feet, his expression hardening with urgent concern. “How severe is it? Why did you not have the driver take you? How could you twist your ankle merely by walking? Send me your location. I am coming at once.” He severed the connection, already poised to depart, his attention entirely consumed, despite having not completed Lysandra’s treatment. The cotton swab, still clutched in his hand, gave him a momentary pause, a flicker of hesitation. Lysandra reached out, her fingers brushing his as she gently took the swab from him, offering him an effortless egress with practiced grace. “I will finish tending to it myself, Kaelen. You must go.” They said, in the old proverbs of the Dominion, that the most insistent element shaped the flow. In Lysandra’s world, tears and overt displays of vulnerability had only ever brought harsher punishments. Yet, a quiet, unyielding belief bloomed within her: she would, in time, command all the elemental currents she desired. “Alright.” Kaelen’s relief was palpable, a visible easing of the tension in his shoulders. He added, almost defensively, his words rushing out, “Elara is injured. She is out alone with the child. I merely wish to ensure her well-being.” Then, without another glance, he turned and departed swiftly, the faint scent of elemental salves lingering in his wake. For some inexplicable reason, a question, born of a deeper, newly awakened curiosity, compelled Lysandra to call after him. “Elara… Kaelen, why have I rarely heard you address her as Penelope?”

Beneath the Bloom's Scar