Two days. A mere forty-eight hours after the Archon’s decree, Kaelen Varr’s personal scrolls, once meticulously stacked, lay scattered across the Scriptorium floor. His favorite inkwell, a gift from some forgotten relative, shattered near the brazier, its crimson contents drying to a sticky stain on the polished marble. Lysander did not need to be told. The triumphant, almost feral glint in young Master Elian’s eyes confirmed everything. Elian, ever the sycophant, had preened near the water-bearers just moments before, his hushed boasts carrying faintly across the echoing hall. He’d spoken of ‘cleansing the Scriptorium of dissent,’ a thinly veiled reference to Kaelen’s abrupt and unexplained absence. Lysander watched, his gaze unblinking. “How… bold,” he murmured, the word a sliver of ice on his tongue. Near the refuse chute, a crumpled, half-burned diagram of an experimental water clock lay discarded. Its edges, singed and brittle, spoke of a struggle, a final, unceremonious end to Kaelen’s latest pet project. Kaelen, two days prior, had lost a battle he hadn’t even realized he was fighting. The motive was stark. Lysander had initially dismissed Kaelen’s recent ‘enthusiasm’ as mere youthful indiscretion. But the undercurrents of his behavior – the heated arguments with Lord Renwick, the increasingly defiant glares at court officials – hinted at something far more profound than simple rivalry. Kaelen’s animosity toward Renwick had festered, transforming into outright insubordination. He’d crossed a line, a line Lysander had watched him approach with a growing, cold certainty. And as the court’s subtle condemnation of Kaelen solidified, Lysander felt no urge to intervene, no prickle of guilt. He was no fool. To stand with Kaelen now would be an act of profound self-destruction. It might garner a fleeting reputation for loyalty, perhaps even kindness. But in the suffocating labyrinth of Veridia’s court, where thirty different versions of truth could coexist, even one question, softly whispered, could unravel a life. ‘Why?’ The thought alone brought a chill to his marrow. Lysander rested his chin on a stack of ciphered missives, the fine parchment cool against his skin. He closed his eyes, inviting the brief respite of oblivion. He longed for the world to simply rearrange itself into a more palatable design, for the whispers of court to fade into a forgotten hum. He was on the cusp of drifting into a fragile slumber. Then, a sharp, unexpected tap landed squarely on his crown. Lysander jolted, hand flying to his head. Across from him, Lord Vesper, leaning casually against the Archon’s vacated rostrum, rubbed his own temple with a theatrical sigh. “A curious habit, scrivener. Is this how you prepare for the day’s arduous duties?” Vesper’s voice, a low current in the quiet chamber, held a mocking lilt. “Lord Vesper.” Lysander’s tone was carefully neutral. “I meant no disrespect. A moment’s reverie.” “Reverie? Or mere indolence?” Vesper’s lips curved. He pushed away from the rostrum, a long, slender cane of polished obsidian materializing in his grip. He twirled it idly. “Found this in the Archon’s study. A rather gaudy piece, wouldn’t you agree?” Lysander’s face tightened. Vesper, ever the orchestrator of subtle chaos, frequently ‘acquired’ objects in such a fashion. He ran a hand over his hair, checking for disarray. Vesper, meanwhile, used the cane to hook a low stool, drawing it close before sinking onto it with languid grace. He tossed a heavy folio onto a nearby table, using it as a headrest before leaning back, eyes half-closed. “You rouse me from my contemplation merely to indulge in your own?” Lysander ventured, a flicker of irritation escaping. “I merely observed your posture. A scrivener’s diligence is paramount. My own… is less so. My mind requires no such rigid discipline.” Vesper’s voice was muffled. “Spoken like a true noble,” Lysander countered, nudging one of Vesper’s extended boots with his own. Vesper merely smirked. “Is it proper to accost one’s betters, Thorne? Especially one of… such delicate constitution?” The playful sarcasm in Vesper’s tone was a venomous caress. Lysander, in response, nudged the obsidian cane. It tilted, but Vesper, without even lifting his head from the folio, caught it effortlessly with one hand. His eyes remained closed, but a silent chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Thorne,” Vesper said suddenly. “Yes, Lord?” “Your cheek… that wasn’t merely a stumble, was it?” Damnation. Was it truly so obvious? Lysander’s meticulous application of pomade, the artful angle of his head – had it all been for naught? The faint bruise, a relic of a too-swift turn in a crowded corridor, had been almost invisible. Lysander hesitated, a heartbeat stretching into an eternity. He brushed a casual hand over his cheek, feigning indifference. “An unfortunate incident, Lord. A collision with a doorframe.” “Hah.” Vesper’s soft laugh was a silken thread. “Indeed?” His eyes, twin chips of ice, flicked open. He pointed a long, elegant finger at Lysander, the gesture as precise as a duelist’s thrust. Lysander did not understand the intent. “What is it, Lord?” “You are a shameless prevaricator.” As Vesper smiled, a slow, predatory bloom across his face, Lysander found his thoughts scattering like startled doves. What did he mean? “…Shameless in what regard, Lord?” “I do not believe you merely ‘collided’…” “…” Vesper’s words were always riddles, but this one carried a distinct, chilling edge. His gaze was unnervingly still. His bright irises, almost devoid of warmth, fixed on Lysander, dark pupils expanding. It was like watching an arrow drawn back, its target unknown, yet certain. Lysander’s mind went blank. Two words echoed, insistent and frantic: *Impossible. He couldn’t know. Impossible. He couldn’t know.* Then, Vesper’s eyes narrowed further. “It looked more as though you ran into someone’s fist.” His long, serpentine eyes curved upward. Lysander’s throat constricted, breath catching in his chest. A dry swallow. Vesper parted his lips, but Lysander could not even blink. “If word of such a… skirmish… were to reach the Archon, it would be quite mortifying for a scrivener of your standing, wouldn’t it?” “…” “I shall keep your secret, Thorne.” Vesper raised the hand holding the obsidian cane to his lips, whispering the words, then offered a slow, deliberate wink. The breath Lysander had been holding crashed against his ribs, a trapped beast. Vesper did not wait for a reaction. This time, he ran a casual hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, then pointed at Lysander. “But tell me, Thorne, did you attempt to mimic my particular style? Rather impertinent.” Lysander could find no words. Vesper crinkled his nose in exaggerated disapproval. “At any rate, I shall now resume my profound slumber.” He yawned, burying his face deeper into the folio. Staring at the back of Vesper’s head, Lysander finally managed a strangled whisper. “I did not copy your style, Lord. And my hair is merely untrimmed.” “Ah, so it is?” Vesper’s muffled voice rumbled from the depths of the folio. --- “May the Emperor’s divine grace descend upon us, who bear the burdens of this wretched court.” Vesper intoned, clutching a newly arrived scroll from the Imperial Archives. His dramatic flair was, as always, irritating. The fourth period of Scriptorium duty. As the Archon concluded his lecture on historical precedents, the quarterly evaluation reports were distributed. Vesper, instead of perusing his own, had somehow procured a copy of the Scriptorium’s overall performance metrics. He buried his head in the scroll, scanning the figures, then let out a profound, theatrical sigh. “Ah, Veridia is doomed.” Lysander glanced at his own report, noting his impeccable marks, then folded it precisely, slipping it into the inner pocket of his tunic. He looked back at Vesper, still sighing, head thrown back so far only his prominent Adam’s apple was visible. It bobbed heavily, almost in judgment of Lysander’s quiet observation. “That… is not the appropriate invocation for a quarterly report, Lord,” Lysander observed. “What matter? A prayer is a prayer, Thorne.” Then, abruptly, Vesper asked, “Tell me, scrivener, is it ‘Emperor’ or ‘Divine Lord’ that holds true sway in the scribes’ hearts?” Lysander realized anew the peculiar nature of Vesper’s courtly faith. “Why ask me, Lord? It is your reverence, not mine.” “Do not be so coy, Thorne. You are a scholar of repute. Surely, such minutiae are within your grasp.” “I possess no such theological insights, Lord. I am merely a scrivener.” Vesper, who had been leaning back as far as possible, suddenly shot forward. Their eyes met, and Lysander, caught off guard, instinctively averted his gaze towards the leaded panes of the window. A sharp prickle spread across his chest, as though he’d been caught in some transgression. He stared absently at the distant spires, then shifted his focus to the stiff collar of Vesper’s impeccably tailored tunic. The crisp white linen rested against Vesper’s throat, but with every exaggerated movement, the sharp angle of his collarbone flashed into view. “So? Care to join me at the Emperor’s Mandate next Solstice?” Vesper inquired. “Lord? No.” “Ah, why not? We could attend. They often dispense rather generous alms on such occasions. Fine wines, roasted fowl, spiced confections…” “Do you attend such sacred ceremonies merely for the… provisions?” Lysander asked, a genuine surprise in his voice. “Naturally, scrivener.” Lysander finally allowed himself a direct look at Vesper’s face. A quill, plucked from a nearby desk, was now balanced precariously on Vesper’s upper lip. A smug bastard, he was, Lysander admitted with a private sigh. The quill, wedged between nose and lip, distorted Vesper’s voice into a slurred, disgruntled mumble. “To hear you speak, Thorne, one might think I was pilfering. If they are freely given, what fault is there in accepting?” “Can such an inclination truly be called ‘faith,’ Lord, if it stems from such… self-serving motives?” “That is how all faith begins, scrivener. Rarely with grand pronouncements. It starts with, ‘Ah, delightful provisions are offered. This benevolent entity must be kind.’ And then, by degrees, the belief in that ‘kind provider of provisions’ transforms into an absolute, unyielding faith in the Emperor’s divine right. The genesis and the journey are inconsequential. What matters is that, now, I believe.” Vesper often spouted such calculated nonsense. Even Kaelen, in his more impressionable days, had sometimes been ensnared by Vesper’s twisted logic. Sometimes, it was pure sophistry. But sometimes, it was the kind of sophistry that, Lysander had to admit, held a dangerous allure. This, he felt, was the latter. He ran a hand through his bangs, brushing them back from his forehead. They refused to stay, falling back into his eyes. He shook his head, once, then again. His thin strands of hair swayed before him. He gathered them near his temples, finally lessening the irritating tickle. Such a distraction, the court. He’d quite forgotten to have his barber attend to him. With Kaelen Varr and Elara now absent, the front of the Scriptorium felt eerily spacious. No reason now to cast glances in that direction. Six days ago, Archon Delvaux had summoned Lysander to his private office, inquiring about Kaelen’s whereabouts. Lysander had answered truthfully, without a moment’s hesitation. “No, Archon, I have not had the privilege of hearing from Master Varr.” “You two… your friendship has not been mended, then?” The Archon’s brow furrowed. Lysander offered a small, carefully modulated smile. A bitter, perfectly calculated curve of his lips. In truth, the thought of smiling brought him no joy. “No, Archon. Master Varr… he harbored a significant displeasure with me.” “Displeasure with you?” “Indeed, Archon.” Rumors, after all, were the lifeblood of court. The Archon was not so oblivious as to miss the subtle implications of Lysander’s words. “Very well, scrivener. You may return to your duties.” As the Archon settled back into his plush chair, Lysander caught snippets of his muttered frustrations. Complaints about Kaelen, annoyance over an unpleasant exchange with Kaelen’s father, Count Varr. Lysander pretended not to hear the Archon’s pathetic monologue, turning away, yet listening still. It was how he gauged the shifting currents within the court. Later, after Scriptorium hours, while preparing his nightly ciphered reports, Kaelen’s father, Count Varr, had sent a sealed missive, echoing the Archon’s inquiry. Lysander had penned a reply, maintaining the same careful deception. “No, Count, Master Varr has regrettably ceased all communication with me.” *— I see…* “I am truly sorry I cannot offer more assistance.” *— No, scrivener. There is nothing for you to apologize for. It is… understandable.* Lately, Count Varr’s inquiries had become more frequent. And each exchange followed the same, peculiar script. There was an odd, almost desperate deliberation in the Count’s attempts to bind Kaelen and Lysander together. Lysander had hurried to conclude the correspondence. Honestly, there was nothing for which to apologize. But he offered it anyway – for the sake of being well-regarded. It was the same instinct that compelled nobles to praise an Emperor’s monstrous new decree as ‘brilliant.’ A form of courtly convention. An etiquette essential for navigating Veridia’s serpentine society. Thus, he knew no one of consequence truly saw through his politeness. If anything, his feigned humility was but a crude pantomime performed by a well-trained court jester. Lysander always knew his place. And since he exerted himself to be liked, he was destined to become a very well-loved jester indeed. Even if, one day, he committed an error so egregious it caused the most serene of brows to wrinkle, he would be forgiven. This was the groundwork he meticulously laid. Unlike some hapless fool, Lysander was navigating his life with calculated wisdom. Perhaps, from the lofty perspective of the Imperial Council, his stratagem was a mere, petty trick designed to avoid consequence. But among his peers in the Scriptorium, it was undeniable – he was a man who understood how to weather any storm. Proof? One need only look to Master Elian.

The Crimson Stain on Parchment