A week spun by, each day a meticulous replica of the last. Lysander moved through the sun-dappled corridors of the High Court, a phantom in his own life. He spent hours amidst the ancient scrolls of the Royal Archives, a haven he preferred to the court’s glittering, predatory gaze. Lord Aethelred, a figure of imposing presence and even greater infamy, moved with his own retinue, a gilded cage of minor nobles and eager supplicants. Lysander feigned indifference. He cultivated an air of deep scholarly preoccupation, as if the political machinations of Veridia were but footnotes in the grand tome of history, rather than the living drama he quietly obsessed over. His primary source of fragmented truths remained Lord Caspian. Caspian, a younger son of a middling house, possessed a shrewd mind and an even shrewder tongue. One afternoon, Lysander found him in a quiet alcove of the scholars’ common room, hunched over a complex clockwork puzzle box. Its intricate gears whirred softly beneath Caspian’s quick, precise fingers. Lysander settled onto a low bench nearby, feigning interest in a dusty chronicle. "Heard any fresh whispers from the Grand Hall, Caspian?" Lysander's voice was carefully casual, almost too soft for the question he truly meant. Caspian’s gaze never left the delicate mechanism. A small, almost imperceptible click indicated a successful turn. "Aethelred? Still in his usual haunts. Carousing in the Lower Galleries, I imagine." His tone was bored, dismissive. Lysander’s gut tightened. That answer, or lack thereof, always left a bitter taste. "That wretched boar," Lysander muttered, under his breath. He understood the raw, untamed current that ran through Aethelred, a primal force barely contained by courtly decorum. Aethelred was a beast in human skin, driven by instinct, emotion, and an almost savage will to dominate. "More likely a formal introduction, this time," Caspian corrected, twisting his torso to access a particularly stubborn cog. "Lord Cassian arranged it. You remember Lady Serena, the one who relentlessly sought an audience with Aethelred? Apparently, they struck a chord. Left the moment they were presented. Not just him, either. She's no timid violet; agreed without a moment's hesitation. 'Why not, indeed,' she reportedly declared." Lysander’s breath caught. "Astonishing, really," Caspian added, a curl of disdain in his voice. "Such effortless charm. Truly sickening." It wasn’t admiration. It was pure derision. For the first time in days, a fragile lightness unfurled in Lysander’s chest. He leaned forward, tapping Caspian’s shoulder with a careful finger. Caspian looked up, then shifted, offering more space on the bench. A silent acknowledgement, a sliver of shared understanding. Caspian alone dared to mock Aethelred’s brazen courtships, and for that, Lysander found him bearable. "Disgustingly cool, as you say," Lysander observed. "Right? My own coolness, regrettably, remains elusive." The self-deprecating boast coaxed a brief, sharp laugh from Lysander. "Shouldn’t you be uncool, though? You’re a scholar, not a bard." "There is no 'should be,' Lysander. One learns these truths through lived experience. Human rationality, it seems, is a rather flexible construct." Caspian smirked, eyes still on his puzzle. "Is that why your own affections remain… unattached?" Lysander teased. Finally, Caspian set the puzzle box aside, its mechanisms falling silent. He turned, an incredulous smile on his face, and tapped Lysander’s hand on his shoulder. "I’m flagging this as a breach of courtly etiquette." "How is this a breach?" "If the recipient feels discomfort, it is a breach." "Caspian, you are utterly beyond reason." "Pervert." Lysander’s foot, still clad in a soft leather slipper, swung idly, nudging a stray parchment. Ignoring it, he pushed Caspian’s leg with his sock-covered foot. Caspian feigned an exaggerated shove, then casually raised a hand, middle finger extended. His gesture revealed a silver charm, an ancient holy symbol, always fastened to his left wrist. Lysander kicked his leg again, lightly. "That charm doesn’t suit you." "Why not?" Caspian asked, suddenly serious. Why the sudden gravity? "It just doesn’t align with your… disposition." "Doesn’t align? Strange. Do I not project an air of devout piety?" "No. It simply looks like a fashionable trinket." "…It is not, though." Lysander should have realized it, given Caspian’s full name, a variation of a revered saint. But he’d always assumed it was a shortened title, or perhaps an inside jest. It turned out, Caspian’s lineage was steeped in generations of Veridian faith. Even more surprising, Caspian himself claimed unwavering devotion. Lysander, however, couldn't take that claim seriously; Caspian struggled even to recall the simplest of sacred verses. Lysander spent the week skirting Aethelred. Whenever their paths converged in the Assembly Halls, Lysander would offer a brief, cool nod, then turn away. He still lacked the resolve to initiate a conversation. Perhaps he feared losing, the ridiculous notion that the one who cares more, loses. Even knowing the absurdity, he couldn’t bring himself to speak. In stark contrast, Lord Kaelen often sought Lysander out. Lysander was, perhaps, the only one who responded to him without obvious disdain. But the fresh marks appearing daily on Kaelen’s face spoke a clearer language. Aethelred continued his veiled aggressions, like a predator marking its territory in places Lysander couldn’t see. A frown creased Lysander's brow at the sight. Kaelen, catching his gaze, quickly averted his head, trying to conceal the injuries. Four more days crawled by. A quiet morning found Lysander alone in a quiet corner of the Scriptorium, his face buried in his hands. He wanted no part of the terrible drama unfolding. The chasm between him and Aethelred widened. What had been a trivial gap now felt like an unbridgeable canyon of despair. Opening his eyes felt like tumbling into the rift. The bruises on Kaelen’s swollen cheekbone were as glaringly obvious as a royal seal on a decree. That sight fueled Lysander’s desperate desire to avoid both of them. He craved only oblivion. Then, as if a capricious goddess had finally smiled upon him, Lord Kaelen ceased attending courtly functions. The Court Steward, Lady Elara, cited a prolonged illness, but the hesitation in her voice betrayed the truth: Kaelen had simply vanished. Lysander almost shouted with relief. Lord Aethelred, conversely, spent council sessions fidgeting with his signet ring, snapping irritably at his retinue, or even slamming a fist onto a nearby table when a subordinate dared to speak out of turn. A part of Lysander felt a dark satisfaction. Another part reveled in a strange sense of superiority. He convinced himself that soon, once Kaelen officially left court or faded into obscurity, Aethelred would lose interest and inevitably turn his attention back to Lysander. Confident in that thought, he waited. A few more days drifted past like motes of dust in a sunbeam. "Aethelred seems rather subdued, lately," Lord Caspian remarked one evening, while they lingered in the Grand Hall after a minor assembly. Lysander’s heart gave a heavy thud. He yearned to turn and scrutinize Aethelred’s face, but cowardice held him fast. In matters of the heart, Lysander was a craven. All he could do was listen to Caspian’s words and construct an image of Aethelred’s troubled expression in his mind. Yet, nothing shifted. The day wore on, and all court duties concluded. Lysander clung to the belief that tomorrow would offer a new opportunity. Things rarely changed so swiftly. He waited, and as he slung his satchel of scrolls over his shoulder, Caspian spoke, a strange note in his voice. "You still haven’t mended things with Aethelred, have you?" Lysander spun around, his movement reflexive. "No." "You mean since that little incident in the Council Chamber? Truly?" Lysander remained silent. "Remarkable. This has certainly drawn itself out longer than I anticipated," Caspian said, shrugging, his hands tucked into his doublet. Lysander avoided his gaze, mumbling an excuse. "Truthfully, Aethelred went too far. Such blatant disregard for decorum... seeing one noble so relentlessly abuse another. It’s simply… unseemly, you know?" "What is?" "…Well, Kaelen is a noble, isn’t he?" "And?" "The way Aethelred treats him… it’s base. They’re both men of standing, and it’s simply distasteful. I wish he would cease." "Indeed." Lysander bristled. "You are destined for the Highest Celestial Spires, Lysander." Caspian’s response, dripping with saccharine sarcasm, stung Lysander. Annoyed by the malicious tone, he glared. But Caspian merely smirked, unperturbed. Seeing that expression, Lysander felt as if his hidden thoughts had been laid bare, a flush creeping up his neck. He quickly turned his back, ignoring Caspian’s mocking grin, and strode out of the Scriptorium. As he hurried down a less frequented hall, intent on retreating to his private chambers, a hand suddenly clamped onto his shoulder. Assuming it was Caspian, Lysander spun, irritation flaring, and pulled his arm free. But it wasn’t. Lady Elara, the Court Steward, stood there. Lysander started, quickly schooling his expression. "My apologies, Lysander. Did I startle you?" "Oh, no, not at all, Lady Elara. Merely… surprised." "I see. I am truly sorry to waylay you, but… might I borrow a moment of your time?" "My lady?" "Only a brief moment. Please." The Steward’s usually composed face wore an unusual gravity. Lysander nodded. "Today, Lord Aethelred inquired after Lord Kaelen’s family records," Lady Elara said, her voice cautiously low. "Lord Aethelred?" It was clear the Steward, as a figure of authority, could not be wholly ignorant of the underlying tensions. Yet, she lacked the audacity to confront the toxic atmosphere directly. Still, she wasn’t so cold as to ignore it entirely. The fact that she came to Lysander to discuss Kaelen spoke volumes. "I am not accusing, nor blaming Lord Aethelred, but…" "No, I understand. I find nothing strange in your concern, my lady," Lysander interjected swiftly. "Well, given your… frequent scholarly exchanges with Lord Kaelen, I wondered if you might consider accompanying Lord Aethelred, should he pursue this visit. Do you comprehend my meaning?" Lysander couldn’t answer immediately. His teeth clenched. The unsettling currents of Aethelred’s obsession with Kaelen seemed to ripple outwards, creeping towards Lysander, holding him immobile. He clenched his fists, a tremor running through him. He couldn’t simply stand idle. "Could I… perhaps acquire Kaelen’s most recent official contact records, then?" "Ah, yes, of course. Allow me. Perhaps you might attempt to reach him first." "Indeed. I shall speak with him. Do not fret unduly, my lady." "Very well. I place my trust in you, Lysander." "Yes." On the surface, Lysander projected a façade of calm, but internally, panic flared. Lady Elara handed him a sealed parchment, containing Lord Kaelen’s family manor’s contact information, gleaned from the court registries. She looked awkward, then, before departing down the hall. Lysander absolutely had to prevent Aethelred from reaching Kaelen. He had to stop Aethelred’s strange fixation from escalating further. The moment the Steward was gone, Lysander withdrew a small, lacquered writing tablet from his satchel and quickly transcribed the contact details onto a fresh sheet. He then moved to a discreet messenger’s station, requesting an urgent, private missive be sent to Kaelen’s manor. His leg jittered nervously, and he kept clenching and unclenching his hand as he waited for confirmation of dispatch. Surprisingly, the messenger returned quickly. “Greetings?” A voice, thin and reedy, answered the messenger’s return query through the network of speaking tubes. “It is Lysander. Is this Lord Kaelen?” Lysander rushed to speak. There was a sudden clattering on the other end, something falling, hitting, then a rustling. After a strained pause, Kaelen’s voice returned, tighter. “L-Lysander? My Lord! W-why… How… how do you possess my contact? Did you… already have it?” “No. Lady Elara informed me that Lord Aethelred requested your family’s records today. So I asked for your contact information.” Silence stretched. “I merely wished to caution you. Be vigilant.” “W-what of you, Lysander? Are you well? Even as you endeavor to restrain him…” “Do not concern yourself with my welfare. Focus on your own. If you wish to extend your absence from court, convey it to this number. I will manage the Steward. I am, believe it or not, rather well-regarded in such matters.” “…Thank you, Lysander.” “If Aethelred attempts to harass you or disgrace you at court, inform me immediately. If you cannot speak directly, a subtle sign, a tap on the shoulder. It is far more difficult to mend matters after they are irrevocably broken.” “Understood…” “Honestly, seeking patronage with a distant house, a transfer of allegiance, would be your wisest recourse.” Lysander slipped that suggestion in, hoping it would take root. Kaelen remained silent. “At any rate, consider it. For now, either feign continued illness or absent yourself entirely from the manor.” “O-okay…” “Very well. I am concluding this communication.” “W-wait.” Lysander paused. “Thank you, Lysander.” After a long, drawn-out hesitation, Kaelen’s voice came, soft and trembling. What in the blazes? Honestly, it made Lysander deeply uncomfortable. “T-thank you for always interceding for me…” “It is nothing.” “I simply… wished to say it. Thank you. Until we meet again, Lysander.” “Yes.” “…Farewell.” Farewell? Lysander didn’t bother to respond. He simply severed the connection. Just hearing Kaelen’s voice, so laced with obsequiousness, was enough to send a shiver down Lysander’s spine and leave him thoroughly unsettled. What transpired at Kaelen’s manor that night, Lysander never truly knew. All he could confirm was that from the very next day, Kaelen began attending court again. Within a week, the faint, almost youthful glow characteristic of his formerly bruised skin began to return. Kaelen also ceased his sudden, eager approaches to Lysander, his demeanor dramatically altered. This abrupt shift in Kaelen’s behavior planted seeds of suspicion in Lysander’s meticulous mind. And when all the marks of violence on Kaelen’s face finally vanished, Lysander couldn’t help but feel a faint, fragile sense of hope—however unlikely it seemed. Then, two weeks later, Lord Aethelred approached him, out of nowhere, in the hushed quiet of the Grand Archive’s antechamber. “Lysander.” Lysander kept his gaze fixed on a distant, dust-laden shelf. “Lysander.” Lysander did not look at him, but his lips felt as though they might split open with a sharp, involuntary gasp at any moment. Could it be? Was Lord Aethelred finally tired of Lord Kaelen?

Chapter 2.1: Echoes in the Gilded Halls