A metallic tang, the ghost of yesterday’s rain, filled Elian’s nostrils. Consciousness returned in fragments, each piece a fresh jab of soreness. He lay sprawled on his cot, the rough wool of the blanket chafing against his cheek. Even in the haze of pain, a flicker of his meticulous nature had persisted; the heavy oak door stood locked, the bolt firmly set.
*Impressive, even in this state.* The thought, dry as dust, offered no comfort.
His jaw throbbed, a dull, numbing ache that spread across his face. He tested his left arm, the one that felt least like a knot of bruised meat. A grinding protest echoed through his shoulder, sharp needles of pain shooting through his bones as he tried to shift. He bit back a gasp.
“Ah….”
Fingers, clumsy and trembling, brushed against the tender, unnaturally hardened spots on his ribs. He lay still for a long moment, the hum of distant Veridian mechanisms a low thrum against his ears. Pushing against the cot, he hauled himself upright, every muscle screaming.
Perched on the edge, he stared blankly at the rain-streaked window. A whimpering sound clawed its way up his throat, raw and ragged. Tears, hot and bitter, blurred his vision. They tasted of shame and the grit of the city.
Anger, sudden and violent, surged through him. He lunged to his feet, sweeping an arm across his small drafting table. Scrolls unfurled, delicate ink pots toppled, spilling their dark contents onto the worn floorboards. His precise instruments clattered, a tiny, metallic storm. He roared, a strangled, animal sound that seemed too loud for his own ears. He tore at a half-finished map, ripping the vellum sheet into jagged pieces.
Then, the rage evaporated, leaving only a hollow ache. He sank to the floor amidst the scattered debris, clamping his mouth shut. But tears stubbornly welled, tracing warm paths down his cheeks, his breath hitching.
*“Damn it!”*
He yearned for oblivion, a cessation of this crushing weight. But it wasn’t merely the physical pain. It was the memory of the previous night. Lysander Thorne’s face, contorted in fury. Kaelen’s stunned expression. The way Lysander’s words had flayed him, stripped him bare in front of someone he respected.
He had carefully closed his window before collapsing. *Had anyone heard? Could the sounds have carried through the thick Veridian glass?*
Lysander hadn’t just inflicted bruises. He had trampled Elian’s quiet pride, his dignity as a scribe, his meticulous composure. That humiliation, witnessed by Kaelen, was a deeper, more festering wound than any fist could leave.
Even in this storm of despair, Elian’s mind flickered to external concerns. The oppressive silence in his small apartment registered. He glanced at the tarnished brass clock on his wall. Almost eight bells. A cold dread seeped through him. Marnie, the housekeeper, would soon be making her rounds. He couldn't risk her seeing him like this.
His mind snapped back into focus. He scrambled to his feet, righting the overturned stool, sweeping the scattered papers and drafting tools under the cot with frantic hands. He smoothed the blanket, trying to erase all trace of his outburst. Then, he sat, waiting for the inevitable tap on his door.
Moments later, it came, precisely on schedule. He forced his voice level, injecting a feigned roughness.
“Don’t come in, Marnie. I think I’ve caught the chill. My head’s pounding.”
“Oh, Master Elian? A sick day, then? Should I summon the Collegium physician?” Her voice, though muffled by the door, carried a hint of concern.
A bitter taste rose in his throat. “No, thank you. I’ll rest. I’ll visit the Chirurgeon later if it worsens.”
“Very well. Would you like some broth, then? The spiced kind you favor?”
“Just leave it outside the door, please. I… I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
“As you wish, Master Elian. Take care.” Her footsteps receded, the soft creak of the floorboards a fading echo.
He wouldn’t go to the Collegium. He couldn’t. Not like this.
A small jar of restorative salve, a gift from an old Collegium mentor, sat on his shelf. He retrieved it, the ceramic cool against his hot skin, and began to smear the faintly mentholated balm over his aching body. He pressed it into the mottled bruises on his ribs, his shoulder, his jaw, wishing it could erase the pain, the memory.
The jar slipped, thudding softly to the floor. His body shivered, an uncontrollable tremor. The physical pain was a dull counterpoint to the searing humiliation. It felt as though a thousand tiny, cruel fingers were pinching his stomach. To hide his tear-streaked face, he burrowed deep beneath the heavy wool blankets, pulling them tight against his ears, blocking out the dull, grey light that seeped through the window.
*Sleep. Just sleep. It will be fine.* He forced his eyes shut. *My parents are away. Lysander… he wouldn’t speak of this. Kaelen… she saw nothing but Lysander’s rage.* He muttered the reassurances into the scratchy fabric, burying himself deeper.
---
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden under the oppressive weight of the blankets, words festered, bitter and unspoken. He wanted to scream them, to pour them out like a deluge over the edge of a precipice, to anyone who would listen—the Watch, the Lord Regent, even the silent mechanisms of Veridian itself.
*Please. It was Lysander. Lysander Thorne. He struck me. He shamed me. That arrogant bastard. He’s unbalanced. He’s mad. Just because of Kaelen, he… after everything at the Repository, everything I tried to facilitate… he crushed it. Crushed it right in front of her. I’m an idiot. I showed that pathetic, exposed side of myself to Kaelen, too. And the thought that someone, anyone, might have seen…*
His frantic thoughts screeched to a halt. A wave of self-loathing, cold and deep, washed over him. He wanted to die.
The saddest truth was his first coherent action after the outburst. He had crawled out, his body protesting, to his arcane slate. With trembling fingers, he deleted every encoded communique, every whisper-glyph record from the previous night concerning Kaelen or the Repository. Then, with practiced haste, he accessed the small memory crystal of his entrance glyph, clearing all incoming and outgoing recordings from the early morning. That night had become an unholy secret, something too shameful, too dangerous, to ever see the light.
---
Three days passed, three days spent cocooned in his apartment, the pervasive Veridian damp clinging to the stone walls. His body, perhaps sturdier than his anxious mind gave it credit for, was healing steadily. The worst of the bruising, the mottled purples and greens, lay hidden beneath his tunic, mercifully sparing his face any disfiguring marks. He ignored every urgent rap, every chiming message from the Collegium.
He thought he could maintain the charade until full recovery. But fate, as always, had other plans. His parents, usually absent on their circuit of the noble houses, returned home unannounced.
“Elian? My son, what happened to your face?” His mother’s voice, sharp with aristocratic concern, cut through the silence of the parlour.
“Oh, well….” He stammered, the hastily constructed lie already crumbling.
“You said you had a chill. A fever. Not… this. Did you fall into one of those industrial sumps again?” His father, Lord Vance, fixed him with an unyielding gaze.
Elian fumbled for an explanation. “I… I wasn’t feeling well, so Corvus offered to collect my lecture notes. On my way to meet him….”
“And?”
“I… I had a minor disagreement.”
“A disagreement that leaves a Vance looking like a street urchin? Who was it?” Lord Vance’s voice sharpened, rising in volume.
Elian waved his hands frantically, attempting to diffuse the tension. “No, truly, Father. It was nothing serious. Just a small tangle over… a misplaced architectural schematic. We’ve already smoothed things over.”
“Come now, Elian. Why did you truly quarrel?”
“He… he scoffed at my rendering of the new Collegium spire,” Elian blurted, a pathetic, half-formed lie. “Said my use of perspective was ‘uninspired.’”
His father stared, then a short, incredulous laugh escaped him. “Architectural schematics? You children and your dramas.” A shake of his head. “Don’t let such trivialities mar your face again. It reflects poorly.”
“Yes, Father. I understand.”
His relatively minor facial injuries, coupled with his parents’ dismissive attitude towards what they perceived as a petty squabble, helped the incident blow over. The truth remained buried.
Yet, a strange disquiet lingered. As they dined later, the clink of silverware against porcelain loud in the vast hall, his mother’s voice drifted through the air.
“By the way, Elian, are you still keeping company with that Thorne boy? Lysander, isn’t it?”
“What?” The name alone soured Elian’s mood, a fresh wave of humiliation washing over him. His voice came out sharper than he intended. “It’s the same as always.”
*The same, my ass.* He wanted to scream. *Damn him. Damn him for everything.* The shame was a physical ache.
“And that other friend… the girl who came by? Marnie mentioned seeing her near your apartment, briefly, then leaving. Are you close with her?”
Elian froze. Slowly, his head swiveled towards the kitchen alcove, where Marnie, her back to them, was meticulously wiping down a polished surface. A cold dread seeped through his veins. *Did she hear it? Could she have heard anything that night? Was it possible she was the one who heard the sounds, the struggle?*
“Elian? Is something amiss?” his mother pressed gently.
Startled, he blurted out, “Yes. We are close.” The words felt hollow, a desperate reassurance against an unknown threat.
What his mother said next was lost to him. The sheer, paralyzing terror that rooted him to his seat wiped all other thoughts from his mind. He remembered only the strange, knowing look in her eyes when she had first mentioned Lysander – the kind of look she usually reserved for hushed whispers of scandal concerning other noble houses.
*Why?* The question echoed, pushing him further into a spiral of fear. His fingers grew cold. *No. Marnie couldn’t have heard. Her quarters are distant, her hearing not what it once was.* But why did the uncertainty persist? All he could do was offer a silent plea to the indifferent mechanisms of Veridian, to the ancient secrets that slumbered beneath its foundations.
---
Another three days limped by. His parents began to insist he return to the Collegium. He absolutely dreaded it. But continued absence would only raise further suspicions, perhaps confirming his mother’s unspoken fears. So, he forced a cheerful facade, a mask of normalcy.
The days leading up to his return were consumed by a gnawing worry. What if he ran into Lysander? Or Kaelen? Would Lysander resume his torment, perhaps in the public eye of the Collegium? Would he once again trample Elian’s dignity, his quiet artistic endeavors, in front of everyone?
The mere thought churned his stomach.
He arrived at the Collegium, the familiar scent of ozone and old parchment heavy in the air. He hung his satchel on the side of his drafting desk, scattering some spare schematics across its surface. Then he sank into his seat, staring blankly at the scarred wood, as the hallway noise gradually swelled. The moment he heard approaching footsteps, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
*If I pretend to sleep, no one will notice my face. At least for a while.* He hadn't accounted for Corvus.
Corvus, blunt and observant as a precisely calibrated arcane sensor, had the desk behind him. He arrived with his usual boisterous energy, then paused. A cool hand slipped between Elian’s shoulder and neck, and fingers, strong and unyielding, tilted Elian’s face upward. Elian had no time to resist.
Corvus’s sharp grey eyes scrutinized him. “What the blight happened to your face, Vance?” he asked, no preamble, no hesitation.
“...Nothing,” Elian mumbled, his voice muffled.
“Tripped over a misplaced scroll again, did you?”
“Something like that.”
“Right.” Corvus clicked his tongue, a sound of dry amusement, then abruptly released Elian’s face. Elian’s head nearly slammed onto the desk.
“Damn it, Corvus!” He glared, startled.
Corvus merely offered a crooked grin, his eyes distant, as if lost in thought. Whatever theories churned behind those sharp eyes, Elian had no way of knowing.
Neither Lysander Thorne nor Kaelen were in attendance that day.
However, during Elian’s absence, a whisper had begun to ripple through the Collegium halls. A rumor, cold and unsettling, had taken root.
“Hey, did you hear? Thorne… that bastard actually….”
No one asked Elian directly about his injuries. But the curious, sidelong glances he received, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased as he passed, confirmed it. The rumor had reached everyone.
Perhaps, he was luckier than he deserved.
---
The whispers coalesced around Lysander Thorne and the incident at the Arcane Repository. With both Lysander and Kaelen absent from the Collegium since the rumors began, and Elian himself having disappeared for days, there was no one to dispel the growing narrative. Elian’s still-fading bruises, subtly visible, became silent proof, inadvertently fueling the speculation.
The story, whispered from student to apprentice, was this: Lysander Thorne had suffered a ‘fit of arcane imbalance’ at the Repository, a public display of his increasingly unstable temperament. Some hinted at a deeper, more scandalous reason, an ‘unhinged obsession’ with a certain student that had led to a violent outburst, not directed at Elian specifically, but a general display of his family’s deteriorating control over him.
“That Thorne, I’m telling you, he utterly lost it over her. A total meltdown.”
“His house has been strained, hasn’t it? Perhaps his emotional controls are failing.”
“He seemed perfectly calm to me, but then, he always was a closed book. Who knows what arcane eddies are churning within him.”
The Collegium common rooms buzzed with such conversations.
“All those he associated with… they’re going to be tainted by this.” The tide of opinion, once favoring Lysander’s influential family, was clearly turning.
A cold, unsettling relief settled over Elian. The narrative had shifted. His humiliation was not the story. Lysander’s failure, his instability, his secret, was. His perilous secret, for now, remained safe.