A slight puffiness marred Lord Alaric Thorne’s jawline, a tell-tale sign of a night steeped in revelry. I smoothed a damask cloth over the polished rosewood of his breakfast table, then placed a chilled silver goblet, condensation weeping down its sides, beside his elbow. Inside, a tonic of crushed ice and bitter herbs, meant to scour the remnants of claret and carousing from his system. Without fail, such remedies became my quiet duty on mornings after Alaric’s more… spirited engagements. His face, though still handsome, showed a certain pallor, a testament to his excesses.
“Chase away the shadows, Alaric,” I murmured, my voice a low register that barely carried across the lavish antechamber.
He merely grunted, a sound of languid contentment. “Thanks, Julian.”
“Was your father not… particular, this morning?” I asked, a subtle probe.
Alaric waved a dismissive hand. “Thanks to your meticulous ‘adjustments’ to the ledgers, the old Duke remains blissfully ignorant.” A faint smirk touched his lips, fleeting and sharp.
I simply pursed my own, a familiar tightness in my chest. Such deceptions, for him, were second nature. For me, a quiet betrayal of the order I so revered.
As I turned to retrieve a discarded gazette, my gaze snagged on a figure slumped in a velvet chair nearby. Lord Cassian Blackwood. He wasn't usually so unkempt, but his dark hair lay disarrayed against the crimson fabric, a crumpled, half-read treatise resting on his chest. My jaw tensed. Cassian, as was often the case, occupied a proximity to Alaric that pricked a familiar, dull ache of resentment in my gut. A tall man, Cassian, with an effortless grace even in slumber, always eclipsing my own slight frame. That closeness, a spatial constant, was a persistent, subtle torture.
Swallowing the bitter tang of my own inadequacy, I addressed the room at large, though my eyes lingered on Cassian’s still form. “When did he arrive?”
Alaric stirred his tonic with a silver spoon. “No notion. Already here when I staggered in.”
“How can one who retired early last eve appear so… derelict?” A faint tremor ran through my voice, betraying the question’s casual veneer.
A soft rustle. The treatise slipped to the floor, revealing Cassian’s half-lidded eyes. His gaze, narrowed and heavy-lidded, swept over Alaric and then to me. A slow, silent yawn stretched his mouth wide, revealing an almost childish exhaustion.
“…Told myself a single hour more with the star charts,” he drawled, his voice rough with sleep. “A foolish wager with the dawn.”
Yawns, it seemed, were undeniably contagious. Alaric mirrored the gesture, stretching his jaw before scrunching his face into a wry grin.
“This one,” Alaric mused, nudging Cassian with a boot. “Seems a rogue, but keeps hours more disciplined than the Arch-Scribe himself.”
“Indeed,” Cassian muttered, his eyes closing again. “Do endeavor to be less… boisterous, Alaric.”
“Consider it done, you sour-faced scholar.” Alaric chuckled.
Cassian, perhaps too weary to retaliate, simply leaned his head back against the chair. My eyes met his for a brief, unsettling moment. He shifted his gaze towards the leaded-glass window, then back to me. A strange prickle ran beneath my skin. I scratched a shoulder, then resolutely turned my attention to Alaric.
The antechamber, in these early hours, held a deceptive calm. Soon, other junior courtiers and aides, like Master Leoric and Master Gallus, would drift in. They’d gravitate toward Alaric, drawn by his magnetic charm, hanging on his every embellished anecdote of last night’s revelries. The predictable morning ritual: chatter, feigned laughter, and, eventually, the summons to the Duke’s morning address.
For men considered the pinnacle of Duchy society, their mornings began with an oddly juvenile cadence.
But beneath the polished surface, these tales of hedonistic conquests and reckless wagers often left a faint, unpleasant residue in my mind. Still, I played my part, offering a thin, polite smile, pretending to be entertained.
Despite my internal reservations, I had always considered these mornings tolerable. Until, perhaps, a month past. A small, unsettling shift. The reason, entirely, was Master Theron.
“Master Theron approaches,” Leoric whispered, his voice laced with disdain as the young man entered the antechamber.
“Gods, the sight of him,” Gallus added, openly pointing. “Does he possess no shred of dignity, parading that pallor after his… latest humiliation?”
At the tip of Gallus’s finger, Master Theron shuffled through the arched doorway. He was small, his frame almost swallowed by his plain, dark tunic, his head bowed, dark hair obscuring his face. He moved towards a quiet corner, placing a worn satchel on a small table, then immediately slumped into a chair, burying his face in his arms. Watching his hunched figure, a sigh, laden with something akin to irritation, escaped my lips.
Theron was, to my meticulous eye, pathetically withdrawn. His voice, when heard, was reedy. His frame, fragile. As the murmurs of the room swelled, Alaric’s gaze, sharp and cold, fixed on Theron’s back. He muttered a low, guttural curse beneath his breath. I hated it. That particular, honed sensitivity of his, always seeking a target—it unnerved me.
Snatching the discarded gazette from the table, Alaric balled it in one hand. Then, with a casual flick of the wrist, he hurled it. A soft thud. It struck Theron’s bowed head. Theron flinched, his head dropping lower onto his arms.
“By the Saints,” Alaric growled, his voice carrying clearly. “Do not pollute the morning with that… abject misery, Master Theron.”
Theron did precisely as he was commanded, burying his face deeper. Yet, Alaric watched him with a simmering disdain, then kicked the leg of his own table, a sharp crack against the stone floor.
“Speak up, boy! Do you not possess a tongue?”
When Alaric abruptly rose and strode forward, Theron, still hunched, stammered a barely audible reply. “Y-yes, my Lord.”
“Raise your head. Look me in the eye. Speak with conviction.”
Did Alaric even hear the ridiculousness of his own demands? The sheer absurdity of it made a bitter, hollow laugh catch in my throat.
Unheeding, or perhaps uncaring, Alaric advanced upon Theron. With every measured step, the unpleasant sensation within me grew, vivid and raw.
Alaric closed the distance. Just that movement alone made me feel as if I was losing my grip on the precise, ordered emotions I worked so tirelessly to maintain.
This was not the same sort of jealousy I felt when Alaric grew close to Cassian. Instantly, I knew. Deep down, I harbored something just as dark, just as predatory, as Alaric’s. That was why watching Alaric with Cassian eventually became bearable, a familiar ache. But his interactions with Theron unsettled me more profoundly with each passing day. My hands began to tremble. I clenched them tightly, burying them in the folds of my tunic to hide the betraying tremor.
Alaric kicked Theron’s table, a sharp, violent blow. The small table rattled, almost toppling, and Theron jolted upright, eyes wide, voice still unsteady.
“F-forgive me, my Lord.”
Alaric stood over him, silent, his gaze fixed on Theron’s face. Theron’s eyes glistened, on the verge of tears. Yet, in that moment, it felt as though I was the one who might break.
Alaric didn't demand pointless errands from Theron. But he always, always kept his eyes on him. If Theron excused himself during a morning lecture, Alaric would still track his retreating figure, even while engaged in conversation with us. I knew, because I never stopped watching Alaric.
To be honest, my first impression of Master Theron had been unremarkable. His skin, perhaps a little sallow, but his youthful features gave him an open, amenable aspect. When he smiled, it was genuinely warm, and even his neutral expression carried a quiet brightness.
Before Alaric began his torments, no one truly disliked Theron. He seemed a scholar, perhaps, or a junior scribe from a provincial house, grown in an environment of quiet affection. While not overtly sociable, preferring to spend his time engrossed in scrolls, there was no trace of unease or discomfort in his demeanor.
Most considered Theron an agreeable fellow. Since he never flaunted any perceived advantages, he earned even more quiet approbation. Humble, quiet, bright, and inexplicably pleasant to be near—that was Master Theron.
But I hadn't particularly cared for him from the start. I didn’t hate him either. I simply felt nothing. To say he wasn’t even a mark on my mental charts would be more accurate. Yet, whenever I spoke with Alaric, or Cassian, or the other courtiers, and Theron’s name arose, I would find myself offering a casual lie: “Oh, him? He’s quite acceptable. Agreeable enough.”
Alaric, much like myself, had initially paid Theron no mind. Alaric was never one to concern himself with the comings and goings of lesser figures in the Duchy’s social landscape. After Theron arrived at the Collegium in the spring, he and Alaric didn't exchange a single word until early summer. That was how things had been.
But one day, something shifted. A small, sharp deviation formed in the predictable flow of events. It happened just after the midday meal. Looking back, I don’t think I have ever regretted a single action as much as what transpired that day.
Theron, as was his habit, had claimed a secluded corner in the Collegium’s library during the afternoon break, engrossed in a bound volume. He was precisely the sort to lose himself in ancient texts. On the other hand, I possessed a tendency toward a subtle, intellectual vanity, a desire to be perceived as cultivated, even if my true passions lay in the precise lines of a map.
That’s why, when I chanced upon Theron, I struck up a conversation about the celestial chart he was meticulously annotating. I wasn't much of a scholar in the traditional sense; pretending to be well-versed in obscure astronomical lore was more my style.
“You have a particular affinity for the heavens, it seems?” I asked, my voice carefully modulated.
He looked up, startled. “Ah. Yes, I suppose.”
At the time, Theron and I were still distant acquaintances. Perhaps that made the interaction easier, less fraught with the usual social anxieties.
“Are you nearing completion of that particular celestial survey?”
“Well, I am close to the final quadrant.”
“Then, perhaps, set it aside. The conclusions, if I recall, prove rather… unsatisfying. A survey where the final theories rather undermine the elegance of the data.”
“You have studied this one before?”
“Indeed, some time ago.”
To satisfy my pretense of intellectual prowess, I always sought out critiques and commentaries on any prominent works, ensuring I had something insightful to offer in future discussions. Drawing on those remembered snippets, I offered a summary—not a true analysis, merely enough to sound informed. Theron smiled, a genuine, unaffected warmth radiating from him. It caught me off guard.
“You are the first I have met, aside from the Collegium’s Master Astrologer, who has read this survey in full.”
“Oh… is that so?” I replied, a flicker of surprise.
“Yes. But I intend to complete it regardless. Pondering why the conclusions ultimately failed to satisfy is, to my mind, part of the intrigue.”
“Well, of course. Divergent opinions are the very crucible of discovery.”
“Hearing you say that, Master Valerius, makes me look forward to it all the more.”
That smile still lingers in my memory, a faint, unsettling echo. Was it some instinctive unease I felt even then?
After that day, Master Theron began to seek me out, frequently. Though I found it a minor annoyance, and often wondered, *Why me, of all people?*, I never outright rebuffed him. Theron, with his earnest demeanor and quiet reputation, was not the worst person to keep within one’s social orbit.
After all, beyond the mandated texts of law and history, such detailed celestial surveys were practically forbidden for those of our station, unless one pursued a specific, scholarly track. Even if one had the inclination, such weighty tomes were little more than glorified doorstops to most of the younger courtiers. For Theron, I was likely the only individual who could speak of such things with even a semblance of understanding.
That day, which I now recollect with a creeping dread, was one of those routine encounters. Yet, it also happened to be one of the most ill-fated days in a series of events that would unravel so much.
Lord Cassian Blackwood was, indirectly, to blame. To this very day, I cannot fathom why I acted as I did. Why I, a man who meticulously avoided meddling in others’ affairs, chose to insert myself where I did not belong. Why Cassian, of all people, had left his most recent celestial observation log, a scroll detailed with star charts and calculation, lying open for any passing eye to see.
I, who loathed having my own cartographic drafts scrutinised, naturally assumed Cassian would desire his own work to remain private. So, I reached out, a flicker of courtesy, to roll the parchment and conceal it. That’s when I saw it: his projected trajectories for the Comet of Lyra. A bold, precise calculation.
I blinked in disbelief, checking the accompanying notes. They confirmed the accuracy, a startlingly elegant solution. It was the first time one of my preconceptions was so thoroughly shattered. It was a small, internal shock to realise Cassian, whom I often dismissed as merely Alaric’s erudite foil, possessed such formidable talent. Naturally, that made me think of Alaric’s own haphazard approach to anything requiring sustained, quiet precision. Now, *he* was the true dilettante. A man who would sketch a constellation with a careless flourish and dismiss the need for rigorous, mathematical proof. Alaric had never once achieved a truly respectable feat of meticulous observation.
Perhaps that was why I felt such a confusing mix of emotions—like I’d unearthed a rare, flawed jewel amidst a heap of familiar stones. A man I’d once merely tolerated, now proved more significant than the man I so ardently served. That strange realisation must have unmoored me, because I did something I normally never would have.
It was nothing grand. I simply retrieved a nearby quill and, with a subtle hand, scribbled a short note in the margin of Cassian’s log.
“Focus on the nebula formations. Your Lyra trajectory is sound. You’ll chart a new passage soon enough. Well done. —J. Valerius.
P.S. Forgive my presumption in viewing your notes. I merely sought to tidy the table and glimpsed your impressive work.”
The arrogance, I knew, of evaluating someone else’s grade and offering unsolicited counsel, made my cheeks warm with a faint flush. So, I rambled, hoping to justify myself.
I cannot say why I even wrote it in the first place. At the time, I must have been utterly out of my mind. Looking back, it was clear this was the first, irrevocable mistake in what would become a series of agonizing entanglements. Every mess, grand or small, begins with a poorly fastened first button.
If I hadn’t penned that note, I wouldn’t have encountered Master Theron, carrying his weighty celestial survey, a few moments later.
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