Elias Renard maintained a fortress of self-command. Years of careful tutelage and the unspoken expectations of his lineage had forged his spirit. He loathed the notion of revealing frailty, finding it a vulgar display in a world where weakness was a scent for predators. Consequently, even in the most tumultuous eddies of courtly life, he could present a façade of tranquil indifference. Courtiers often dismissed him as merely dutiful, a quiet presence rarely stirred to ire. It was not an absence of feeling, but rather a profound transmutation. Every slight, every injustice, had not festered but hardened, layer upon layer, into an impenetrable shell. Over time, little could truly pierce it, leaving him seemingly unperturbed by the petty cruelties and grand betrayals common in the Ducal Palace. This peculiar resilience extended even to the erratic whims of Lord Julian Vancroft. Indeed, it was this very trait that secured his tenuous place within Julian’s coveted orbit. Elias was a capable assistant, his keen mind and eloquent tongue proving valuable for various ducal commissions, ensuring his parents’ continued favor and a respectable, if ancillary, standing within the court’s intricate hierarchy. He would guard this position, painstakingly carved from a marble of ambition and careful navigation, with all his subtle might. "Elias, my boy." "My Lord?" "That tone. It tastes of something stale." "Forgive me, my Lord. Perhaps it merely reflects my limited palate." "Oh, a wit now, are we?" Julian merely chuckled, dismissive, yet not truly offended by the gentle jab from Sir Alaric Thorne. Such exchanges were common, part of the courtly dance. "Alaric, do you know any suitable ladies? You seem to attract every moth to your candle." "Suitable for what, my Lord?" "For... diversion. Of decent birth, of course." "What precisely constitutes 'decent' in your estimation?" "Cease your tiresome wordplay, man." Alaric merely smiled, polishing an ornate silver button on his doublet, offering no further explanation. Julian did not press. His gaze, restless and predatory, instead drifted towards a slight, unassuming figure at the far end of the grand dining hall, hunched over a plate of stew. "...Someone with a demure mien and a pliant spirit, perhaps." Lord Julian, eldest son of Duke Vancroft, was a tempest of impulse, vulgarity, and unthinking cruelty. Since the advent of his youth, he had been a slave to base desires, his nature needing no further testament. Julian’s capricious torments, devoid of all subtle restraint, thus grew only more flagrant. By this day, the languid cusp of High Summer, Master Linus, a junior scrivener, had been utterly ostracized. Yet, even this complete isolation seemed insufficient to sate Julian’s peculiar appetite for dominance. While various cliques and retinues in the Ducal Palace operated on similar planes, their habits diverged. Julian’s immediate coterie—Lord Gareth, Lady Isolde, and Baron Rhys—would typically linger minutes past the meal's conclusion, awaiting his leave. Others, lesser courtiers from the East Wing, like Sir Kaelen and Master Elwin, would bolt from the hall the moment the chamberlain struck the gong for luncheon. In Elias’s first year at court, he had been a fixture in Julian’s primary dining party. By the second, this had subtly shifted. It began with a careless remark from Lady Isolde: "Elias, dear, you dine with Alaric, do you not? You are simply too methodical with your morsels." Without a direct decree, Elias found himself gently, yet definitively, excluded. The most galling part? Julian himself seemed entirely indifferent. Elias’s presence or absence mattered not a whit to him. A bitterness, sharp as unripe berries, pricked Elias’s tongue. He stole a glance at Julian, then murmured, low, "Am I truly so slow at my meal, my Lord?" "Indeed, you are. You sit there, dissecting every pea as if it were a ducal decree, while the rest of us conclude our repast in a mere handful of minutes." "Aye, we are always late for the fencing lessons because of your meticulous chewing," added Lord Gareth, stifling a yawn. "...Ah." "We have a duel of wits with the Ravenswood Company today. You should join Alaric, if you please." Silence. Elias’s pride, a brittle thing, prevented any plea to remain. Moreover, the perpetual indigestion that had plagued his first year was likely due to his frantic attempts to match their hasty pace. Honestly, the very thought of clinging to Julian’s hem like a forgotten dust mote disgusted him. So, he offered no protest, no entreaty. Thus, he was subtly, yet firmly, excised from that intimate circle. His own desire, his own ambition, held no sway against the tide of their indifference. Feigning disinterest, Elias found his eyes meeting Alaric’s, the only other solitary soul remaining at their small, discreet table near a stained-glass window. Alaric, lounging with an almost insolent grace, tossing a small, polished stone from hand to hand, caught Elias’s gaze and asked, casually, "When do you typically break your fast, Elias?" "..." "I usually descend to the kitchens for my midday repast in ten minutes, give or take." "That timing suits me as well, Sir Alaric." In truth, Elias had never before dined at such an hour. But instinct, sharp and unforgiving, stirred within him. If he wished to retain any semblance of belonging, even to Alaric’s peripheral clique, he must adapt. The first time he shared a meal with Alaric alone, Elias found himself leaving half his plate untouched, offering a fabricated excuse of a delicate constitution. Alaric merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Are you still so particular, Elias, at your age? One would imagine a scholar of your caliber to possess a more robust appetite." "Does it concern you, Sir Alaric?" "Honestly, you are like a child in your preferences." "Even adults, Sir Alaric, do not consume salted cod with sugared plums." Elias retorted, a flash of irritation he immediately regretted. Why did Alaric provoke him so? It grated. In their initial year, Julian and Elias had been nearly inseparable. By the second, those moments had dwindled, largely due to Alaric’s growing prominence in Julian’s less formal moments. Still, Elias held no right to complain. Alaric, with his impeccable lineage and effortless charm, outranked him in many unspoken measures of courtly standing. Alaric and Julian’s acquaintances often overlapped, primarily comprising minor noble scions and lesser gentlemen, prone to the more illicit diversions of the capital. These were the sort to feign illness for an afternoon at the cockfights or slip away to shadowed taverns, exploiting the lax oversight of minor officials reluctant to challenge their patrons. Julian, ever mindful of his ducal parents’ formidable scrutiny, generally remained within the palace until the day’s end. As for Alaric, whose reputation for wit and mischief was almost as infamous, Elias had once, in a moment of candid curiosity, inquired as to why he bothered to adhere to the rigid courtly schedule. Alaric’s response had lingered in his memory, sharp as a thorn. "Do you truly believe me so pathetic, Elias?" "No, Sir Alaric. But your companions often behave… less than admirably." "Companions? What absurd prattle is that? They are not my companions. They are mere barnacles clinging to the ducal ship." "What?" "A gentleman’s duty is to attend to his station and acquire wisdom, is it not?" "...That is true, Sir Alaric." "Do not ever presume to associate me with such dregs. It offends my sensibilities." "My apologies, Sir Alaric." "I was not seeking contrition, Elias, merely clarity." A reasonable declaration, certainly, but hearing it from Sir Alaric Thorne, whose "companions" frequently vanished for days on end, felt utterly preposterous. Nevertheless, Elias found himself spending the majority of his second year in this peculiar arrangement with Lord Julian and Sir Alaric. He had come to view their small, secluded table as a sanctuary, a private alcove where others dared not intrude. It would have been perfect without Alaric’s perpetual barbs, but surprisingly, they coexisted with more ease than expected. Elias did not care for him, yet Alaric was not so insufferable that Elias felt compelled to abandon their space. He was merely... an enduring annoyance. But Master Linus, in his quiet, unassuming way, turned even those days into a burgeoning nightmare. This particular day, however, felt subtly different from the usual currents of court. "Damn it all. Gareth and Rhys, those insufferable wretches," Julian muttered, cradling his head in his hands as the fourth hour of courtly duties neared its close. Hearing his voice, Elias instinctively turned, his tone, despite his efforts, tinged with a forbidden anticipation. "They have absented themselves again, my Lord?" "Fools." "How inconvenient. With whom shall you dine this afternoon, then?" A fragile bloom of hope unfurled in Elias’s breast. His fingers trembled, a barely perceptible tremor, as they gripped the polished armrest of his chair. Julian exhaled a heavy sigh, then cast his gaze towards Alaric, who sat adjacent to him, absorbed in idly sketching on a scrap of parchment. "Alaric, I shall join your table today." "Uninvited guests often find the wine sour, my Lord," Alaric replied, without looking up. "Keep such remarks, and I shall see your tongue clipped for insolence." "By the Saints, today truly tempts me to box your ears, Julian." "Go ahead, you cowardly fop." "Grand words for a Lord who would otherwise sup alone." Elias could no longer restrain himself. He interjected, his voice carefully measured. "Come, my Lords, let us all share a meal. We cannot allow Lord Julian to dine in solitude." His voice, perhaps, bore a tell-tale tremor, an unwelcome vulnerability. Julian, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips, shot a sly glance at Alaric. "You see? I possess loyal friends." "..." "What say you, Alaric? Elias proves himself quite… useful, does he not?" Alaric scowled, then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, swept Julian’s quill case off the table. It clattered against the flagstones, scattering quills like fallen feathers. Whether Alaric liked Elias or not was inconsequential. What mattered was that Julian would join them for luncheon. It had been an age since they had shared a meal, and Elias felt a surge of elation so potent he even forced himself to consume a dish of pickled herring, a delicacy he privately abhorred. But Julian, restless as a caged hawk, ignored his own meal. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the dining hall, a predator seeking new sport. Elias, too engrossed in Julian’s presence, barely registered Alaric’s deft pilfering of a particularly succulent oyster from his own plate. Then, without warning, Julian’s silver eating knife clattered, and his free hand shot out, seizing the arm of someone passing their table. Elias looked up, his gaze locking onto Master Linus. "Sit here," Julian commanded, indicating the empty seat beside him. "You have no other company, after all." Linus’s face, usually pale, flushed a deep crimson. His eyes darted about, landing for a brief, pleading moment on Elias, before he bit his lip and slowly, reluctantly, lowered himself into the indicated chair. Elias was stunned. Dumbfounded. Since when had Julian Vancroft expressed the slightest concern for Linus’s lack of companions? And the truth was, Linus’s isolation was almost entirely Julian’s own meticulous handiwork. Julian harbored a particular, venomous dislike for anyone who showed Linus even a flicker of kindness or closeness. A sour, metallic taste bloomed in Elias’s mouth. Unconsciously, Elias slammed his spoon against his pewter plate, the sharp clang ringing through the momentary quiet. Only Linus reacted, flinching visibly, his gaze skittering towards Elias with renewed trepidation. Julian, however, remained fixated on Linus, oblivious to the disruption. A tremor ran through Elias. The protective shell he had so painstakingly constructed over years, the veneer of indifference, began to fissure. He fought it, tried to staunch the insidious crack, but he could not. Perhaps he was closer to a breaking point than he had ever permitted himself to acknowledge. Clinging to a desperate denial, Elias spoke, his voice clipped and sharp. "Linus. You should leave now." "H-huh?" "Do not heed Lord Julian. Go. It is quite permissible." "Elias, my boy," Julian’s voice purred, dangerously low, a silken threat. When Elias instructed Master Linus to depart, Julian, who had ignored the jarring clash of metal moments before, now slowly turned, his eyes narrowing, a cold fury gathering in their depths. That chilling glare, rather than deterring Elias, only hardened his nascent resolve. He fixed his gaze stubbornly on Linus. "I shall handle this, Master Linus. You may go." "Uh, o-okay." "And Julian, truly, enough of this sport." "Indeed, I concur," Alaric chimed in through a mouthful of roasted pheasant, his words barely discernible. His sudden interjection felt oddly misplaced, incongruous with the building tension. He chewed, swallowed with deliberate slowness, then glanced between Elias and Julian, a faint, irritating smirk playing on his lips. "What are you both staring at? You are quite spoiling my appetite." As ever, Alaric’s unnecessary provocations grated on Elias’s nerves. The man was an incessant prickle, no matter how Elias viewed him. Ignoring him, Elias returned his attention to Julian. "Leave Master Linus in peace." "Who precisely are you to issue such commands, Elias?" Julian shot back, his voice an icy whisper. "It is tiresome for the rest of us to witness, my Lord." Elias did not blink, holding Julian’s piercing gaze. Julian then slammed his open palm flat against the polished oak of the table. The sudden, resounding impact made Linus, who sat stiff and awkward, flinch and squeeze his eyes shut. Alaric, however, merely chuckled, a lazy, languid sound, raising a hand in a gesture of mock surrender. "Do count me out of this particular fracas." He licked a stray drop of wine from his lips, then added, "Let us decide by simple majority, shall we? I am neutral, Elias wishes him gone, and Julian insists he stays." For the record, Alaric was one of the few courtiers who addressed Elias by his given name, rather than 'Master Renard' or 'Sir Scholar', and Elias found it irksome every single time. That irritation, a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor, now laced Elias’s tone. "Cease your meddling, Sir Alaric. Your vote holds no weight in this." "Why not, Elias? There is another soul present, is there not?" Alaric, utterly unfazed, simply smirked, gesturing with a dismissive flick of his hand towards Linus. "What? Is Master Linus not a person, then?" "You are quite mad." "Why does he remain so silent? Let him voice his own desire." As if Master Linus could possibly articulate a preference in such a suffocating atmosphere. Elias sighed at Alaric’s thoughtless antics, then picked up his spoon and idly stirred his lentil pottage. Just then, Julian tapped a single, heavy finger on the table, a chilling, rhythmic beat. "If you dare to depart, Master Linus, you shall find yourself without lodging or coin by the morrow." Tears began to well in Linus’s large, anxious eyes, which glimmered as he looked at Elias, a desperate, silent plea for succor. Damn it. Elias pressed his lips together, a tight, thin line. "It is well, Master Linus. I shall intercede," Elias said, striving to inject a calming reassurance into his voice. "Elias, my boy," Julian snarled, his voice taut with suppressed violence. Elias forced himself to meet Julian’s gaze, projecting an air of serene composure he was far from feeling. Yet, beneath the calm, an overwhelming urge to simply shatter, to break free, swelled within him. To suppress it, he lifted his eyes briefly to the painted ceiling, depicting the Duke’s glorious battles, before lowering his head and replying, with a studied nonchalance, "My Lord?" "You..." Julian clenched his hand, his knuckles white, glaring at Elias with an intensity that felt capable of flaying skin from bone. Still, Elias had to endure. Every instinct screamed that he could not abandon Linus to Julian’s clutches. But Julian’s focus, abruptly, shifted back to Linus. "I-I will remain," Linus stammered, his voice barely a tremor. "..." "Th-thank you, Elias." Linus hurriedly pushed away from the table, his steps unsteady, almost a shuffle, as he retreated. The moment he was gone, Julian turned sharply, his focus now fully, undeniably, on Elias, his eyes burning with a cold, clear fury.

The Splintered Veneer