Two days later, tucked beneath a meticulously drafted map of Veridian’s forgotten aqueducts, Elian found a small, folded sliver of parchment. The paper, a finer stock than he usually used for notes, bore a single line in an unsteady hand: *Meet me in the East Archive Annex before your morning lecture. – F.* Finnian. Elian’s brow furrowed. The request felt strangely intimate, almost illicit. For a fleeting moment, a thought, cold and unsettling, pricked at him. *Could it be another declaration?* A swift, internal dismissal followed. This was the Vance estate, not some clandestine rendezvous point for romantic overtures. Finnian was… fragile. Vulnerable. A ward, not a suitor. Still, the memory of Finnian’s lips against his foot sent a shiver down his spine, a sensation he had yet to fully process. The East Archive Annex was a rarely used section of the estate’s sprawling library, dusty and hushed, usually reserved for the most esoteric and seldom-referenced texts. Perfect for a private conversation, for a secret. Elian carried the note in his pocket, a phantom weight. He all but forgot about it until the chiming of the hour, signaling the approach of his cartography lecture. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, a familiar companion since the incident with Finnian. He didn’t want to go, didn’t want to see Finnian, didn’t want to be drawn further into this tangled web. Still, something pulled him. A quiet, insistent curiosity. Perhaps it was a hidden part of him, an artistic pride, that longed for the intricate puzzle of Finnian’s mind. Or perhaps it was simply the nagging sense of responsibility that had become a constant presence in his life. Pushing open the heavy oak door of the annex, Elian stepped into the cool, musty air. Row upon row of ancient folios loomed, silent sentinels. A figure stood by a towering shelf, spine pressed against the dark wood, head bowed. Finnian. “Finnian?” Elian’s voice, a soft inquiry, broke the quiet. Finnian startled, his small head, with its perpetually disheveled dark hair, snapping up. His eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, fixed on Elian. Finnian offered a tremulous smile, the kind that never quite reached his eyes, a habit Elian had come to associate with his deeper anxieties. Elian felt his stomach clench. He didn’t like that smile. It felt like a trap. “What is it? Why here?” Elian’s tone was sharper than he intended, impatience flaring. He wanted to leave. Quickly. He couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that any prolonged interaction with Finnian, especially in such a secluded place, would only invite unwanted scrutiny, strange whispers through the estate's sprawling halls. Finnian wrung his hands, fingers picking at the frayed cuff of his tunic. He darted quick glances around the room, as if checking for unseen ears. His face was a mask of indecision, a struggle between determination and fear. “I… I have something to say,” Finnian mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. He clamped his mouth shut, then opened it again, only for the words to die in his throat. Elian waited, a thread of irritation tightening in his chest. Finnian’s constant hesitation, his palpable timidity, grated on Elian’s nerves. It was an uncomfortable mirroring of his own anxieties, amplified and projected. He found himself wishing Finnian would just *speak*. He felt the familiar pressure building behind his temples. Lately, his sleep had been erratic, his mind a churn of conflicting duties and unsettling emotions. The burden of Finnian, the unspoken expectations from his family, the ever-present shadow of Kaelan’s disapproval – it all coalesced into a suffocating weight. “Finnian, I have my lecture. You need to be quick,” Elian urged, his voice clipped. His hand unconsciously went to his neck, rubbing the tension there. He wasn’t truly angry at Finnian, not really. But the frustration, a raw, formless thing, needed an outlet. Finnian seemed to steel himself. His gaze, fixed on Elian, held a desperate plea. “Elian, I… you see, I…” “Yes?” Elian prompted, a half-hearted gesture with his hand. The chime of the quarter-hour echoed faintly, a reminder of his dwindling time. He wanted to pry the words from Finnian’s mouth himself, just to end this agonizing pause. Then, without warning, the heavy door of the East Archive Annex burst open. The sound cracked through the quiet like thunder. Both Elian and Finnian spun around, their eyes locking with the figure framed in the doorway: Kaelan, chest heaving, rain slicking his dark hair. Kaelan wasn't looking at Elian. His eyes were entirely, menacingly, on Finnian. Slow, ragged breaths escaped Kaelan, betraying the haste of his arrival. Elian's chest tightened, a cold knot of dread forming. He could almost picture Kaelan, striding through the estate's rain-swept courtyards, a storm in human form, searching for Finnian. He lowered his hand from his neck, feeling suddenly exposed. Kaelan took a long, deliberate breath, his gaze sweeping between Finnian and Elian. His expression was a volatile mix of fury and something darker, something possessive. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. “Why are you here with *him*?” The question, sharp as a whip, hung in the air. It was unclear which of them he addressed, though his eyes burned into Elian. Beneath Elian’s carefully constructed calm, a tremor ran through him. A long, suffocating silence stretched. Kaelan’s gaze finally settled on Elian, full of a raw, blistering resentment. Elian could not bear it. *Please, don’t look at me like that.* His mind screamed the plea. *Blame Finnian. He summoned me. I am only here because of him.* Yet, Kaelan’s burning eyes remained fixed on Elian. Those were not eyes filled with passion, Elian realized with a sickening lurch. They were eyes consumed by rage, by a jealousy so profound it bordered on madness. It was the face of a man unraveling, a face Elian found both terrifying and pitiable. “Why are you here with him!” Kaelan roared, the words echoing off the towering bookshelves. *You look pathetic, Kaelan.* Elian met his glare, a defiant spark in his own eyes. Yet, a chilling thought pierced through his defiance: *The truly pathetic one isn't you. It’s me.* Before Elian could react, Kaelan’s long strides carried him forward. One moment, Kaelan’s furious face filled his vision. The next, the world spun. “...!” Elian stumbled backward, the impact jolting through him. His body crashed to the polished stone floor, the sound muffled by the thick carpet of dust. Only then did his mind register the searing pain in his cheek. *No…* He had been struck. Kaelan had hit him. Lying on the ground, Elian’s trembling fingers touched his cheek. The skin was already tender, a dull ache blooming beneath his touch. He couldn’t believe it. Kaelan, who had always maintained a cold, distant disdain, had resorted to violence. “E-Elian!” Finnian cried out, a strangled gasp. “You fool! I told you to stay away from him! Stay away from everyone, you imbecile!” Kaelan screamed, his voice raw with fury. Finnian, horrified, stumbled towards Elian, but Kaelan moved faster, a hand seizing Finnian’s arm. Finnian’s face grew pale, his eyes wide with fear. “I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Finnian stammered, his gaze darting between Elian on the floor and Kaelan’s enraged face. He looked on the verge of tears. But no, Elian thought, *he* wasn’t the one who should be crying. The dam within Elian threatened to burst. A tide of tears welled, stinging his eyes. Mercifully, before he could truly break, Kaelan uttered a choked curse. He pulled Finnian roughly by the arm, dragging him toward the door. The heavy oak door swung shut with a reverberating thud, plunging the annex into a sudden, oppressive silence. Left alone, a dull ache throbbing in his cheek, Elian sat amidst the dust and forgotten knowledge. A sliver of Veridian’s pale, rain-filtered light streamed through a high, grimy window, illuminating dancing motes of dust. Something inside him fractured. The carefully constructed façade, the quiet stoicism he so painstakingly maintained, crumbled. Tears flowed freely, hot and bitter. He hated everything. Finnian, who had lured him here, dragging him into Kaelan’s violent orbit. Kaelan, who had struck him, revealing a depravity Elian hadn’t known he possessed. He wished they would both simply vanish, leaving him to the quiet solitude he craved. He felt utterly miserable, reduced to a mere casualty in their toxic, twisted drama. Rising unsteadily, Elian decided. He would skip his lectures, his duties. He made his way to his personal quarters, requesting the head retainer send word to the House Regent of an acute indisposition. His swollen, reddened face, throbbing with pain, provided ample evidence. No questions were asked. --- Elian collapsed onto his narrow cot, the simple comfort of the mattress a stark contrast to the tumult within him. Sleep offered a brief, fitful escape. When he woke, hours later, his face felt stiff and bruised, the skin taut over his cheekbone. Out of habit, he reached for the small, discreet messaging slate he kept hidden beneath his pillow. Lysander. A brief, cryptic message flickered across the slate’s surface, three hours old. *Heard you slipped away. All well?* Elian clicked his tongue. Lysander rarely communicated directly unless there was a purpose, usually tied to Kaelan or the machinations of the noble houses. He typed a terse reply. *A touch unwell. Nothing significant.* He kept his response deliberately vague, bland. The thought of anyone, especially Lysander, knowing about Kaelan’s outburst, about the humiliation, was unbearable. To be perceived as weak, as a victim of a base, physical altercation—and all because of Finnian—it was a wound to his carefully guarded pride. Another message, from a different, less formal sender: *Are you truly alright?* Lysander, showing concern? The anomaly made Elian’s skin prickle. He shut off the slate, the soft light fading. Hours crawled by. A wave of profound sadness washed over him. Lysander’s brief queries, others from distant acquaintances regarding missed duties, all felt suffocating. He didn't want their polite, detached concern. He wanted… No one searching for him was Kaelan. The thought was a raw, aching absurdity. He was truly losing his mind, indulging in such foolish fantasies. He consoled himself with the bitter knowledge that this was the fate of anyone caught in the orbit of such maddening, possessive desire. He meant nothing to Kaelan. Even knowing the truth, Elian lay there, eyes closed, turning a blind eye to the painful reality. His mind drifted to Finnian. *…I’m not the only one.* A strange, twisted thought surfaced. A grotesque, selfish, childish hope. Perhaps Finnian and he were both trapped in Kaelan’s volatile currents. A bitter comfort. As he stared at the rain-streaked ceiling, the slate beneath his pillow buzzed again. An unknown sender. Elian frowned. He rarely gave out his private comms number. *Elian, are you very unwell?* He blinked. Who among his sparse circle of contacts would use such a familiar address? Lysander? But this wasn't his comms code. Before Elian could ponder further, a follow-up message arrived, insistent, maddening. *I am so sorry. Truly sorry. It is all my fault.* *I am so sorry.* *Please, forgive me.* Three messages, four words, a torrent of desperate apology that made Elian want to scream. He hurled the slate across the room. It struck the wall with a dull thud, landing harmlessly on a pile of discarded scrolls. How had Finnian, who barely understood the estate’s basic mechanisms, acquired his private number? Then it hit him. Oh. He had called Finnian during the previous crisis, hadn’t he? He cursed his own idiocy, letting out an angry, frustrated sigh. To vent the surging frustration, he pounded his fists against the mattress until his arms ached and exhaustion claimed him once more. Just before sleep dragged him under, one last message, unheard, lingered in his mind. *Please, do not hate me.* Funny. He had hated him for months. The next morning, Elian’s face was still swollen, a bruised plum of dull purple and green. --- He skipped his duties again. No matter his meticulous work ethic, he wasn’t so devoted as to present himself to the Lord Regent or his colleagues with a face like this. His pride simply wouldn’t allow it. A junior retainer, a nervous youth named Jorry, brought him a light mid-day meal: bland porridge and wilted, seasoned greens, the kind typically served to the ailing. Jorry couldn’t quite meet Elian’s eyes, yet couldn’t resist a mumbled caution about being careful. Elian swallowed the meal without much thought, the food a tasteless fuel. As he pushed the empty bowl away, reaching for a glass of water, Jorry returned to clear the dishes. Bowl in hand, the young retainer hesitated. “Master Elian, a visitor for you.” “What?” Elian froze, his hand halfway to the water glass. “Shall I admit them?” A visitor. The word, a mundane one, struck a sudden chord in Elian’s chest. Before he could even identify the emotion, his mind, foolish and hopeful, conjured an image. Kaelan. It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, given Kaelan’s nature. Yet, it wasn’t entirely impossible. Few from outside his immediate circle knew the location of Elian’s private quarters. If it *was* Kaelan, he must have come to apologize, a belated recognition of guilt for his unprecedented violence. Kaelan had never laid a hand on Elian before. Yes, he must be worried, upset by his own actions. “Yes,” Elian managed, his voice a little hoarse. “Admit them.” The fantasy solidified into a certainty. Even as he chastised himself for his naive hope, a small, undeniable warmth spread through his chest. Despite everything, he was still important to Kaelan in some way. The thought, however fleeting, felt like a desperate balm. He pushed himself from the cot, his pace quickening as he moved toward the door, a strange, breathless anticipation fluttering in his stomach. But the figure waiting there was not the one he had expected. “Yo, Vance. What in Veridian happened here?” Lysander’s sharp-featured face greeted him, a playful smirk twisting his lips. He held a small, neatly wrapped parcel in one hand. But the smirk vanished as his eyes took in Elian’s face. He stopped dead in his tracks. “By the Regent’s beard, what happened to your face?” Lysander’s tone, usually laced with mocking amusement, was unusually serious. Elian’s knees almost buckled from the sudden, gut-wrenching disappointment. How did Lysander even know where his private quarters were, let alone come to visit? “…I fell,” Elian replied, the lie flat and unconvincing even to his own ears. Lysander frowned, his lips twisting in that way that always preceded a cutting remark. “You truly are an idiot, aren’t you?” Elian didn’t bother to argue. He simply rubbed his swollen cheek, the dull ache mirroring the fresh sting of embarrassment. He *was* an idiot. Kaelan didn’t think of him as important. And here he was, like some hopeful, witless hound, wagging his tail for a master who didn't even notice him. “Here, take this.” Lysander extended a small, chilled package. Elian accepted it mechanically, immediately peeling back the protective wrapping. Inside, nestled in a bed of crushed ice, was a small, wax-sealed jar. “…It’s jasmine salve.” “Is it? Didn’t even notice,” Lysander replied, shrugging. “Figures. Why would you care?” Elian’s voice was tinged with unexpected bitterness. “Damn, that’s harsh.” Lysander’s smirk returned, though his eyes held a flicker of something unreadable. “What are you even doing here?” Elian asked, pulling away. “What do you think? Came to check on you. Mind if I come in?” Lysander gestured past Elian, toward the spartan interior of his quarters. “Hey, wait!” Elian protested, but it was too late. Without hesitation, Lysander’s long legs carried him over the threshold. “Where’s your drafting table?” Lysander’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the stacks of maps and half-finished sketches. “Hey, where are you going?” “Where else? There’s nowhere else to go in your little cell,” Lysander retorted, a faint smile playing on his lips. Elian had no comeback for that. Lysander was right. His quarters, though comfortable, were undeniably spartan. Feeling awkward, Elian followed Lysander, who seemed oddly intent on inspecting every detail of his private space, an uninvited intruder in the carefully ordered sanctuary of Elian’s world.

A Crack in the Façade