A profound stupor clung to Elias, a silken shroud barely parted by the first tentative tendrils of awareness. Finding himself sprawled upon his silken bedsheets, a faint, metallic taste still lingered on his tongue. Had he, in that haze of pain, managed to draw the bolt on his chamber door? A wry, bitter admiration flickered – a grim testament to the instinct of self-preservation, even when the self desired only oblivion. His face throbbed, a dull, insistent ache that permeated bone and nerve. A leaden hand lifted, testing the unfamiliar stiffness in his shoulder. Each joint protested, a chorus of tiny, sharp pains echoing through him. He winced, a soft sound lost in the hushed morning air. “Ah, damnation…” Fingers, tremulous and slow, traced the tender geography of his bruised flesh. Hardened knots of pain, alien to his usually unblemished skin. After a protracted moment of prone stillness, he pressed his palms flat against the mattress, a monumental effort required to lever himself upright. Perched precariously on the bed’s edge, eyes fixed on the richly patterned wall hangings, a whimper clawed its way from his throat. It tore through him, ragged and raw, as tears, hot and humiliating, streamed down his cheeks. He choked, a rasping sound, as though his very vocal cords had been abraded by the night’s indignities. An incandescent fury erupted. He sprang up, a desperate animal trapped in a velvet cage. A heavy silver inkwell flew, striking the far wall with a resounding thud that seemed impossibly loud in the pre-dawn quiet. Precious quills scattered like startled birds. He wept and raged, a tempest contained within the elegant confines of his chambers, until the very air seemed to thicken with his despair. Sinking back to the floor, he clamped a hand over his mouth, biting back the wretched sounds. Eyes squeezed shut, yet tears stubbornly escaped, tracing new paths down his jawline, his sobs hitching, convulsive. “Death… A release!” Indeed, a deep, consuming desire for finality consumed him. Yet, the true torment was not the desire for death itself, but the memory of last night – a memory he craved to extinguish, more than life itself. A single window, heavily curtained, had been secured. Could the sounds have carried? Could a servant, passing in the darkened corridor, have discerned anything amiss? The very thought sent a fresh wave of panic through him. Valerius. Lysander. The names were hot coals on his mind. Why had they come to his chambers? Why had they laid waste to his carefully constructed life? “Curse it all!” Valerius’s disdain, amplified before Lysander, had not merely bruised his body. It had trampled his spirit, crushed his nascent hopes, shattered the fragile veneer of composure he presented to the world. That humiliation, exposed and raw, was a thousand times worse than any slight, any condescension Valerius had ever dealt him. It was a brand on his soul. Even in this abject state, reduced to tearful despair, a cold, calculating worry wormed its way into his thoughts: the perception of others. This was a habit he could not shed, even in his private agony. Silence enveloped him, a sudden, chilling realization. He glanced at the delicate ormolu clock upon the mantel. The hour was just before eight. A sharp, terrifying thought pierced the haze of his misery: the arrival of Maîtresse Céleste, his mother’s most trusted senior maid, with his morning chocolate, was imminent. A cold dread seeped into his bones. Mind cleared with chilling speed. No one, absolutely no one, could be permitted to witness this pathetic, disgraced display. He scrambled to his feet, righting the overturned chair, sweeping the scattered quills and the inkwell beneath the bed. Then, he sank onto the edge of the mattress, heart thrumming against his ribs, awaiting the inevitable tap. It came, precisely on cue, a few minutes later. “Do not enter, Céleste. I fear a chill has taken hold. A feverish discomfort. I shall keep to my chambers this day.” His voice emerged, strained but remarkably steady. “Monseigneur Elias? A fever, you say? Perhaps the ducal physician should attend you?” Her voice, though muffled by the thick oak, held a tremor of concern. He swallowed a bitter, coppery taste. “Later, perhaps, should the malaise persist.” “Very well. Might I bring you a cooling draught? Or a broth?” “Leave it outside the door, if you would be so kind. My gratitude.” “As you wish, Monseigneur. Rest now.” He had bought himself time. A day, perhaps two, sequestered from the prying eyes of the court. He was in no fit state to face them, nor did he possess the desire. A small pot of arnica balm lay upon his dressing table. He seized it, tearing open the lid, slathering the cooling unguent over the tender, aching points of his body. A desperate prayer formed on his lips for the pain to recede, for the visible evidence to vanish. The pot slipped from his trembling fingers, clattering to the polished floorboards. A fresh wave of shivers racked him. Yet, the physical pain was secondary to the searing humiliation. It was as if cruel, unseen fingers pinched his stomach, twisting. It felt absurd, grotesque. To conceal his tear-streaked face, he drew the heavy velvet curtains tight, plunging the room into a deep twilight, and burrowed deep beneath the heavy silk counterpane. Only the oppressive weight of the bedding offered any semblance of shield from the crushing despair. Sleep. He had to sleep. Forcing his eyes shut, he repeated a litany: *It will pass. His parents did not know. Valerius was not one to boast of such… trivialities. It would be fine.* He buried himself deeper still beneath the covers. *** It was not fine. Not at all. Hidden beneath the silk, he muttered words that clung like venom to the tip of his tongue. To any unseen deity, to his absent parents, to anyone who would listen – he longed to scream it, a torrent of righteous indignation. *Please.* It was Valerius. Valerius struck him. Trampled him. The fiend. Valerius was mad. Unhinged. For Lysander, he… After all the quiet service, the careful cultivation, everything Elias had given… Valerius crushed it. Crushed it before Lysander. Elias, the idiot. He had revealed his pathetic state to Lysander, too. And the gnawing thought that someone, anyone, might have glimpsed it all… His frantic thoughts ceased, abruptly. A sickening wave of self-loathing surged, threatening to drown him. He wished to die. The darkest irony was the meticulous charade that followed his private anguish. First, he scrambled to dispose of any scrap of parchment, any casual note or message Lysander might have sent, anything that tied him to the boy or the late hour. Then, a chilling thought: the night porter, the guard on duty. He would have to bribe the man, discreetly, to ensure no mention of late-night visitors to his wing. The memory of that night became a shameful secret, something he could not, would not, allow to see the light of day. *** He maintained his seclusion for three days. Despite the hideous throbbing, his body, remarkably, began its slow mending. Perhaps it was the instinct that had allowed him to shield the most conspicuous parts of his face, or perhaps his well-nourished constitution proved more resilient than he’d imagined. Visible injuries were few: a scattering of darkening bruises, easily concealed beneath a high collar or a lace cravat. Nothing life-threatening, only soul-threatening. For those three days, he remained entombed beneath the covers, a silent wellspring of tears. Every message, every summons to court, every concerned inquiry was ignored. He believed he could hold out until the last trace of injury faded, but fate, ever capricious, intervened. His parents, the Duke and Duchess Renard, returned from a month-long sojourn at their country estate, an unexpected arrival. Panic, cold and swift, seized him. “Elias, my son, what disfigurement mars your countenance?” The Duchess’s voice, though usually modulated, held a sharp edge of alarm. “Mother, Father… It is but a trifle.” “A trifle? You informed Maîtresse Céleste you suffered a chill. Not a brawl, I presume?” His father, the Duke, fixed him with a piercing gaze. As the Duke’s questions, precise and probing, peppered him, Elias scrambled for a plausible narrative. “Indeed, I felt unwell. A sudden malady. But, a minor matter arose, a misunderstanding with a junior secretary, an impertinent jest…” “And?” “And… a momentary lapse of judgment. A slight tumble. My face struck an unforgiving flagstone.” “What manner of ‘tumble’ leaves a gentleman’s face in such a state? Who was this ‘junior secretary’?” The Duke’s voice hardened, a prelude to a storm. Elias, frantic, waved a dismissive hand, desperate to quell his father’s rising temper. “No, truly, Father, I would not burden you with such triviality. It was not a serious affair. Honor was satisfied. We have long since made amends.” “Come, boy, recount the precise provocation. Why did you ‘tumble’?” “Well…” After a moment’s agonizing deliberation, he fabricated a thoroughly pathetic, yet, he hoped, believable excuse. “I… I made a rather ungentlemanly jibe concerning his recent spurning by a certain Lady Clarice.” “What?” The Duke’s incredulity was palpable. Yet, to Elias’s immense relief, his ridiculous explanation seemed to puncture his father’s anger. The Duke let out a sigh, a gust of disbelief, before a faint, dry chuckle escaped him. “Are you young gentlemen embroiled in some sort of… drawing-room melodrama?” “No, Father.” “Do not engage in such folly again. It ill-becomes a Renard.” “Yes, Father.” His injuries, mercifully, appeared less grave than they had felt. The incident, to his profound relief, blew over. Yet, an odd unsettling moment occurred during their family supper. His mother, the Duchess, suddenly brought up Valerius. “Elias, by the by, do you still keep close company with young Valerius these days?” “What did you say?” Elias’s composure fractured. “It simply seems he does not frequent our apartments as he once did.” For someone who spent barely half the year in residence, her observation struck him as unnervingly specific. The mere utterance of Valerius’s name forced his image, mocking and cruel, into Elias’s mind, souring his mood instantly. He snapped back, an edge of irritability he instantly regretted. “Our acquaintance remains unchanged, Mother.” Unchanged, his very soul. Damnation. Damnation. Damnation. Such was his shame, his humiliation, he wished for the polished silver fork in his hand to become a dagger. “Did not another friend call recently? Maîtresse Céleste mentioned it. Are you much acquainted with this other youth?” His body stiffened, an involuntary spasm. Slowly, his gaze drifted towards the kitchen entrance, where Maîtresse Céleste was diligently polishing a crystal decanter. A cold, creeping dread insinuated itself. Had she heard? Could she possibly have overheard anything that night? Was it her, then, who had been witness to his degradation? “Elias? Is something amiss?” The Duchess’s question, sharp with concern, startled him. He blurted out a reply, unthinking. “Yes. We are much acquainted.” What else his mother said, he could not recall. The sheer, paralysing terror rooted him to his seat, wiping all else from his mind. He did, however, remember the Duchess’s expression when she had spoken of Valerius. It was the sort of look she reserved for tidings of ill repute, of scandal. *Why?* That single question propelled him deeper into a spiralling vortex of fear. His fingers grew cold, numb. No. She could not have heard. Maîtresse Céleste possessed indifferent hearing, and her quarters were situated in a distant wing, far removed from his own. She could not have heard a thing. But why? Why did this suffocating sense of wrongness persist? All he could do was offer a desperate, silent plea to a God he barely acknowledged. Three more days passed. His parents, the Duke and Duchess, began to gently, then more insistently, urge his return to court duties. He absolutely abhorred the idea. Yet, continued seclusion would surely lead his mother to suspect a deeper malaise than a mere gentlemanly ‘tumble’. That was the last thing he desired. So, he forced a cheerful, if somewhat wan, countenance. Nothing was amiss. He was quite himself. The days leading up to his return were consumed by an endless, gnawing worry: what if he encountered Valerius? Or Lysander? Would Valerius revisit his cruelty? Would he humiliate Elias publicly, perhaps before the very eyes of the assembled courtiers – or worse, before Lysander? Would Valerius continue to treat him as if he were nothing, less than dust? The very thought turned his stomach to ice. Upon his return to the ducal court, he navigated the familiar labyrinth of corridors, a strange, phantom ache still clinging to his face. He found his customary seat in the Duke’s council chamber, a subtle gesture of attendance. He leaned forward, pretending a deep preoccupation with some parchments spread before him, allowing the rising murmur of courtly chatter to envelop him. Yet, as soon as he detected the unmistakable approach of footsteps, he lowered his head, feigning a profound weariness. If he feigned sleep, no one would notice the tell-tale bruising on his cheekbone, or the puffiness around his eyes. At least not immediately. But he had overlooked one crucial detail: the seat directly behind him belonged to Silas. Silas, though generally observant, possessed a knack for selective obliviousness when it suited him, a dangerous trait in court. Silas arrived, a swish of fine wool, and paused beside Elias’s desk. A hand, surprisingly firm, slipped between Elias’s shoulder and neck, then a finger, cool and insistent, tilted his chin upwards. Elias had no time to resist. No choice but to let Silas examine his marred countenance. Silas’s brow furrowed, a slight lift, as he surveyed Elias’s face. His voice, usually light, was clipped, direct. “What in the name of the Seven Veils happened to your face, Renard?” “Nothing of import, Silas.” “Another tumble, perhaps? An unfortunate encounter with a rogue stair?” “Indeed. Something of that nature.” “Truly?” Silas clicked his tongue, a soft, disapproving sound, and shook his head before abruptly releasing Elias’s face, causing his head to nearly strike the polished oak of the desk. “Damn you, Silas!” Elias glared, startled, but Silas merely offered a crooked, enigmatic grin, as if lost in some private calculation. Whatever machinations turned in Silas’s mind, Elias had no way of knowing. Neither Valerius nor Lysander appeared at court that day. Yet, during Elias’s absence, a whisper had begun to insinuate itself through the gilded halls, a rumour carried on the breath of servants and courtiers alike. “Have you heard? Valerius… the Duke’s own nephew, they say…” No one directly inquired about Elias’s injuries, but the quick, curious glances, the hurried whispers that ceased abruptly when he passed, confirmed that the rumour had already taken root. It seemed, after all, that Elias’s luck might not have entirely abandoned him. *** The rumours coalesced, centering around Elias and Valerius. Neither had been consistently present at court since Elias’s initial seclusion. Even Lysander, for his part, had been conspicuously absent in the immediate days following, leaving a vacuum for speculation to fill. Elias’s bruised visage, a visible, if understated, testament, lent a grim authenticity to the unfolding narrative. The prevailing whispers spun a tale: Elias Renard and Valerius had engaged in a vicious quarrel. And, more scandalously, that Valerius possessed certain… *unnatural predilections*. “That young Lord Valerius, I tell you, he harboured an unsavoury fascination for little Renard. A veritable pet.” “A pet? What crude appellation! But wait. By the Lord, the notion. One cannot help but be… entertained.” “He truly had him like one of those pampered court dogs, did he not? All yelps and nervous wags.” The antechambers and withdrawing rooms buzzed with such veiled, yet cutting, remarks. “All those who cultivated Valerius’s favour, they say, were merely pawns in his debauched games…”

The Scars of Dawn