A day later, Lysander discovered the note tucked into his personal scrivener’s cubby, nestled beneath a sheaf of court mandates. It was a single slip of vellum, folded with a precise, almost timid hand.
“*Might you spare a moment in the lesser annex of the Scriptorium, before the afternoon’s scholarly colloquy?*”
Lysander’s brow furrowed. He considered it, then dismissed the thought of any grand significance. Such summons were common enough in the court; a junior acolyte seeking guidance, perhaps, or a chamberlain with a minor petition. No, it was nothing more. The Imperial Court was a gilded cage, not a haven for personal affections. His own standing was too fragile to entertain such whims.
He had nearly forgotten the missive amidst the day’s meticulous copying of royal edicts. Yet, as the hour for the colloquy approached, a quiet disquiet nudged him. With a sigh, he set aside his quill and made his way through the hushed, echoing corridors.
Dust motes danced in the sparse light filtering through the grimy panes of the lesser annex. A faint scent of aged parchment and forgotten incense clung to the air. There, amidst stacks of neglected folios, stood Aethel. The young acolyte, whose delicate script Lysander had subtly praised in past months, fidgeted by a shadowed shelf, gnawing on his lower lip.
“Aethel?” Lysander’s voice was a low murmur, barely disturbing the dust. The acolyte’s small head snapped up, his dark eyes wide and startled. Aethel offered a hesitant, almost fragile bow. His hands twisted at his sides, betraying a deep anxiety.
Lysander felt a surge of unease. He disliked drawing attention, especially in such a secluded, therefore suspicious, corner of the Scriptorium. Whispers were the court’s true currency. He wished to return to his solitary, safe work, to the comforting rhythm of his quill on vellum.
“What is it, acolyte? The colloquy begins soon.” Lysander’s tone, though outwardly calm, held an edge of impatience. He could ill afford to miss the gathering, nor be seen in a tête-à-tête with a junior member of the scribal order. Such perceived intimacy could be misconstrued, interpreted as ambition or, worse, a hidden agenda.
Aethel’s gaze darted around the dim room, his face a canvas of indecision. He chewed his lip, a tiny bead of blood forming. His hands clenched and unclenched, as if grasping for invisible words. Each time he seemed ready to speak, his mouth snapped shut, a silent battle raging within him.
Lysander’s irritation pricked at him, a dull ache behind his eyes. He had never actively disliked Aethel, but the acolyte’s perpetual timidity often chafed at his own frayed nerves. Every hesitant movement, every drawn-out pause, felt like a deliberate provocation. Lysander knew he was being unfair, yet he could not quell the rising tide of frustration. It was not Aethel he was truly angry with, perhaps, but the stifling confines of his own life, the constant strain of courtly pretense.
“Aethel,” Lysander pressed, his voice taut, “I must depart. If you have something to convey, speak it now.” He almost wanted to pry open the boy’s mouth and pluck the words out himself.
Just as Aethel seemed to gather his courage, a sharp *thud* reverberated through the annex. The door, previously ajar, was now flung wide. Prince Kaelan stood framed in the doorway, his chest heaving, his rich velvet tunic slightly disheveled. Kaelan’s eyes, usually a cold, calculating grey, were alight with a terrifying intensity. They did not settle on Lysander, but pierced Aethel.
“Huff… huff…”
Kaelan had run. The realization settled like a cold stone in Lysander’s gut. He pictured the Prince tearing through the palace corridors, driven by a frantic urgency, a suffocating heat.
With long, purposeful strides, Kaelan entered the annex. Lysander felt his hand, which had been unconsciously rubbing his temple, drop to his side. Kaelan’s gaze flickered between Aethel and Lysander, a savage fury etched on his aristocratic features. His fists, clenching and unclenching, were a silent threat.
“What are you doing here?” Kaelan’s voice was a low growl, directed at no one, yet encompassing everything. Lysander felt a sickening clench in his stomach. Outwardly, he remained still, a perfect image of detached composure. But inside, his nerves screamed.
After a long, agonizing pause, Kaelan’s eyes finally locked onto Lysander. It was a gaze that Lysander knew all too well, one that filled him with a bitter resentment. *Please, do not look at me like that.* Lysander wanted to shout. *Blame Aethel, for he summoned me. Why do you turn that burning scorn upon me, your acquaintance, your occasional confidant? I was merely an unwilling participant in this charade.* Yet the thoughts remained trapped behind his teeth.
Kaelan’s eyes were not filled with passion, Lysander realized, but with a terrible cocktail of rage, jealousy, and a madness born of obsession. It was the face of a man deranged by a love so twisted it became a sickness. Lysander found it both pitiful and utterly despicable.
“What are you doing here with him!” Kaelan roared, the silence of the Scriptorium shattered.
*You are pathetic, Kaelan. Utterly pathetic.* Lysander met his furious gaze, unblinking. Yet, a cold tremor snaked through him. In that moment, he realized the truly pathetic one was not Kaelan, but himself.
Before Lysander could even fully grasp the thought, Kaelan’s long stride had brought him within arm’s reach. The world tilted. A sharp, explosive crack echoed in the enclosed space. Lysander’s vision swam, a blinding flash of white.
His body toppled, landing with an undignified thud on the cold flagstones. Only then, as a searing pain blossomed across his cheekbone, did his mind register what had occurred.
“No… he wouldn’t…”
Kaelan had struck him. Prince Kaelan had actually struck him. Lysander lay there, touching his throbbing cheek with trembling fingers. Disbelief warred with a crushing humiliation. *How could you? How could you do this to me?*
“L-Lysander!” Aethel’s terrified gasp cut through the haze.
“You worm! I told you to call me Prince! No, do not speak my name at all, you craven fool!” Kaelan shrieked, his voice raw with fury. He spun, his eyes blazing at Aethel, who recoiled, face pale with terror.
“I-I’m sorry, Your Highness! I am truly sorry!” Aethel stammered, tears welling in his eyes.
“You promised me! You swore! Damn you!” Kaelan spat, his hand seizing Aethel’s arm. Aethel stumbled back, on the verge of breakdown. Lysander felt a bitter taste in his mouth. *He* was the one who should be crying, not Aethel.
Tears pricked at Lysander’s own eyes, threatening to spill. Mercifully, before his composure could completely shatter, Kaelan cursed again, violently, and dragged the sobbing Aethel from the annex. The door swung shut with a soft click, leaving Lysander alone in the dim, dusty room.
Silence descended once more, thick and suffocating. A sliver of late afternoon sunlight streamed through a high window, illuminating motes of dust in the air. Something inside Lysander gave way. The rigid dam holding back his carefully cultivated detachment burst, and tears, hot and bitter, coursed down his cheeks.
He hated everything. Aethel, who had drawn him into this sordid drama. Kaelan, who had dared to lay a hand upon him. He wished them both banished, erased from his sight. He felt like a wretched fool, reduced to a mere pawn in their twisted machinations.
Lysander pushed himself to his feet, a dull ache throbbing in his jaw. He bypassed the afternoon colloquy, finding a secluded servants’ passage. He returned to his private chambers, claiming a sudden, debilitating migraine to Lyra, his loyal housekeeper. His swollen, reddened face made the excuse terribly convincing, and Lyra, bless her discreet heart, simply nodded, her expression softening with genuine concern.
*****
Upon reaching his bed, Lysander collapsed, seeking oblivion in sleep. He awoke hours later, his cheek a landscape of throbbing pain and a sickly purplish bruise. Out of habit, he checked the small, hidden compartment where confidential missives were occasionally left. A crisp, sealed scroll bore the elegant cipher of Lord Valerius, a powerful and calculating courtier, whose influence Lysander could not ignore.
“*Heard you slipped away early from the Scriptorium. Are all well?*” The message, though formally penned, held an undercurrent of sardonic inquiry. Lysander bristled. He tapped a nail against the scroll. *‘Slipped away.’ Valerius misses nothing.* He penned a reply, terse and neutral.
“*A trifling ill disposition. Nothing more.*” He sealed it, instructing Lyra to dispatch it immediately. He did not wish anyone to discover the true cause of his distress, of the brutal strike. The thought of such a public humiliation, compounded by the involvement of Aethel, was unbearable.
*Valerius, showing concern? What game is he playing?*
He pushed the thought away. Hours later, a wave of profound melancholy washed over him. Even Valerius’s calculated inquiry felt suffocating. Other acquaintances had sent polite inquiries via palace runners, but none offered the solace he craved. No one searching for him was Kaelan. He was a fool. An utter, pathetic fool.
Yet, even knowing the truth, Lysander lay there, doing what he did best: closing his eyes, turning a blind eye to the stark reality.
“Perhaps… perhaps Aethel and I are not so different after all,” he whispered, the words a grotesque, twisted thought. A selfish, wicked, childish hope entwined with it. While staring at the intricately carved ceiling, another message appeared at his chamber door, slid beneath the heavy wood. It was an unsealed slip, the script hesitant, recognizable now as Aethel’s.
“*Lysander, are you gravely ill?*”
Lysander frowned. Only a select few were permitted to address him so informally, and Aethel was not among them. His earlier exasperation returned. He recalled a rare instance where he had helped Aethel with a complex cipher, exchanging private channels for urgent messages. He had forgotten. Before he could fully process it, another, then another, arrived.
“*I am deeply sorry. Truly, it is all my fault.*”
“*Forgive me.*”
“*Please, forgive me.*”
Whether three words or four, each one made a scream rise in Lysander’s throat. With a guttural cry, he crumpled the slips of vellum and flung them against the ornate wall. *How did this wretched acolyte even have the temerity?*
He cursed his own foolish leniency, the idiotic compassion that had led him to offer Aethel a means of contact. To vent his frustration, Lysander pounded his fists against the soft, embroidered silk of his bed for a long while, until his arms ached with weariness and he drifted into an exhausted, fretful sleep. Just before his mind fully succumbed, one final, unbidden thought lingered:
*Please, do not hate me.* How ironic. He had hated him for months, for years, for a lifetime.
When he woke the next morning, his face felt as though a swollen gourd had replaced his cheek.
*****
Lysander feigned a persistent ague, skipping his court duties for the day. No matter how diligently he pursued his scholarly endeavors, he possessed insufficient fervor to present himself with such a disfigurement. Lyra, ever solicitous, brought him a light repast: a thin, spiced broth and steamed greens. She chastised him gently, reminding him to exercise more caution, to avoid unnecessary ‘falls.’ He swallowed the bland meal in haste, barely tasting it.
As he reached for a goblet of spiced wine, Lyra returned to clear the dishes. With a delicate porcelain plate in one hand, she spoke softly.
“Lysander, a visitor awaits below.”
“A visitor?” A tremor, unexpected and potent, shot through him. Before he could identify the nascent emotion, his mind had already conjured an image. *Could it be… Kaelan?*
It seemed a wild, improbable fantasy, yet not entirely impossible. Few from the court visited his private chambers. Among his acquaintances, only a handful even knew the precise location within the vast palace complex. If it were Kaelan, then surely, he must have come to apologize, a pang of remorse finally piercing his princely arrogance. Kaelan had never struck him before, not once. Yes, he must have been wracked with worry, with guilt.
“Yes, Lyra. Show them up, please.”
The fantasy solidified into a fragile certainty. Even as Lysander chastised himself for such foolish hope, a small, undeniable warmth bloomed in his chest. Despite everything, he was still important to Kaelan in some way. The thought, irrational as it was, filled him with a strange, intoxicating comfort. He turned towards the door to his chambers, his pulse quickening with an almost childlike anticipation.
But the figure that Lyra ushered through the doorway was not who he had expected.
“Thorne. Looking rather well, I see.” Lord Valerius, his sharp features arranged in a languid, cynical smirk, leaned against the doorframe. In his hand, he held a small, exquisitely carved wooden box. His smirk faltered, however, as his gaze fell upon Lysander’s swollen, bruised face.
“By the gods, what happened to your cheek?” His tone, for once, was genuinely sharp, devoid of its usual mocking lilt.
Lysander felt his knees buckle, the sudden, crushing disappointment a physical blow. *How could Valerius know where I reside?*
“A… a clumsy fall,” Lysander replied, his voice flat, devoid of inflection.
Valerius’s brow furrowed, his lips twisting in that familiar manner that preceded a cutting remark. “You truly are a walking disaster, aren’t you, Thorne?”
Lysander offered no argument. He merely rubbed his aching cheek. A fresh wave of humiliation washed over him. He was such a fool. Kaelan did not consider him important. And here he was, wagging his metaphorical tail like a hopeful cur, like a complete imbecile.
“Here. A small restorative.” Valerius held out the carved box. Lysander accepted it, opening the lid to reveal a delicate glass vial of potent, clear cordial. He examined the intricate silver filigree stopper, identifying the rare ingredients from its faint, earthy scent.
“Aetherium cordial. Potent.”
“Is it? Merely picked it up. Didn’t pay much mind.”
“Naturally. Why would you?”
“Now, that’s unkind. What are you truly doing here, Valerius?”
“What do you imagine? Came to check on a… friend. May I enter, or shall we conduct our pleasantries in the hall?”
“Wait, Lord Valerius!”
Without hesitation, Valerius’s long legs carried him across the threshold and into Lysander’s private space. His gaze swept over the meticulously arranged scrolls, the polished darkwood furniture.
“Where do you keep your private archives?” Valerius asked, already striding deeper into the chamber.
“Lord Valerius, where are you going?”
“Where else? Your chambers are hardly a labyrinth, Thorne.”
Lysander had no retort. Valerius was right. All chambers, no matter how grand, ultimately held the same predictable spaces. Lysander, feeling an awkward mix of resentment and weary resignation, followed Valerius, who seemed intent on inspecting every corner of his intimate, vulnerable refuge.