A whisper of dawn touched the high windows of my small chamber. My breath hitched, a faint gasp escaping as I rose. The tender ache in my jaw, a lingering testament to Lord Kael’s recent displeasure, had softened overnight. A bruise still bloomed beneath the skin, a muted violet against the pale canvas of my cheek, but its prominence had receded. It was a mark easily dismissed as a misstep on the polished palace stairs, a minor clumsiness Lysander Thorne was often accused of. Manageable.
A fragile lightness settled in my chest. I donned my simple, well-maintained tunic, its deep sapphire hue a stark contrast to the flamboyant silks of the court, and made my way through the labyrinthine corridors. Each stone archway, each hushed alcove, seemed to hold its breath. The air in the Imperial Palace’s Grand Scrivenerium, typically alive with the rustle of parchment and the scratch of quills, felt heavy today, thick with unspoken tension.
My gaze, an instinct honed by years of navigating subtle court currents, swept across the familiar faces. My stomach tightened. Theron was late. He often was, his small frame constantly hurrying, perpetually on the verge of being chided.
Then he appeared. His entrance was hesitant, a ripple of unease preceding him. My breath caught, held captive in my throat. I stood frozen, my meticulously prepared ink pot slipping a fraction in my grasp. The casual thought I’d entertained, the brief, uncharitable flicker of ‘serves him right,’ curdled into profound nausea. Guilt, a cold, sharp blade, pierced me.
Theron’s face was a ruin. A dark, swollen lump pulsed beneath his left eye, mirroring the shape my own cheek had held hours ago. His lower lip, cracked and scabbed, showed where the skin had split. A sickening wave of self-reproach washed over me. Such petty, childish malice, even in thought, was beneath the rigorous self-control I strove for. I despised myself for it.
*This cannot be…*
Theron’s eyes, wide and bruised, darted nervously around the chamber. Then, as if drawn by a cord stretched taut across the room, his gaze snagged on mine. For a protracted moment, he stared, an unreadable horror in his depths. He froze, a slight tremor passing through him, then wrenched his head away, hurrying to his usual, secluded desk. He avoided me entirely.
*By the Emperor’s grace, what happened?*
I instinctively sought the source of the oppressive atmosphere. My eyes found Lord Kael. He sat at his elevated writing desk, ostensibly engrossed in a scroll. Yet, his gaze, a glint of obsidian beneath lowered brows, was fixed on me. A silent, venomous threat, cold enough to chill the very marrow of my bones. He wanted me to understand. He wanted me to know.
*I should have feigned illness. I should have remained in my bed.* Regret, a bitter gall, coated my tongue.
From that morning, Theron, who had previously sought my quiet counsel and the occasional shared meal, became a ghost. He slipped away during the midday repast, always in the wake of Lord Kael, disappearing into the palace’s less frequented wings.
Left to my own devices, I found myself breaking bread with Caspian. A part of me, a small, rebellious flicker, yearned to follow them, to demand answers. But a deeper, more profound fear held me captive. I was terrified of what I might witness, of the confirmation of my darkest suspicions. Surely, Kael would not strike him again, not with such blatant disregard for courtly optics… Would he? It was not my place to intercede, not officially, but the image of Theron’s broken face haunted my periphery.
Caspian, oblivious to the storm raging within me, prattled on, his usual easy banter a jarring counterpoint to my internal turmoil.
“Did I not say the air was thick enough to chew on? I swear, a man could choke on the Emperor’s silence today.”
“You seemed quite unbothered, enjoying that sweet cream yesterday.” My voice was flat.
“Ah, but one must present a brave face, Lysander. A facade, a mask. My finest performance, I assure you.” Caspian winked, his smile too bright.
“Some masks are heavier than others.” I tapped his calf lightly with my foot, annoyance pricking at me. He rubbed his chin, a flicker of something uncharacteristically sheepish in his eyes. Or perhaps it was merely the refracted light from the window. I dismissed the thought.
---
Life possessed a cruel, capricious humor. From our first encounter, I had harbored no intention of cultivating a familiarity with Caspian. Indeed, his boisterous disposition and flippant remarks had grated on my precise nature. Yet, here we were, two unlikely companions, and he had become the closest thing to a confidante I possessed.
His lightheartedness, his seemingly irreverent perspective, held a curious power. It prevented me from drowning in the weighty currents of court life, in the endless calculations and veiled threats. Before, I had deemed those very qualities as shallow, evidence of an unserious mind. Now, I clung to that levity, a precarious lifeline against the suffocating pressure. Had Lord Kael and I remained bound by the fragile threads of our prior association, I would never have recognized the profound need for Caspian’s steadfast, if often bemused, presence.
In the ensuing days, Lord Kael began to withdraw from the general cohort of scribes and courtiers. Sometimes, he would vanish with Theron. Other times, a select few of the younger aides would accompany him. There were even instances when some explicitly refused, their faces etched with discomfort, shaking their heads with expressions of profound unease.
I encountered Ser Jaren scaling a low garden wall, an elaborate evasion of the Head Guard. He confided, with a strange mixture of amusement and apprehension, that Lord Kael had been instructing others to strike Theron, each delivering a single, calculated blow. My features contorted in disbelief, and Ser Jaren, sensing my horror, quickly added that he had been avoiding the group, citing a sudden, pressing interest in falconry. He then mentioned he was on his way to meet Master Alaric, a former associate of Kael’s who had since drifted away, and implored me not to misinterpret his involvement. With a final, uneasy wave, he vanished over the wall.
Master Alaric, though once a close associate of Lord Kael during their initial years at court, had found himself assigned to a different Imperial Bureau and their paths had since diverged.
During midday repast, Caspian and I procured chilled fruit custards from the palace kitchens, retreating to a quiet courtyard. The cold sweetness spread across my tongue, a fleeting balm to my frazzled nerves. Yet, beneath that ephemeral relief, a bitter, leaden knot of unease tightened its hold in my chest. I held my posture rigid, determined not to betray my disquiet.
“Is it to your liking?” Caspian, already halfway through his own brightly colored confection, eyed my custard with a glint of playful avarice. Half-teasing, I brought my spoon, still damp with my saliva, close to his mouth. Without hesitation, he grinned, a corner of his lip twitching, and took a substantial bite.
“You… you truly did that?” I stammered.
“You offered.”
“It’s… uncouth. And why such a prodigious bite?”
“Merely a taste.” Grinning, Caspian shrugged. The moment, in its simple absurdity, was peaceful. The crisp autumn air, a stark contrast to my internal turmoil, was clear and calm.
Where were Lord Kael and Theron now? Several secluded spots within the sprawling palace came to mind, places where surveillance was less rigorous, but I did not seek them out. Perhaps I feared what I might uncover.
I forced myself to think of other things. But the more I tried, the more acutely aware I became of the space Lord Kael occupied within my consciousness.
How long would it take to excise someone like him from my thoughts? What arduous labor would it demand? I had no answer. It felt akin to being adrift in an arid, boundless desert, not merely a desolate landscape, but a terrifying and unbearable emptiness.
Sometimes, I retreated, much like a meticulous scrivener struggling to decipher faint script. I would step back, attempting to comprehend the overwhelming truth of my circumstances. When the weight became too great, I would speak, haltingly, with Caspian. And that, it seemed, was that.
Then, abruptly, I addressed him.
“Caspian,” I began.
“Lysander?”
“…Do you believe blooms could ever grace a barren desert?” The question, laden with a raw emotion I rarely displayed, felt embarrassingly vulnerable as it left my lips. I scratched my temple awkwardly, but Caspian did not mock.
“They must.”
“…”
“Life is wretched enough without such impossibilities.”
Hearing those words from Caspian—a person I had never imagined capable of such depth—underscored the futility of my desperate hope. How much more time would I waste clinging to these meaningless sentiments?
“…Indeed. Life is wretched.”
Lord Kael. That useless, cruel man. Why did he seem so intent on breaking the loyal, tail-wagging creature I became in his presence? Lord Kael, who seemed to have abandoned every semblance of courtly decorum, now came and went from the scrivenerium as he pleased. And always, a shadowed presence at his side, was Theron.
As the situation grew increasingly conspicuous, the chamber buzzed with a mix of unease and veiled curiosity. It became clear: Lord Kael’s cruelty was escalating. And so was the simmering resentment towards him, a slow-burning fog spreading through our ranks. None of it boded well.
So, when I saw Lord Kael dragging Theron by the wrist down a less-traveled corridor, I stopped dead in my tracks. My gaze flickered between their faces before I finally spoke, my voice carefully modulated.
“Your Lord Father has voiced his concern for your recent absences.” It was neither an apology nor a plea—it was a calculated fabrication. Such was the extent of my pride. But given Lord Kael’s strained relationship with his distant, perpetually occupied father, he would likely not discern the lie. And even if he did, I had my escape route: I could always argue that, at this rate, his father *would* eventually have ample cause for concern.
“If displeasure must be dealt, let it fall only upon you. What grievance has Theron given?”
“Move.” The moment I uttered Theron’s name, Lord Kael’s eyes, cold as winter ice, locked onto mine. His glare was a physical weight, pressing against my chest until I felt it might shatter. I despised him. And yet, pitiful, broken Theron remained glued to Kael’s side, his tear-filled eyes wide, as though he might crumble at any moment.
“Unless you desire another lesson, like the last, move.”
“K-Kael, please,” Theron stammered, his voice trembling as he pleaded. Only then did Lord Kael’s voice cease. His gaze, now singular in its focus, shifted to Theron. All I could see was the rigid line of Kael’s back as he turned slightly away from me.
“As I said, your Lord Father worries—”
“…”
Theron, on the verge of weeping, clung to Lord Kael’s arm, attempting to restrain him. Witnessing that desperate, pathetic tableau was unbearable. The exquisite agony of it forced my eyes shut.
After a prolonged moment, Lord Kael looked at Theron, then turned and walked back into the scrivenerium. For the remainder of the day, he stayed there—a rare occurrence, mirroring his behavior weeks prior.
---
The long-anticipated journey to the Royal Conservatoire had arrived. A carriage, reserved specifically for the junior courtiers and scribes, awaited us. While a few grumbled about the interruption to their studies, most eagerly anticipated the chance to escape the palace’s usual strictures, if only for a single day.
No provisions were needed; we would return before dusk. The chaperoning Head Scrivener issued only a few perfunctory warnings before granting us leave.
We were no longer novices. There was no giddy excitement keeping us awake in our pallets. I approached the day with detached calm—leave without concern, return without incident. I had no inkling that this would be the day my carefully bottled frustrations would finally burst. I had anticipated a reckoning, eventually, but not with such abruptness.
Typically, I occupied the seat closest to Lord Kael whenever we journeyed beyond the main palace halls. After all, I had been, for a time, his most trusted confidant. I had not even considered Caspian’s seating, as we had never shared a formal transport before.
Initially, a thread of wariness had wound through me concerning Caspian. I harbored a fleeting fear that he might claim the seat nearest Lord Kael. In retrospect, such a thought was pathetic. Neither I nor Caspian would ultimately occupy that position.
Arriving at the carriage courtyard, I ascended the polished steps to claim our seats. The rear-most bench, reserved for five, was already occupied by a boisterous group, including Ser Jaren. He waved, then hesitated, a nervous gesture as he pointed towards Lord Kael’s usual perch.
“Lysander! There’s a space here!”
“…Ah, yes.”
Of course. It had always been my place. But today, I hesitated, my steps faltering as I neared Lord Kael. A sigh of relief escaped me when I saw the seat beside him remained empty. My throat tightened. A defiant spark flickered within me.
It was *my* place. My pride—the solitary, stubborn bastion I clung to—compelled me to take it, even after the fresh memory of Kael’s anger, fueled by Theron.
My fingers brushed the worn velvet of the seat, a moment’s pause. I glanced around the carriage’s interior, then quietly spoke.
“Lord Kael… this seat…”
“It is not yours. Find another place.” Lord Kael cut me off, his gaze fixed on the carriage entrance. Following his line of sight, I saw Theron, his slight frame tentative, making his way towards us. My fists clenched. The words withered on my tongue.
“…As you wish.” I tried to inject an air of indifference into my voice, though my heart felt as if it had been meticulously shredded.
I quickly retreated from the seat, my eyes sweeping the carriage for another spot. I found an empty space near Caspian’s group, directly in front of where he sat. Relieved, I hurried over, collapsing into the seat, and spoke without waiting for a response.
“Caspian, sit with me.”
No answer came. When I peered closer, I realized he was already slumbering. He always seemed to drift into sleep in the early hours, and today was no exception. His head rested against the window, bouncing gently with each subtle jolt of the carriage. Shaking my head at his utterly undignified posture, I slipped my purse between his head and the pane, then leaned back into the unforgiving seat. Across the aisle, I caught a glimpse of dark, neatly coiffed hair. It was Lord Kael’s—his height setting him apart from most of our peers, making him easily discernible. Though I could not clearly see their faces, I knew Theron was beside him.