A dull ache pulsed behind Lysander's eyes. He found himself tangled in the velvet sheets of his bed, a heavy stillness pressing down. Instinctively, his fingers had found the brass bolt on the chamber door, securing it before consciousness fully fled. A flicker of grim satisfaction, even in this fog, sparked within him.
Awareness seeped back, a slow, painful tide. His face throbbed, a numb, bruised landscape. He tried to lift an arm. Rust seemed to grind in his shoulder joints, sending a jolt of raw agony through bone and sinew. A gasp escaped his lips, thin and reedy.
Fingers, trembling, sought the source of the pain. Tender knots of flesh had hardened under his skin. He lay for a beat, breath catching, then pushed against the mattress, levers of pain protesting with every twitch. Upright on the bed's edge, he stared blankly at the wall, a vast emptiness in his chest. Then, a raw, ragged sound tore free. It was a sob, ripped from a throat already raw, rasping like dried parchment.
Rage ignited. He sprang up, scattering scrolls, overturning the delicate ivory inkwell from his writing desk. Books crashed, their leather bindings groaning. He wept and raged, a storm contained within four walls, until exhaustion buckled his knees. He sank to the polished stone floor, jaw clamped shut, eyes squeezed tight. But tears defied his will, hot rivers tracing tracks down his cheeks, his breath hitching, a broken thing.
He whispered, a curse ragged with despair: "By the Arch-Scribe's beard!"
What he truly yearned to erase was the night itself. Heavy glass of the window, he remembered, had been latched. Had the sounds of his degradation escaped? Could a passing guard, a curious page, have heard? Such a thought was a physical blow.
Theron. Lord Theron, that arrogant, cruel heir. And Lord Valerius, a silent, predatory witness. Why had they come? Why had they shattered his meticulously constructed world?
What Lord Theron had trampled, before Valerius's cold gaze, was not merely Lysander's body. It was his carefully guarded pride, his nascent hope for recognition, his very sense of self. The humiliation was a deeper wound than any blow, a searing brand that left him shaking with a silent, desperate anger.
Yet, even amidst this ruin, a grotesque concern surfaced: how did he appear? The irony was a bitter taste on his tongue.
Sudden quiet registered in his chambers. A glance at the ornate clock. Just past the morning bell for court attendance. A chilling thought pierced the haze: Maester Elara, the head steward, would soon arrive. To be discovered like this, undone and broken – it was unthinkable. A cold dread seeped into his bones.
His mind sharpened, cold and precise. No one could see him, not in this state. He scrambled to his feet, righting the fallen chair, sweeping the scattered scrolls and the shattered inkwell under his vast bed. He settled, feigning a calm he did not possess, and waited for the inevitable rap. It came, punctual as the dawn, moments later.
Lysander forced a voice, thin but steady. "Enter not, Maester Elara. A chill has taken me. I find myself indisposed and shall forgo my duties today."
A rustle beyond the door. "Oh? Should I summon the Court Healer, Lord Lysander?"
A wave of nausea churned his gut. "No. Not yet. Should my condition worsen, I will send word."
"As you wish, my Lord. May I prepare a restorative broth?"
"Leave it outside the door, if you please. My thanks."
"Of course, Lord Lysander. Rest well."
He would not attend court. He could not. Not now, perhaps not ever.
A small jar of physician's salve, half-forgotten, lay on his bedside table. He uncapped it, spreading the cool unguent over the tender bruises that blossomed beneath his tunic. Each touch sent fresh waves of anguish through him, a grim reminder. He yearned for the pain to simply vanish.
A jar slipped from his grasp, clattering softly to the floor. His body trembled, a fine, uncontrollable tremor. But the physical pain was eclipsed by the raw, gut-wrenching humiliation. It felt as though invisible, cruel hands pinched at his very essence. It was an absurdity, a mockery.
To conceal his ravaged face, he drew the heavy velvet drapes, plunging the room into a deep twilight. He burrowed beneath the thick blankets, seeking refuge. Only the heavy fabric offered a semblance of protection from the crushing despair.
Sleep. He needed to sleep. He squeezed his eyes shut, a desperate litany repeating in his mind: It would be fine. His parents were away. Lord Theron would not boast. It would be fine.
He pressed deeper into the soft confines of the bed, willing the world to disappear.
---
Most wretched, perhaps, was what he did next, after the tears had finally subsided beneath the blanket. First, a frantic scramble to delete every missive, every court summons, every record of Lord Valerius's presence from his memory. Then, with trembling hands, he accessed the archive's private ledgers, painstakingly altering the entries of late-night comings and goings, erasing all trace of the predawn hours. That night had become an unholy secret, a stain he could not allow anyone to witness.
---
He remained sequestered for three days. Despite his inner anguish, his body began a slow, grudging repair. Perhaps he had, in his daze, managed to shield the most prominent areas of his face, or perhaps his well-nourished noble constitution was more resilient than he'd imagined. Visible marks were few: dark bruises hidden beneath his tunic, nothing life-threatening. For those three days, he buried himself, weeping, ignoring every sealed message, every summons from the Court Scribes.
He thought he could endure, could hide until he was whole, but fate, it seemed, had other plans. His parents, the Lord and Lady of his house, returned unexpectedly from their estate in the Southern Marches. Panic seized him.
---
His mother's gaze, sharp and assessing, fixed on his face over the supper table. "Lysander, my son, what has happened to your countenance?"
"Oh, well..."
"Did you engage in a dispute? I recall Maester Elara relaying your poor health, a sudden chill."
His father's voice, usually a rumbling comfort, now held a dangerous edge. "You told us of illness, not brawls. Explain yourself, boy."
Lysander scrambled, his mind racing for a plausible falsehood. "I was indisposed, indeed, Father. A friend, a fellow apprentice in the archives, offered to retrieve a specific ancient text for me..."
"And?"
"And I... I met with an unfortunate incident on my way to collect it."
"What manner of incident leaves a noble's heir thus marred? Who was involved?"
His father's voice hardened. Lysander waved his hands dismissively, feigning nonchalance. "No, truly, it was nothing. A mere misunderstanding. We have already settled the matter."
"Come, Lysander. Tell us the full truth. Why this 'misunderstanding'?"
"...Well..."
After a moment's desperate thought, a truly pathetic fabrication surfaced. "I... I perhaps mocked his recent rejection by a certain Lady of the minor houses. A clumsy jest, ill-timed."
"What?"
To his surprise, the ridiculousness of the explanation seemed to diffuse his father's anger. A disbelieving sigh escaped the Lord's lips, followed by a sudden, booming laugh. "Are you young men naught but characters from a minstrel's romance?"
"No, Father..."
"Such behavior is beneath a Lord of our House. Do not repeat it."
"...As you command."
It helped, too, that his injuries, though painful, were not overtly disfiguring. The incident, mercifully, blew over.
But then, a strange, unsettling note. As they ate, his mother's casual voice drifted across the heavy oak table. "Speaking of friends, are you still much in the company of Lord Theron these days?"
"What?"
"He seems not to visit your study as frequently as before, does he?"
For a woman rarely present in the Court, her observation struck Lysander with chilling accuracy. Mere mention of Lord Theron's name brought a sour, metallic taste to his mouth. He snapped back, irritability lacing his tone. "It is as it always was, Mother."
As it always was, he thought, a bitter, silent scoff. By the Arch-Scribe's beard, no. He felt a wave of shame so potent, so humiliating, that he wished the very floor would swallow him whole.
His mother continued, oblivious. "Did another young Lord visit recently? Maester Elara mentioned it. A new acquaintance, perhaps?"
Lysander's body went rigid. Slowly, his head turned towards the antechamber, where Maester Elara moved with practiced grace, supervising the clearing of platters. A cold tremor ran through him. Had she heard? Could she have heard anything that night? Was it possible she had been the one to witness his degradation?
"Lysander? Is something amiss?"
Startled by his mother's gentle query, he blurted out a response without conscious thought. "Yes. We are... we are well acquainted."
What his mother said next, he could not recall. Sheer, paralyzing terror rooted him, erasing all else. He remembered only the unsettling glint in her eyes when she had spoken of Lord Theron. The kind of look she wore when conveying ill tidings.
Why? The question spiraled through his mind, dragging him deeper into a fear he could not articulate. His fingers grew cold, icy to the touch. No. It was impossible. Maester Elara's hearing was notoriously poor, and her quarters were in a separate wing, far from his chambers. She could not have heard. But why then, this pervasive sense of wrongness? All he could do was offer a silent, desperate prayer to a god he no longer truly believed in.
---
Three more days passed, his parents pressing him gently but firmly to resume his studies. He dreaded it with every fiber of his being. But to delay further would only confirm his mother's suspicions of a deeper issue than a 'minor scuffle.' That, above all, he had to avoid. So, he forced a semblance of cheer onto his bruised face, a brittle mask. Nothing was amiss. Everything was as it should be.
Days leading to his return were consumed by a gnawing worry: what if he encountered Lord Theron? Or Lord Valerius? Would Theron assault him again, perhaps openly, in the archives, or in the Council chambers, before the entire Court – or worse, before Valerius again? Would he continue to trample Lysander's dignity into the ancient flagstones?
Mere thought curdled his stomach, a bitter, sour bile rising in his throat.
When he finally arrived at the Grand Archives, he hung his satchel from the side of his customary desk, scattering a few loose parchments over it. He then sank into his high-backed chair, staring blankly at the polished wood as the murmurs of approaching courtiers grew louder in the main hall. Moment he heard footsteps drawing near his alcove, he buried his head in his arms, resting it heavily on the desk.
If he feigned sleep, no one would immediately notice the subtle disfigurement of his face. Not for a time, at least. But he had overlooked one critical detail: the desk adjacent to his belonged to Seraphin. Seraphin, a courtier renowned for his sharp wit and even sharper eyes, who possessed an uncanny ability to read a room, yet often chose to ignore its social graces.
Seraphin arrived, a shadow falling over Lysander's desk. A hand, surprisingly strong, slipped between Lysander's shoulder and neck, and fingers, cool and firm, tilted his chin upward. Lysander had no time to resist. He was forced to meet Seraphin's appraising gaze, his bruised face laid bare. Seraphin's eyebrow arched, a silent question. Then, his voice, a low, precise murmur: "By the Scribe's ink, Lysander. What in the Abyss happened to your face?"
"...It is nothing."
"Did you stumble again, perhaps, fleeing a particularly complex scroll?"
"Something of the sort. A minor fall."
"Indeed?"
Seraphin clicked his tongue, a soft, dry sound, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. Then, without warning, he released Lysander's face. Lysander's head nearly struck the desk with a dull thud.
"Damn you, Seraphin!"
He glared, startled, but Seraphin merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, his gaze distant, lost in some private calculation. Lysander had no way of deciphering the thoughts behind those shrewd eyes.
Neither Lord Theron nor Lord Valerius appeared in the Archives that day.
But during Lysander's absence, a whisper had begun to ripple through the Court. A rumor, light as parchment dust, yet sharp as a quill's point.
"Did you hear? Lord Theron... that arrogant heir actually..."
No one directly questioned Lysander about his injuries. But the lingering, curious glances, the hushed conversations that abruptly ceased as he passed, were proof enough. The rumor had already slithered its way through the gilded halls.
Perhaps, he thought, a perverse twist of fortune, he was luckier than he deserved.
---
A story coursed through the servant's quarters and the minor noble circles: Lysander and Lord Theron had a profound falling out. And, more shockingly, Lord Theron harbored an unnatural, unrequited infatuation for Lysander.
"That arrogant fool, Theron, I tell you, he was absolutely smitten with the little archivist mouse."
"What 'archivist mouse'? Ah, wait. By the Grand Council! My apologies, I cannot cease my laughter."
"He does resemble a startled little mouse, doesn't he? Always scurrying in the shadows."
Hushed conversations in the antechambers, the subtle snickers in the common rooms, were rife with such pronouncements.
"All those who believed themselves close to Lord Theron have been utterly betrayed, I hear, feeling their influence diminished, their standing threatened by this... scandal."