A groan caught in Julian’s throat, a strangled sound that clawed its way past swollen lips. He lay splayed across his narrow cot, the rough weave of the mattress cover abrading his cheek. Early light, thin and sickly, bled through the leaded panes of his dormitory window, casting a pallor over the ancient stone walls. Even in the swirling haze of pain, a dim awareness settled: he must have dragged himself back, locking the heavy oak door behind him, before collapsing. A flicker of perverse pride, cold and hollow, ignited within him.
“Remarkable, even in such a state,” he muttered, the words a dry rasp.
He forced his eyes open, blinking against the phantom glare behind his lids. Every inch of his face throbbed with a dull, insistent ache. His hand, stiff and unwilling, lifted towards the dull thrum. His shoulder groaned in protest, grinding like ancient gears, sending a sharp, searing lance through his clavicle. A whimper escaped him.
“Ah…”
Fingers, trembling, brushed against the tender, unnatural hardness blooming beneath his skin. Bruises, purple and green-black, pulsed with an angry heat. Moments stretched, thick and suffocating, before he braced a hand against the cot and pushed himself upright. Each movement was a fresh torment.
Perched on the edge of the mattress, he stared, unseeing, at the peeling fresco of a forgotten scholar on the opposite wall. Then, abruptly, a choked sound tore from him, an animalistic moan that deepened into ragged sobs. His throat felt raw, flayed. The anguish was not just physical; it was a deeper, more insidious wound.
Suddenly, a scream ripped from his chest, wordless and wild. He sprang up, grabbing the nearest object—a leather-bound tome on Eldorian dialects—and hurled it against the wall. It struck with a dull thud, pages fluttering. An inkwell followed, splattering dark droplets across a yellowed parchment. He raged, a tempest of frustration and agony, until his limbs gave out. He slid to the floor, panting, eyes squeezed shut. Yet, tears still stubbornly welled, tracing hot paths down his bruised cheeks as gasps hitched in his throat.
“Damn it!”
Death, in that moment, seemed a blessed release. Not from the pain, but from the memory of last night. The humiliation. The indelible stain.
His window had been shut, he was certain. But had anyone heard? Could the sounds have carried through the thick stone walls, across the courtyard? A cold dread seeped into his bones. Damn Lysander Thorne. Damn Alaric Valerius. Why had they come? Why had they done this? Why had they ripped away his carefully constructed facade?
“Damn it…”
Lysander had not merely struck him; he had trampled Julian’s nascent pride, his fragile hope of belonging, right before Alaric’s impassive gaze. That degradation was worse than any sneer or dismissal, worse than any physical blow. It was a crushing blow to his very soul, leaving him a raw, weeping mess.
Yet, even in this state of utter ruin, a perverse part of his mind still fretted over appearances. He was Julian Blackwood, a scholar of Eldoria. He could not be seen like this.
Silence descended, heavy and unwelcome. Julian glanced at the small, intricate clock on his mantel. Just before eight bells. A sharp, chilling thought pierced the fog of his despair: if a scullery maid, or worse, a junior prefect, found him like this, the damage would be irreparable. Panic seized him.
His mind cleared, cold and stark. No one, absolutely no one, could witness this pathetic, disgraced version of Julian Blackwood. Scrambling to his feet, he righted the overturned chair, shoved the scattered books and quills under his cot. He sank back onto the edge, feigning composure, waiting. A soft knock came, right on cue.
“Do not enter,” Julian called out, his voice unnaturally calm, a thin veneer over shattered nerves. “I’ve caught a chill. A dreadful headache. I shall be confined to quarters today.”
A woman’s voice, the Eldoria housekeeper’s, wafted through the door. “Oh, truly? Should I summon the infirmary’s medic?”
Julian swallowed the bitter taste that coated his tongue. “Later, if it persists. It is merely a flux of humors.”
“Very well. Some broth, perhaps?”
“Kindly leave it outside. My thanks.”
“Rest well, Master Julian. We shall be quiet.”
He had bought himself time. Skipping the day’s lectures, the morning disputations, was a small victory in a landscape of utter defeat. He was in no condition to face the world, nor did he possess the will.
An ancient salve, kept for scrapes from arcane texts or ink burns, sat on his writing desk. He fumbled for it, smearing the fragrant, cooling paste over his throbbing face and aching limbs. A desperate, childish wish for the pain to simply vanish.
The small earthenware pot slipped from his numb fingers, clattering to the floor. His entire body shivered uncontrollably, but the physical tremors were a faint echo of the deep, soul-wrenching humiliation. It felt as though tiny, cruel fingers were pinching his very soul. Absurd. To hide his tear-streaked face, his ruined countenance, he drew the heavy velvet curtains, plunging the room into artificial twilight. He burrowed deep beneath the heavy wool blankets, seeking refuge from the crushing despair. Only their weight offered a semblance of protection.
Sleep. He *had* to sleep. Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated the mantra: *It will be fine. No one knows. Lysander would not… He wouldn't stoop so low as to boast. It will be fine.* He buried himself deeper beneath the covers, a pathetic, quivering bundle.
*****
It was not fine. Not at all.
Hidden beneath the blanket’s oppressive weight, bitter words churned, unspoken, on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to scream them aloud—to the indifferent heavens, to his distant parents, to anyone. *Please. It was Lysander. Lysander struck me. He trampled me. That vicious, cold-blooded brute. Lysander is mad. Unhinged. He’s out of his mind. Just because of Alaric, he… After all the shared glances, the careful conversations, the fragile understanding between us… he crushed it. Crushed it right in front of Alaric Valerius. I am an idiot. I showed that pathetic, exposed side of myself to Alaric, too. And the thought that someone might have witnessed it all…*
He silenced the frantic, spiraling thoughts. A wave of self-loathing, thick and cloying, washed over him. He wanted to cease existing.
The most wretched part was what came next, after the tears had finally subsided. His first act was to scramble for his personal correspondence slate, deleting every missive, every summons, every half-formed inquiry Alaric had sent the previous night. Then, with trembling hands, he accessed the institute’s minimal gate-ward logs, purging any record of early morning departures or arrivals near his quarters. That night had become an unspeakable secret, a shameful truth that could never see the light of day. He would never let anyone know.
*****
Three days passed, three days of enforced solitude within his chambers. Despite his ravaged appearance, his body was mending with surprising speed. Perhaps it was the instinct that had led him to shield his more vulnerable areas during the beating, or merely the resilience of a youth accustomed to Eldoria’s spartan rigor. Visible injuries were minimal—just a few dark, throbbing bruises hidden beneath his high-collared tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he remained beneath the blankets, weeping until his eyes burned, ignoring every coded message, every gentle knock.
He had hoped to remain sequestered until the last bruise faded, but fate, as always, was unkind. His mother, Lady Blackwood, arrived at the Institute without warning, accompanied by her retinue. Julian’s stomach clenched with icy panic.
“Julian, my dear boy, what on Eldoria happened to your face?” Her voice, usually so perfectly modulated, held a sharp edge of alarm.
“Mother, I… well…”
“You sent word of a fever. A chill. Did you perhaps engage in a brawl?” Her gaze was forensic, dissecting his attempts at evasion.
His mind raced, desperate for a plausible lie, one that suited Eldoria’s academic decorum. “Oh, um, I was feeling unwell, so a fellow scholar offered to collect a particularly rare treatise for me…”
“And?” she prompted, her eyes narrowing.
“And I… I encountered a minor disagreement on my way to retrieve it. A… a scholarly dispute.” He gestured vaguely.
“What kind of ‘scholarly dispute’ leaves a young man’s face looking thus? Who was it?” His father, Lord Blackwood, emerged from behind his mother, his tone sharper, laced with barely concealed displeasure.
Julian frantically waved his hands, feigning embarrassment. “No, truly, Father, I wouldn’t wish to cause a stir. It was nothing. A… a misstep. I tripped on the flagstones near the archives and struck my face.”
“Tripped? What manner of fall causes such bruising? Confess, Julian. Who was it?”
When his father’s voice rose, Julian felt a fresh surge of panic. He had to make it trivial, ridiculous, something dismissible. “Well…” He paused, searching. “I… I made light of a fellow student’s unfortunate romantic entanglement. He had just been… jilted, you see. My jape was ill-received.”
His ridiculous answer, to his astonishment, defused the tension. Lord Blackwood stared, then let out a sigh of profound disbelief before a dry chuckle escaped him. “Are you children starring in some farcical romance, Julian?”
“No, Father…”
“See that it does not occur again. Your studies are paramount.”
“Of course, Father.”
The relatively minor appearance of his injuries also helped. Thankfully, the incident, at least in their eyes, seemed to blow over. But then, during a strained dinner in the Institute’s guests’ dining hall, his mother spoke again, her voice casual, yet piercing.
“By the way, Julian, are you still quite close with Lysander Thorne these days?”
Julian’s fork clattered against his plate. “What?”
“He doesn’t seem to visit your quarters as often. I rarely see him about the Institute grounds.” Lady Blackwood, rarely present at Eldoria, possessed an uncanny awareness of its subtle currents. The mere mention of Lysander Thorne forced his image into Julian’s mind, souring his carefully constructed composure. He snapped back, an irritable edge to his voice.
“It is as it always was, Mother.”
*As it always was, my ass*. Shame and humiliation threatened to drown him. He wanted the heavy Eldorian silver fork to plunge through his own chest.
“Did another friend accompany you recently? The scullery maid mentioned someone new at your door.” Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, flickered towards the serving girl discreetly clearing plates near the kitchen entrance. A cold tremor ran through Julian’s spine. Had she heard? Could she have heard anything that terrible night? Was she the one who had overheard his cries?
“Julian? Is something amiss?” His mother’s concern, usually so welcome, now felt like a predatory gaze.
Startled, he blurted out, “Yes. He is a close acquaintance.” He meant Alaric. The words felt like ash on his tongue, a dangerous affirmation.
What else his mother said, Julian could not recall. The sheer, paralyzing terror rooted him to the spot, wiping all other thoughts from his mind. He only remembered the look she gave him when she mentioned Lysander Thorne. It was the sort of look one gives when delivering ill tidings.
Why? That question pushed him further into a spiral of icy fear. His fingers grew numb. No. The scullery maid could not have heard. Her hearing was poor, and her quarters were in a separate wing, far from his. She could not have heard. But why then, this unsettling dread? All he could do was offer a silent, desperate prayer to a god he no longer believed in.
Three more days dragged by. His parents, sensing his continued reluctance, began to press for his return to classes. If he continued to absent himself, his mother would surely suspect a deeper malaise than a mere “scholarly squabble.” That was the last thing he needed. So, he forced a cheerful, if wan, expression onto his bruised features. Nothing was amiss. Julian Blackwood was fine.
The days leading up to his return were consumed by a gnawing anxiety. What if he encountered Lysander? Or Alaric? Would Lysander resume his casual cruelty? Would he humiliate Julian before the other scholars—or, worse, before Alaric? Would he continue to trample on Julian’s fragile self like he was nothing?
The thought alone made his stomach churn with bile.
Finally, Julian returned to the echoing halls of Eldoria. He hung his satchel on the side of his heavy oak desk, scattering a few arcane notes atop it. He sank onto his bench, staring blankly at the polished wood as the clamor of the morning ritual intensified in the hallway. The moment he heard footsteps approach his section of the lecture hall, he buried his head in his arms, feigning sleep.
If he pretended to be asleep, perhaps no one would notice his disfigured face. Not immediately, at least. But he had forgotten one crucial detail: the desk behind him belonged to Caspian Thorne. Caspian, Lysander’s younger brother, possessed a preternatural perceptiveness he often feigned to ignore.
As soon as Caspian arrived, he paused by Julian’s desk. A hand, cool and surprisingly gentle, slipped between Julian’s shoulder and neck, tilting his face upwards with a few deft fingers. Julian had no time to resist. He was exposed. Caspian raised a dark eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over Julian’s face, before speaking in a low, blunt tone.
“What in the Nether happened to your face, Julian?”
“It’s nothing.” His voice was muffled against his arm.
“Did you fall again?” Caspian’s tone was laced with an unsettling irony.
“Aye. Something of the sort.”
“Truly?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head slightly, then abruptly released Julian’s face. Julian’s head nearly slammed into the desk.
“Damn it, Caspian!” He glared, startled, but Caspian merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, lost in some private thought. Julian had no way of knowing what it was.
Neither Lysander Thorne nor Alaric Valerius attended classes that day.
But during Julian’s absence, a rumor had begun to spread through the ancient stones of the Institute.
“Did you hear? Lysander Thorne… that brute actually…”
No one directly questioned Julian about his injuries, but the curious, sidelong glances, the hushed whispers that ceased abruptly when he approached, made it clear the rumor had already taken root in the hallowed halls.
It seemed he was luckier than he’d thought.
*****
The rumors, Julian soon learned, centered around himself and Lysander Thorne. Both had been absent since the whispers began, and even Alaric Valerius had disappeared shortly after, leaving no one to contradict the burgeoning narrative. With Julian’s bruised face as silent, visible proof, the whispers spread faster than mist through the valley.
The story twisted: Julian Blackwood and Lysander Thorne had suffered a violent falling out. And, more damningly, Lysander Thorne harbored… *unnatural affections* for Julian. The language was coded, cruel.
“That brute, I tell you, he quite fancied the little scholar, Julian Blackwood.”
“The little scholar? Ah, yes, the earnest one. The ‘dust-moth,’ they call him.”
“Indeed, a perfect, compact little dust-moth, wouldn’t you say?”
The cloistered halls, the common rooms, even the library alcoves, hummed with such conversations.
“All those he favored, his little coterie, were summarily dismissed. Lysander’s dark mood, you see. A scorned suitor’s rage.”
Julian, listening from the shadows, felt a strange, bitter relief. The narrative had shifted, distorting the truth into something less about his weakness, more about Lysander’s perceived deviance. It was a new form of humiliation, yet one that, paradoxically, offered a perverse kind of protection. He was not merely a victim of violence; he was the object of a powerful, forbidden desire, a target of envy. This twisted fate, he realized, might just be enough to survive Eldoria after all. The cost, of course, was his soul.
Lysander’s fury, the whispers suggested, had been born of rejection, the shame of unrequited, unsanctioned desire. And Julian, the recipient of such an unsavory passion, was now tainted, yet strangely untouchable. A fragile, terrible victory.
For now, he was safe. The whispers, while cutting, directed the sharper edges away from his own perceived failings. He was merely a pawn in Lysander Thorne’s dark drama. This was the terrifying, intoxicating allure of power: even its shadow, even its perversion, could offer a shield. He breathed in the cold, damp air of Eldoria, tasting both victory and despair.
His path, now, was clear. He would embrace this narrative, however vile, and use it to carve his own place in Eldoria’s labyrinthine corridors of power. He would not just survive; he would rise. And one day, perhaps, he would make Lysander Thorne pay for every drop of blood, every tear, every moment of humiliation. The thought, cold and precise, was a potent elixir.