A chill settled over the grand assembly hall, a cold far deeper than the late autumn air. Lysander Thorne felt it burrow into his bones, a constant reminder of the day his meticulous hand had slipped, the parchment stained, his quiet dignity shattered before the Imperial Council. After that incident, the incident Lord Valerius still referenced with a sneer like a viper’s hiss, the High Lord’s favor had evaporated. No longer did Valerius grant Lysander so much as a glance; his eyes now fixed solely upon Cassian, a low-born ward Valerius had taken under his wing years ago.
Cassian now occupied the velvet-cushioned seat by Valerius’s right hand, a place once reserved for Lysander during scholarly consultations. A bitter taste coated Lysander’s tongue. He might possess the scrivener’s composure, a mask he wore with weary practice, but he was no fool. He could not pretend this severance left him untouched, nor could he allow himself to crumble into a pathetic, overlooked courtier. Yet, the courage to address Lord Valerius, to mend a rift so deliberately widened, remained a phantom. It eluded him like a whispered secret in a vast hall.
Days blurred into a monotonous cycle of duties performed with a leaden heart, each intricate script a hollow act. Sometimes, a flicker of vengeful spite ignited within him, a childish urge to see Valerius humbled. Always, Lysander quelled it. Endurance was his only ally, a silent, unforgiving master.
Lord Valerius, a man whose passions ran hot and unpredictable, now harbored a raw resentment for Lysander. The reason was stark, painfully obvious to any with eyes to see: Cassian. Regardless of Cassian’s own desires, Lysander found himself blaming the boy with a fierce, illogical anger. Cassian was never Lysander’s to claim, yet he had stolen Valerius’s attention and, in doing so, had made Valerius despise him. A vicious thorn, Cassian had become.
Even if Cassian remained an unwitting participant, Lysander’s feelings defied the meticulous logic he applied to his Imperial decrees. Blaming Cassian, however unfair, offered a tangible target, a release valve for the suffocating pressure of his own shame. A part of him knew Cassian was merely caught in Valerius’s gilded snare, a bird fluttering in a cage too ornate to escape. Lysander never let his hostility show. His courtier’s mask remained impeccable.
He felt too ashamed to reveal the corrosive jealousy twisting his gut. And he knew, with chilling certainty, that any outburst towards Cassian would only confirm the court’s whispers, painting Lysander as an emotional wreck, unworthy of his scholarly title. Valerius would only scorn him further. And the other courtiers, like a flock of carrion crows, would pick apart his reputation, labeling him a disquieting, unstable deviant.
“This is… an intolerable burden.” His breath hitched, a faint tremor in his voice.
He despised the situation. He hated it more than Valerius’s disdain. A thought surfaced, unbidden, of Lord Kaelen. Why Kaelen? Perhaps because the boisterous, irreverent noble was the only one who seemed to tolerate Lysander’s quiet presence of late. Kaelen, with his loud laugh and blunt observations. What would he say if he knew the depths of Lysander’s humiliation? Probably something like, ‘Ah, Thorne. Turns out you’re just another simpering fool for courtly melodrama, eh?’
The image of Kaelen’s disdainful smirk made Lysander’s hands clench. A wave of nausea swept through him. He absolutely could not let anyone discover the truth of his unraveling.
Loyalties in Veridia’s court were as fragile as spun glass. Once it became clear Lord Valerius and Lysander were estranged, the nobles who once paid him lip service, those who orbited Valerius’s light, now skirted around Lysander like an inconvenient shadow. It was almost amusing, if not for the bitter reality, that Lord Kaelen, once considered a reckless outlier, now seemed Lysander’s most frequent companion. Master Corvan, a lesser noble known for his quick ear, had approached Lysander just yesterday with an awkward, quiet question.
“Scrivener Thorne, Lord Kaelen sought you earlier.”
“Indeed? For what purpose?”
“He did not say. Merely that he sought you.”
Silence settled between them. Always something like this, vague pronouncements devoid of real substance. Now, courtiers assumed Lysander belonged to Kaelen’s unconventional circle, a stark contrast to Valerius’s rigid faction.
The severance with Valerius’s former circle wasn’t absolute. Occasionally, during a morning procession or in the vast archives, a polite nod passed between Lysander and a few, primarily Master Corvan.
“Good morrow, Scrivener Thorne.”
“...Master Corvan.”
Lysander recalled one such strained exchange, Corvan’s voice barely a whisper. ‘Lord Valerius acts… peculiarly these days. His manner towards Cassian… it is rather disquieting, is it not?’
Lysander must have worn a mask of distaste, for Corvan seemed to take it as agreement. He continued, detailing how Valerius would insist Cassian sit by him, grip his arm with possessive familiarity, his gaze never quite letting go.
Lysander’s fists tightened, his teeth gritted. His reply was clipped, sharp. ‘Lord Valerius’s peculiar predilections hold no interest for me.’ That shut Corvan’s anxious whispers at once.
Master Corvan, Lysander had noted, had been making overtures to Lord Kaelen’s associates. He seemed to be quietly seeking a new anchor, a safe harbor away from Valerius’s capricious storms. Perhaps his whispered observations had been an attempt to bridge the gap between their new, disparate circles. Today, as often happened, only Lord Kaelen and Lysander remained in the quiet, sun-dappled scriptorium, after the other scribes and scholars had departed.
Lord Kaelen leaned against a towering bookshelf, his gaze fixed on Lysander as he meticulously cataloged ancient scrolls. Was he ignoring him or merely observing? Lysander couldn’t discern. Irritated, he turned his head, choosing to ignore Kaelen in turn.
“Thorne.”
“My Lord?”
“Let us partake of spiced wine after our duties. The spiced garnet we had last was surprisingly palatable.”
Lord Kaelen brushed aside Lysander’s attempt at silence. As he spoke, he idly tossed a small, intricately carved orb, its polished surface catching the light. The orb bounced erratically against the high arch of the scriptorium, a reckless dance that threatened the fragile scrolls nearby, yet no one dared utter a word to him.
Kaelen cared not for the solemn atmosphere. He was indifferent, almost selfish in his disregard for propriety. Lysander watched the orb’s erratic flight, a frown deepening on his face, finally breaking his silence. His irritation at Kaelen’s brazenness sharpened his tone.
“That spiced garnet you consumed entirely by yourself? You acquired it for your own pleasure, did you not?”
“Well, not precisely. I merely favor the deep ruby hue.”
“So my preference was not considered in the slightest?”
“How was I to discern your desires? You offered no counsel.”
The orb rolled across the floor, coming to rest near a young acolyte. Kaelen extended a hand, a silent command for its retrieval. The acolyte hesitated, then awkwardly stooped, placing the orb into Kaelen’s waiting palm. Kaelen casually spun the orb, his voice carrying clearly to the retreating acolyte.
“My gratitude, scholarling.”
An insufferable disposition. ‘Scholarling this, scrivener that.’ Every pronouncement from his lips grated on Lysander’s nerves.
Honestly, it defied logic that someone as brazen as Kaelen now chose Lysander’s company over Lord Valerius’s. He dined with Lysander, shared studies, and accompanied him to courtly events. Valerius might shun Lysander, but Kaelen could easily seek out the High Lord if he wished. The thought arose unbidden, and Lysander asked, without forethought:
“My Lord, why do you not seek Lord Valerius’s company these days?”
Lord Kaelen, mid-toss of the carved orb against the wall, froze. He turned to Lysander, a puzzled expression on his face.
“You had a falling out with him,” Kaelen stated.
“I?”
“Yes. You and Lord Valerius.”
“I am well aware. I am the one who suffered his displeasure. But how does that concern you?”
“You utter the strangest pronouncements. It concerns me because you are my associate.”
Lord Kaelen surveyed Lysander from head to foot, his gaze oddly blatant. Uneasy, Lysander averted his eyes, posing a counter-question.
“You were also associates with Lord Valerius, were you not?”
“Hah. You are truly droll. What, do you imply you are not my associate?” Kaelen’s tone was incredulous, a finger pointing at Lysander.
“No, I am your associate. But you also numbered Lord Valerius among your companions. Why then do you align yourself with me?”
“Well, I have known you longer.”
“What are you implying? We became acquainted through Lord Valerius, did we not?”
“Thorne. What pronouncements do you speak? We were quite close in our first year at the Imperial College!”
“When?”
“Truly, you are an insolent fellow. Unbelievable. Back in the Grand Hall, we exchanged glances countless times!”
“Ah… that time.”
“So, what, was I the sole one who perceived us as associates? You rogue. That is why, as soon as we were assigned to the same court office, I approached you first! And you do not even acknowledge that? Unconscionable. I confess, I am quite disappointed.”
“Oh.”
“Hmph. Unbelievable. Truly… hmph. How could you inflict such a slight upon me?”
“Forgive me, My Lord. My apologies, truly.” Lysander mumbled a hasty apology, recalling those awkward yet frequent encounters from their early days at the Imperial College. So, that had been Kaelen’s definition of ‘friendship.’ He felt robbed. Those stares had been filled with a vague, almost hostile curiosity, not amity. Wait, had Kaelen, not Valerius, been the first to suggest sharing a meal?
The realization struck Lysander with the force of a battering ram, leaving him stunned. It was unsettling, even shocking. Still, he desired no further entanglement, so he feigned understanding, nodding slowly.
“Very well, My Lord. I comprehend. My apologies.”
“I was profoundly vexed just now.” Lord Kaelen glared at him briefly. Sometimes, Lysander truly failed to understand the workings of that noble’s mind.
“And furthermore, Lord Valerius’s demeanor is deeply unsettling.”
Lysander remained silent.
“That man is utterly unhinged at present. He has always possessed a peculiar temperament, but this… this is beyond the pale.” Kaelen gripped the carved orb with four fingers, lazily spinning it around his temple with an index finger. The sight conjured images of Master Corvan and other courtiers who had awkwardly attempted to confide their observations about Valerius. From that alone, Lysander discerned one stark truth: Lord Valerius’s reputation was in a precipitous decline.
“Unnatural.”
The word, the most feared and damning stigma in the world of Veridian courtiers, sent a shiver through Lysander. His body trembled imperceptibly at the thought. Simultaneously, a wave of guilty relief washed over him that no such label had been affixed to him. Did that relief signify he valued his own preservation above the ruin of Valerius?
Uneasy, Lysander regarded Kaelen’s face, feeling like a blasphemous priest hiding a vile secret before a scrutinizing deity. “Truly, my Lord,” he murmured. Then he let out a short, hollow laugh—a strange admixture of dread and derision. It was almost comedic that, to others, he was Lord Kaelen’s closest confidante. In truth, Lysander was no different from the man whom Kaelen openly criticized—a criminal branded with an unholy stigma. Just months ago, he had been Lord Valerius’s closest confidante. And yet, here he was, hiding within a gilded cage, a filthy trap from which he had barely escaped. He had only managed to avoid being caught. That was all.
---
Night clung to Veridia. Dawn was still hours away. A hushed summons arrived unexpectedly, a parchment scroll tucked beneath his door, no seal, no name, only a scrawled plea. It was barely four bells past midnight. Half-asleep, Lysander pondered for a moment if these recent events were but a waking dream. Though he had carefully avoided seeking Lord Valerius, to protect himself from further hurt, his heart lurched at the faintest possibility that the message might bear the High Lord’s elegant script.
He rubbed sleep from his eyes, quickly inspecting the parchment. His feelings conflicted. A part of him wished it was merely a misdelivered missive or an anonymous threat, a commonplace occurrence in Veridia. But as soon as he deciphered the urgent script, he knew it was not from Lord Valerius.
‘Thorne, forgive this intrusion at such an hour. Could you present yourself outside your humble abode for but a moment? My apologies. Truly, my deepest apologies.’
‘Just once. This one time.’
Lord Valerius would never offer such a humble plea, such an abject apology to Lysander. Only two courtiers, among his acquaintances, ever addressed him simply as ‘Thorne,’ and of those two, only one possessed such a pitiful, desperate air. How had Cassian, the ward, even known Lysander’s specific chambers? The moment he recognized the handwriting, Lysander’s face twisted into a scowl. He wanted no part of it—he never wanted to see Cassian. The boy always brought with him an unpleasant entanglement.
Yet, despite his fierce thoughts, Lysander swung his legs from his cot, buttoned the tunic he had slept in, and rose. He walked to his outer door but stopped short of unlatching it, resting his forehead against the cool frame with a deep, shuddering sigh.
“…Damnation.”
An overwhelming knot, tight and suffocating, clenched in his stomach. That was the only way to describe the sensation. He clutched at his chest, breath shallow. He had always prided himself on his keen intellect, on his mastery of Veridia’s vast lexicon, gleaned from countless tomes. Yet, none of the elegant words he knew could fully articulate this intricate, tangled mess of emotions. It was simply… complicated.
The resentment he felt for Cassian, the vivid memory of the bruise he’d seen blooming purple on Cassian’s cheek that day, the desperate weeks he’d spent trying to distance himself from Valerius’s chaotic orbit—all swirled together, a churning maelstrom within him. Biting his lip, Lysander fiddled with the door handle, then closed his eyes and turned it with a decisive, bitter twist.
Outside, the cold morning dew clung to the air, a herald of winter’s impending arrival. To avoid the sodden grass of the small courtyard, Lysander stepped carefully onto the cool, carved marble stones between the sparse garden patches. The chilly dawn air made him pull his tunic tighter around him. His slippered feet carried him all the way to the simple wrought-iron gate that guarded his modest chambers. He paused there for a moment, clicked his tongue lightly, and grasped the handle. The faint creaking of the hinge made him flinch, and he opened the gate even more slowly, with a practiced courtier’s caution.
Beyond the gate, illuminated by the guttering oil lamp at the corner of the cobbled path, stood Cassian. He wore a simple, unadorned scholar’s tunic, his head hung low, as he idly traced invisible shapes on the damp ground with the toe of his worn boot.
“…Cassian.”
At Lysander’s voice, Cassian’s head snapped up with a start, eyes wide.
“Thorne, Scrivener Thorne!”
“What is it, boy?”