A full week of strained politeness passed, thick as the Court’s morning fog. Lysander Thorne, a silent fixture in the Imperial Archives, found solace in the rustle of ancient parchment and the quiet murmur of scholarly pursuit, all the while feigning indifference to Lord Valerius Alaric’s orbit. He clung to the illusion that Valerius, with his formidable presence and chilling gaze, held no sway over his thoughts, no purchase on his carefully constructed composure. He passed his days among the lesser scribes and a few trusted scholars, maintaining the appearance of a man wholly absorbed by his duties. This charade, though exhausting, was a necessary veil against the Imperial Court’s ever-watchful eyes. The most agonizing aspect of this self-imposed distance was the abrupt cessation of direct intelligence regarding Valerius. Lysander, starved for even the slightest detail, now relied on stray whispers and the occasional, almost casual, reports from Cassian. When the hunger for information became too sharp, a gnawing ache beneath his ribs, he sought out Cassian in the quieter antechambers, or sometimes, amid the hushed chaos of the Grand Library. His pride, a brittle thing he guarded fiercely, forbade him from openly inquiring. Yet, the fervent curiosity burning within him felt grotesque, a raw wound exposed to the chill of his own judgment. He would pose his questions with feigned nonchalance, tracing the delicate filigree of a pillar or adjusting a stack of scrolls. Cassian, usually engrossed in a complex mechanical puzzle box, or poring over the intricate diagrams of Veridian Regicides on a small, portable slate, would offer a reply without much interest. “Oh, Valerius? He attended the Dowager Empress’s soirée again.” The answer always left Lysander hollow, his fingers tightening imperceptibly. “Damn his brazen arrogance.” The words were a bitter clench in his throat. Lysander understood with a chilling clarity why Valerius’s emotions were so violently expressed. He was a creature of primal impulse, instinct-driven, a tempest of raw power barely contained by the velvet trappings of his station. A beast, unbound by lesser men’s decorum. “Another tiresome display of influence, no doubt,” Lysander surmised, carefully re-stacking a precarious pile of legal codices. “Perhaps securing a new trade concession.” “No, this time it was a betrothal arrangement,” Cassian countered, his eyes still fixed on the shifting gears of his puzzle box. His lithe frame twisted, struggling with a particularly stubborn mechanism. “Lord Tremaine’s youngest daughter. Word is, they sealed the pact during the revelry. Valerius simply... claimed her, the moment they met. A brief exchange of pleasantries, then they retired from the public eye. Not that she seemed to protest. Her agreement was immediate, a willing captive.” Lysander’s breath hitched. A cold knot formed in his stomach. “Truly, both possess a remarkable lack of restraint,” Cassian added, his tone dripping with mock admiration. It wasn't praise. His words were a balm of shared disdain, and for the first time in days, Lysander felt a strange, fleeting lightness. He edged closer, resting his hand on Cassian’s shoulder, a light, almost imperceptible squeeze. Cassian glanced up, then leaned back, granting Lysander space to settle onto the edge of the polished marble console where the puzzle box rested. A small, silent gesture of understanding. Cassian was the only one who dared openly critique Valerius Alaric’s scandalous pursuits, his blatant disregard for the finer points of courtly courtship. For that alone, Lysander found him tolerable, even, at times, a welcome distraction. “Their disregard for decorum is quite disgustingly efficient,” Lysander remarked, his voice carefully neutral. “Indeed? I, however, find myself utterly inefficient.” Cassian’s boastful tone made a faint smile touch Lysander’s lips. “Are you not meant to be, given your scholarly pursuits? A man of intellect, not impulsive passion.” “There is no ‘meant to be’ in these halls, Lysander. One learns these things as they unfold. Human rationality, particularly in court, is a fragile thing.” Cassian smirked, his eyes never leaving the gears. “Only the foolish believe it guides them.” “Is that why your courtship to Lady Elara of House Lyell ended so abruptly?” Lysander teased, the question sharp but soft. Finally, Cassian snapped the puzzle box shut, its intricate mechanisms clicking into place. He turned to Lysander, a wry, incredulous smile playing on his lips, then lightly tapped Lysander’s hand still resting on his shoulder. “I shall lodge a formal complaint against your person, Thorne.” “How is this harassment?” “If the recipient feels discomfort, it is harassment. Court precedent.” “Cassian, your cynicism is truly boundless.” “Your thinly veiled prying, however, is not.” Lysander’s foot, clad in a soft court slipper, swung idly. He nudged Cassian’s leg with his stocking-clad foot. Cassian pretended to be shoved, then casually extended a digit in a familiar, vulgar gesture. His raised hand revealed a small, polished Imperial Sunburst pendant, always nestled against his wrist, an antique heirloom. “That Sunburst pendant seems entirely out of place on you,” Lysander observed. “Oh? Why so?” Cassian asked, his tone suddenly serious. Why adopt such a somber mien now? “It simply does not suit your character.” “Does not suit me? Peculiar. Do I not project the image of a devout follower of the Imperial Faith?” “Hardly. It appears more an ironic accessory, or a relic you polish to keep the rust off.” “...It is not, though.” Looking back, Lysander realized the subtle hints. Cassian’s occasional references to ancient rites, his bizarre knowledge of obscure religious texts. He had dismissed it all as scholarly eccentricity. Cassian, as it turned out, hailed from a lineage steeped in the Imperial Faith, generations of quiet adherents. More astonishing, Cassian himself claimed to be a devout believer. Lysander, however, couldn’t take such a claim seriously. Cassian couldn’t recite a single canonical prayer without a smirk. Lysander spent the ensuing week avoiding Valerius. Whenever their paths intersected in the gilded halls or the shadowed courtyards, Lysander would offer a fleeting glance, then swiftly avert his gaze, focusing on a distant fresco or an intricate carving. He still lacked the courage to engage Valerius directly. Perhaps, beneath his meticulous façade, he feared losing. The notion that the one who cares more, loses – a pathetic, childish sentiment, unworthy of a scholar of the Court. Yet, even knowing its ridiculousness, he could not bring himself to speak. In stark contrast, Young Lord Kaelen, Valerius’s distant cousin and the object of his erratic attention, often sought Lysander out. Kaelen was perhaps the only soul foolish or desperate enough to engage Lysander in sustained conversation. But the fresh, almost imperceptible bruises that bloomed daily on Kaelen’s face – a subtle purpling beneath an eye, a faint swelling of the lip – confirmed Valerius was still exerting his peculiar, brutal influence. A beast marking its territory, even out of Lysander’s sight. When Lysander frowned, his gaze lingering too long on a particularly egregious mark, Kaelen noticed. He quickly turned his head, a blush rising, attempting to conceal the injuries behind a cascade of dark hair. Four more days crawled by. One quiet morning, alone in the Grand Library, Lysander buried his face in his hands, the scent of aged parchment doing little to soothe his nerves. He simply did not wish to confront the awful pageant unfolding within the Court’s walls. The distance between himself and Valerius grew starker, stretching like a chasm. What had once been a small, navigable gap had long since become an unbridgeable gulf of despair. Opening his eyes felt as though the rift would swallow him whole. Kaelen’s bruised eyes, once so easily dismissed, now felt like a glaring seal on a document, declaring a truth Lysander wished to ignore. That made him all the more reluctant to see either of them. He craved only avoidance. Then, as if fate had granted him a brief reprieve, Young Lord Kaelen ceased attending court functions. Dame Lyra, Master of Pages, referred to it as an “unexplained absence.” The hesitation in her voice, however, betrayed the truth: truancy, or something far graver. Lysander almost exhaled a cheer. Valerius, conversely, spent his time during official assemblies fiddling with a jeweled dagger, snapping irritably at lesser scribes, or even publicly chastising one of his retainers for a perceived slight. A sharp cuff to the ear, a muttered threat. Such displays were uncharacteristic, even for him. A part of Lysander felt smug, a strange, dark satisfaction blossoming in his chest. Another part reveled in an illicit sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Kaelen officially departed the Court or disappeared for good, Valerius would lose interest. Then, surely, he would turn his gaze back to Lysander. Confident in this flawed, desperate hope, Lysander waited patiently for that moment. Several more days drifted past, each one a shallow breath. “Valerius Alaric seems uncharacteristically disquieted,” Cassian remarked offhandedly, his gaze still fixed on the shifting sands of a miniature strategy game. Lysander’s heart gave a heavy thud against his ribs. He yearned to turn and scrutinize Valerius’s face, to discern the truth of Cassian’s words, but he could not. Where matters of the heart intersected with the brutal game of court, Lysander was a coward. He could only listen to Cassian’s casual pronouncements and conjure an image in his mind’s eye. Yet, nothing changed. The day wore on, formal duties concluded. He convinced himself there would be another chance tomorrow. After all, such powerful currents do not shift so quickly. He waited, his muscles taut with unspoken expectation. As duties finally concluded and Lysander slung his satchel over his shoulder, Cassian spoke, his voice unusually direct. “You quarreled with Valerius, didn’t you?” Lysander spun around reflexively at the words, his composure momentarily fracturing. “Yes.” “Do not tell me the discord has lingered since that incident in the Grand Hall?” Lysander offered no response. “Remarkable. This endures longer than I would have thought.” Cassian shrugged, his hands disappearing into the deep pockets of his tunic. Lysander avoided his gaze, muttering a carefully constructed excuse. “Frankly, Valerius transgressed the bounds of decorum. Such public displays of... possessiveness, particularly toward a minor lord, invite unwanted scrutiny. It is simply... unseemly, you understand?” “What is?” “...Well, Lord Kaelen is a noble of this Court, is he not?” “And?” “The manner in which Valerius treats Kaelen is... I find it distasteful. They are both noblemen. Such overt displays of dominance are gross. I wish he would cease.” “Remarkable.” Cassian’s eyes, usually veiled by amusement, held a flicker of something sharper. Lysander remained silent. “You are truly destined for the Celestial Court, Lysander Thorne.” The response to his carefully phrased concerns was steeped in acidic sarcasm. Annoyed by Cassian’s malicious tone, Lysander glared. But Cassian merely smirked, utterly unconcerned. Seeing that knowing expression, Lysander felt as if something vital, something deeply hidden, had been exposed. A flush of heat crept up his neck, burning his cheeks. Quickly, he turned his back on Cassian, ignoring the mocking grin, and strode out of the chamber. As he hastened down the long, echoing hallway, intent on reaching the sanctuary of his own quarters, a hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Cassian, still seeking toneedle him, Lysander spun around, irritation bubbling, and pulled his arm free. But it was not Cassian. It was Dame Lyra, Master of Pages, her usually placid expression unusually grave. Startled, Lysander swiftly adjusted his features, smoothing his ruffled dignity. “My apologies, Lysander. Did I alarm you?” “Oh, no, Dame Lyra. It is quite alright. Merely surprised, that is all...” “I understand. I am truly sorry, but... might I impose upon your time for a brief moment?” “Madam?” “Only for a second. Please.” Dame Lyra’s face, usually composed, was etched with unusual seriousness. Lysander nodded, his own anxiety now rekindled. “Today, Lord Valerius requested Young Lord Kaelen’s current residence,” Dame Lyra began cautiously, her voice barely a whisper. “Lord Valerius?” Lysander’s throat tightened. It was clear that Dame Lyra, as Master of Pages, could not possibly be unaware of the undercurrents of Valerius’s behavior toward Kaelen. Yet, she was not bold enough to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, she possessed enough conscience not to entirely ignore it. The fact that she came to Lysander, of all people, to speak of Kaelen, proved that. “I am not accusing, nor do I lay blame upon Lord Valerius, but...” “No, I comprehend entirely. I do not find it strange, Madam,” Lysander replied quickly, his mind racing. “Well, given your past instances of concern for Young Lord Kaelen, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Lord Valerius to his residence. Do you grasp my meaning?” Lysander could not answer immediately. His teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. The intense, unsettling emotions Valerius harbored for Kaelen, emotions Lysander had tried so hard to deny, began creeping toward him, an icy tide flooding his feet, holding him fast. He clenched his fists, knuckles white. He could not stand idly by. “Could I... perhaps procure Young Lord Kaelen’s current messenger cipher, then?” “Ah, yes, of course. Here, allow me to provide it. Endeavor to contact him first.” Dame Lyra reached for a small, leather-bound register. “Indeed. I shall speak with him. Do not overly trouble yourself, Madam.” “Very well. I am counting on you, Lysander.” “Yes, Dame.” Outwardly, Lysander presented a façade of calm, but internally, a frantic panic seized him. Dame Lyra handed him Kaelen’s private messenger cipher, culled from the attendance register, an awkward tension clinging to her before she departed the hallway. He had to stop Valerius from encountering Kaelen. Absolutely. He had to prevent Valerius’s strange, possessive obsession from escalating, from consuming Kaelen entirely. The moment Dame Lyra was gone, Lysander retrieved his own cipher box and immediately began composing a message to Kaelen. His leg jittered nervously, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he waited for Kaelen to acknowledge the contact. Surprisingly, the connection was established quickly. “Hello?” A faint, trembling voice emerged from the crystal. “It is Lysander Thorne. Is this Young Lord Kaelen?” As soon as he heard Kaelen’s voice, Lysander rushed to speak. There was a sudden clattering sound on the other end of the line—something falling, striking another object, followed by a rustling. After a strained pause, Kaelen’s voice returned, higher-pitched, more urgent. “L-Lysander? Lysander! W-why... How... how did you obtain my cipher? Did you... already possess it?” “No. I learned from Dame Lyra that Lord Valerius requested your current address today. So I asked for your cipher.” Kaelen fell silent. “I merely wished to warn you to exercise extreme caution.” “W-what of you? Are you well? Even though you attempt to deter him...” Kaelen’s voice was laced with a strange, wavering concern. “Do not fret for my person. Focus upon your own safety. If you require additional time away from Court, send word via this cipher. I shall intercede with Dame Lyra on your behalf. I possess a certain measure of trust, believe it or not.” “...Thank you.” The gratitude in Kaelen’s voice was unsettling, too profound. “If Valerius attempts to harass or physically admonish you at Court, apprise me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, simply approach and lightly tap my shoulder, or offer a particular nod. It is often harder to mend things once they have been irrevocably broken.” “Understood...” “Honestly, seeking leave to the farthest estates would be your wisest option.” Lysander slipped that suggestion in, hoping Kaelen would take it seriously. Kaelen offered no reply. “At any rate, consider it. For now, either ensure you are not found at home, or remove yourself to a distant locale.” “V-very well...” “Alright, I am severing the connection.” “W-wait.” “...?” “Thank you, Lysander.” After a long hesitation, Kaelen’s voice came softly, trembling slightly. Lysander felt a chill run down his spine. What was this? He felt distinctly uncomfortable. “T-thank you for always interceding for me...” “It is nothing.” Lysander’s voice was stiff. “I merely... wished to express it. Thank you. A-until we meet again.” “Yes.” “...Farewell.” What “farewell”? Lysander did not bother to respond to the strange adieu and severed the connection. Just hearing Kaelen’s voice, infused with that peculiar, trembling gratitude, had been enough to send shivers through him, leaving him thoroughly unsettled. What transpired with Kaelen that night, Lysander did not know. All he did know was that from the next day onward, Kaelen resumed his attendance at Court. And within a week, the faint discolorations and puffiness characteristic of his youthful skin began to recede, disappearing entirely. Kaelen also ceased his insistent overtures to Lysander, his demeanor shifting dramatically. He offered a polite nod, a brief, impersonal glance, nothing more. He was present, but distant. This abrupt change in Kaelen’s behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Lysander’s meticulously ordered mind. Yet, when all the marks of Valerius’s peculiar attention finally vanished from Kaelen’s face, Lysander couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope – however unlikely it seemed, however much his discerning intellect whispered of deeper, more troubling currents. Then, two weeks later, Lord Valerius Alaric approached Lysander, entirely unbidden. “Thorne.” Lysander froze, his breath catching. “Lysander Thorne.” He did not look at Valerius, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead on the intricate patterns of the marble floor. But his lips felt as if they might part in a silent gasp at any moment. Could it be? Had Lord Valerius finally tired of Young Lord Kaelen?

Chapter 2.1: A Subtle Current